I Left Before the Bells Rang

After the car accident, one of the Johnson sons was dead and the other gravely injured.

When my devout, devoted husband woke up in the hospital, he called out, "Dorothy."

He claimed that his body then held the soul of his brother, Elias Johnson. I went mad, calling doctors, priests, anyone I could, desperate to bring my husband back.

It was not until that night that I overheard his conversation with our son:

"Father, you've loved aunt for years. You even kept yourself chaste in your private prayer room, waiting. Now, finally, you can be with her openly."

The man in the bed reached out to stroke our son's hair.

"If it weren't to stop your mother from destroying her relationship, I wouldn't have married her."

I hid in the shadows, still reeling from their words, when I saw what happened after our son left.

The husband I had always known, icy, composed, and ascetic to maintain his devout faith for seven years, was then holding his sister-in-law close on that tiny hospital bed, sharing a warmth meant for lovers.

The next day, I applied for Jim Johnson's death certificate and burned our marriage certificate.

At his grand wedding, I climbed aboard the helicopter sent to fetch me.

However, my once-cold husband went mad, chasing after us down several streets, desperate and unhinged.

Tracy Baker, sprawled on the bed, caught sight of me peeking through the curtains.

She whispered to the man behind her, "Elias."

His voice grew harsh. "Call me Jim."

With a smug grin, she turned to me, her lips playfully shaping the name Jim over and over.

The wild man on the bed was nothing like the distant, cold man who had rejected me day after day for the past seven years.

I clamped my hands over my ears, but the groans from the bed sliced through, stabbing at my heart.

All through the night, until the first light of dawn, they did not stop. Only then did the two of them sink into a heavy sleep.

I stumbled out of the room, my body numb and frozen.

When I got back to the Johnsons', my son was at the breakfast table. He looked up at my haunted face.

With a flat voice, he said, "You're always so gloomy. It's irritating. Where were you last night?"

He was the spitting image of Jim Johnson.

"After Dad passed, you should've just stayed put, not gallivanting around, getting snapped by cameras and tarnishing our family's reputation."

Since he started talking, he had been right by my side in the prayer room, picking up a serious tone that was way beyond his years.

I used to find his seriousness kind of cute, like he was playing grown-up. Today, I saw something else in his eyes—disdain for me.

A wave of sadness washed over me. Seven years as a mom, and I felt like a total failure.

Numbly, I said, "I came back for some documents, to sort out the death