Prologue [excerpt]

Last night I dreamed:

I lived in the attic of an old Victorian house. In the evenings, a man would call me down to the lower levels of the house. I didn't want to go, but felt I had no choice in the matter. I sat in my room—waiting—knowing—that when the man called, I would go.

When I woke, I thought, that's what I get for binging The Handmaid’s Tale three nights in a row. Last weekend, when a friend shared their enthusiasm for the TV series, I thought I would give it a try. These days, I watched TV alone. After years of watching everything with Bill, side by side, we started watching shows separately. Like comic book characters, we had drifted into separate cinematic universes. I wasn’t sure our universes would converge again. Night after night, alone on the love seat I used to share with Bill, with Emma's pandemic puppy curled up next to me, I could hear Bill through the study door, laughing at some comedy special. Having abandoned Bill's ship, I felt lost on a lonely sea. I wasn't sure what I wanted. Should I stay in the marriage or leave? 

Starting The Handmaid series at the beginning, I consumed one episode after another. Each evening, after cleaning up the dinner dishes, I looked forward to my new routine—just me, my puppy, and June Osborn.

Tonight, after watching two episodes, and just a show shy of the season one finale, I was tempted to watch one more. Instead, I shut down the TV, and climbed the staircase to the second floor, still lit by the overhead light, a sign of Bill's expectation. I went to the door of bedroom we used to share and stood there silently. I hated this moment. Against my husband's wishes, I started sleeping in the room across the hall. That was a year ago. After six months of "nuptial bliss," I had to escape the marriage bed. I blamed it on the snoring--it was a problem--while skirting the real issue. For the next year Bill vented moral outrage not only with me, but to the therapists, his male friends and family. With each telling it became clear that my lack of sleep and its negative toll on my health and my disposition didn’t matter. On the contrary, you’d think sleeping in a separate bed was a crime. No one outwardly supported my decision or disputed Bill's rights to my body.

Now, every night he waited and I felt obligated. If I went to my room without knocking on his door first, he inevitably knocked on mine with renewed indignation—“I can’t believe you didn’t come by for a cuddle.”

"I'm very tired. I need to go bed." I never knew what to say.

He'd stand at my door for a moment, look at me as he pondered something, then walk away cursing under his breath.

Tonight, after avoiding him for a few days, I thought I had better make an appearance. I knocked lightly, then went inside. Bill was in bed, his head propped against a pillow, a New Yorker folded in his hands. Setting aside his glasses and the magazine, he exclaimed, as if surprised. “Mar Mar!” With a big smile, he scooted to the edge of the king size mattress. “You want to get in bed with me?” Lifting the blankets in his usual gesture, “Let’s snuggle.” His tone and his affect was almost childish.

I couldn't help it, my body went rigid. I lay down on my back, stiff as a board and placed my head on the pillow, my hands crossed over my chest. I must have looked like a mummy or better yet, Willa, in that famous scene from The Night of the Hunter.

He hugged me with too much force. Every inch of him, head to toe, squirmed with excitement as he physically bombarded me.

Putting forth my hand, I gestured to him to slow down, “Please settle down, you’re overwhelming me.”

Seeming not to hear me, he placed his left eye right next to mine. Staring into my face, like he was looking at a specimen under a magnifying glass, he asked, “Do you want a massage?”

My heart sank. No, not this again. “I don’t feel like it.”

Still in a childish tone, his voice on the upswing. “Why not, it will feel really good. Come on, let me give you a massage.” 

He climbed on top of me. Obviously aroused, he frenetically pressed his body all over mine. When he tried to turn me over onto my stomach to loosen my clothes from behind, I spoke up.

“I don’t want a massage. It’s not you, I just don’t feel well.” That wasn’t the real reason. “I don’t want to have sex right now.”

Showing zero lack of concern for my needs or feelings, he pulled away, his face turned dark. “What’s the point of having a marriage then?”

I sat up and moved to the edge of the bed, knowing that no matter what I said next, it would not go well. I tried anyway, “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but that’s not fair. You ignored me all day. So now, I don’t feel comfortable. This night time routine doesn’t feel right.”

Then the insults came… “Why did you marry me? Because you couldn’t pay your rent? So you and your daughter could eat my food?” 

He left out the fact that a week ago, Emma, my teenage daughter moved all her stuff to her father’s place, refusing to return to Bill's house, because she no longer felt comfortable.

I got up and quietly left the room.

He followed, visibly angry. “You know there’s something wrong with you, don’t you? My therapist and I know, but I can’t say because you can’t handle the truth.” 

All the things he had learned about me became weapons in his hands.

I asked him to stop, “That’s not true! My therapist says this language is abusive.” 

His face twisted as he replied. “Your therapist is inept. What does she know?”

My body started shaking. I didn’t want to take the bait…it would only descend into the same awful madness, which would leave me despairing and desperate. I started spiraling anyway. How did I end up here? Trapped. Why? Why did I let this happen, again?

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All characters and their particulars found in the book Pillow Talk are based in reality, but do not correspond with actual persons, places, or events.