That night, with an ice pack pressed against her cheek, Valerie sat on the balcony staring out over the parking lot. She'd left the sliding door open, and as the air conditioning escaped, it cooled her back just enough to make the heat bearable. Her hands still shook from the overload of adrenaline. The wine hadn't done the trick, so she broke out the blender and mixed up a pitcher of margaritas.
I can't believe he backhanded me. Outta fucking nowhere!
The throbbing of her cheek left little doubt, but really? Shame and confusion took up residence inside her, forming a very unsettling union.
Maybe she deserved it, though she didn't believe that. When was it ever okay to backhand your spouse? Another voice rose, fierce and indignant; the answer rang clear, cutting through the fog of self-blame. No matter how heated the argument, no matter what she'd done in the moment, nothing justified hitting your wife. The ache in her cheek was a physical reminder of a boundary crossed, a line that should never be approached, let alone shattered.
She gulped her margarita and mentally challenged anyone to contradict her.
Screw you, universe.
Closing her eyes, she dropped her head back, letting the Texas night air caress her face.
How weird is it that I'm feeling shame more than anything else?
A firefly lit up and flitted across the railing. In the distance, she heard a siren retreat into the night. Sitting here alone, on the balcony of the apartment she had lived in for ten years, she realized, "I don't think I've ever been out here by myself. Is that possible?"
Rod's perpetual pot burning had always kept her inside. But even without the pot, even if Rod and Mike were just out here drinking beer, they always made the balcony seem like a tree house for middle-aged men. But not anymore!
She let out a declaration, "No more!"
With Rod's exile, the 'no girls allowed' sign had gone the way of his bowling trophies—over the railing and shattered on the asphalt. This balcony, once a fortress of exclusion, was now open for business, available for one and all to enjoy, no secret handshake required.
There's a new sheriff in town!
A half hour later, the heat winning on this torrid evening, she moved into the kitchen, sliding the glass door shut behind her.
Having sufficiently calmed down, she replaced the shame and guilt of the incident with a relentless parade of worries. A new job, a new place to live, staying safe, and keeping away from Rod were her main concerns. Sitting at the island, she dropped her head to the tile, letting the ceramic cool her cheek. The sting when her skin touched the tile was a cruel reminder.
She had never seen herself as a victim. She'd been trapped and oppressed, but she had never been a victim. The embarrassment of being involved in this was worse than the actual pain.
Enough. It's time to stop the pity party and get on with it.
She bolted upright.
Okay, you got hit. It won't happen again; Rod's gone forever. Stop obsessing
about it. Focus!
Valerie remained on the edge of a new life with limitless possibilities unfolding before her. Yet the choices she'd made over the past two days shrouded that future with second thoughts.
If I hadn't blown everything up, Rod never would have hit me.
Her hand smacked the island tile. "Stop it! Stop taking the blame." Her mind spun back and forth in a rambling fashion, taking blame and then denying it.
You have more important things to deal with. Get on with it.
She turned her focus to the things she actually had to accomplish. While the fantasy she had spun in her imagination over the past six years had become reality, that reality brought a sobering truth: the life before her and the responsibility for its success belonged to no one but her.
Shit. Be careful what you wish for, right?
The embers of uncertainty and doubt, no longer hiding in the shadows of her mind, swelled into a fireball, threatening to burst from her gut and expose her as the fraud she really was.
Valerie paced the kitchen in an endless circle around the island.
"Breathe. Breathe. You got this. You can do this. Just be smart and make good choices," she said out loud.
That last phrase made her chuckle. Her mother had always said that to her every time she left the house.
Make good choices.
"Shit, now I sound like my mother." Her pacing continued.
Her phone buzzed. It was a text from Rod.
Valerie, I am so fucking sorry. Please forgive me, Val.
She saw her name and her stomach rolled. Valerie. Valerie Stewart. Her words as she left the TDLR came back to haunt her.
"Who the hell is Valerie Stewart? Sounds like some lame-ass wimp with no confidence and no ambition. Screw her! I'm not that pathetic little creature anymore."
The name Valerie brought bile to the back of her throat. All of a sudden, she couldn't bear that name. In an instant, she had lost whoever that woman was and became someone else, someone who would not put up with being treated badly, being attacked, or being frightened by life.
Not anymore.
"I need a new name."
What the fuck?
"I have to make a change." Her voice filled with commitment.
She said it out loud, and somehow that had made it possible. Goodbye, Valerie Stewart! Even thinking the name made her nauseous.
Looking around the apartment, she searched for inspiration. She became painfully aware of how little it had changed after she had purged Rod from the place. On the TV table was a single framed photo of her great-great-grandmother, a grainy, 120-year-old tintype of a woman from 1904. She stood proudly on the porch of her house, turned slightly sideways, almost in profile. Even through the sepia blur, the woman's strength and confidence had shown through. She'd been a suffragette—a woman who had fought for women's rights.
Her name was Cordelia Barlow, her father's great-grandmother. He had given her the photo when she married the first time, and it was her most prized possession. She would often look at the picture and imagine this woman leading marches, wearing full-length skirts and carrying hand-painted signs demanding the right to vote. This woman had been her hero throughout her life, and it became clear that she was the one she should emulate.
Cordelia Barlow. The name swathed her like a comfy old sweatshirt that always brought with it security and contentment.
Cordelia Barlow. Celia for short. Valerie beamed as she tossed her old moniker to the ground and pulled on her new name.
"Hi, yes, my name is Celia Barlow. How are you?" She said out loud, giving the name a road test.
"Yes, Celia Barlow here, can I help you?"
Each time she spoke the new name, it became more and more who she was. A sense of certainty bubbled up inside. This was the right way to go, the right choice to make. Conviction settled in her soul. "I'm Cordelia Barlow, but you can call me Celia." She laughed out loud.
I'm not fooling around with this new life shit! You go, girl!
"Okay, do something constructive with this. Make a plan. You got this." She attacked her upcoming life the same way she would a work project: identify objectives, plan strategies to achieve them, and execute. Opening an Excel sheet, she created a chart. She began to organize everything she needed to do to succeed in her new life. As she wrote, her breathing steadied. The more she focused on the task at hand, the more relaxed she became.
She created a simple acronym, the new model for her new life:
C-O-R-D-EL-I-A.
She made each letter of the acronym a column. The green highlight created the columns, and the red highlight became the checkboxes.
Action items fell into place with ease. Column one, "C," became Cordelia (Celia) Barlow; column two, "O," Organize—set an agenda and follow it; column three, "R," Residence—a new place to live; column four, "D," Determination—refuse to lose; column five, "E," employment; column six, "L," Leave Rod forever—divorce; column seven, "I," Invest in happiness; column eight, "A," Allow yourself to increase your body count.
She'd mapped out her plan with precision, each main goal branching into sub-categories, every objective marked by a bold red checkbox. The chart glowed with possibility—a roadmap to her new life, clear and actionable.
Feeling a surge of accomplishment, Celia Barlow drained the margarita pitcher. Having a direction, a plan, and a new name relaxed her in a way she could hardly believe. Buoyed by the promise of progress, her face lit up. She had a plan, she had direction, and she had the certainty that everything would work out the way she had imagined.
You got this, girl.