When she first arrived, she wasn’t sure she had made the right decision. He was going to be so angry. She’d never been gone overnight before, never gone this long without calling him to let him know where she was.
The counselor at the police station had talked her into coming to the shelter. She knew she couldn’t go home, he was going to jail but could make bail and come looking for her.
These was no good choice here, go home and face his wrath, or go into hiding and be running for the rest of her life. She was told she would be anonymous at the abuse shelter, and it was the safest place for her until they could help relocate her.
It as all too much. She knew he loved her, she just pushed his buttons and provoked him. He was always sorry the next day, and would be so loving and attentive. His job was so stressful, and his boss and co-workers were a bunch of idiots. She needed to stop being so aggravating to him.
Sitting on the edge of her small dorm bed, she thought about what led to last night’s fight. He had come home upset over something at work and dinner wasn’t ready and on the table. Any attempts to mollify him only made him more angry.
He picked up the hot casserole and flung it across the dining room, the glass shattering as it hit the wall, the cheese sauce and pasta sliding to the floor, leaving greasy stains on the wallpaper. More tableware and glasses went flying, his words as sharp and dangerous as the shards of glass and knives he aimed at her.
The screaming, the horrible names, the broken dishes were nothing new. She had learned to dodge those, this was the first time he put his hands on her. Trying to leave the room to defuse his fury, he grabbed her by back of her head, dragging her back to the table. With one hand still tangled in her hair, with the other he picked her up by her arm, flinging her across the table. She dropped to the floor in a pile of broken dishes and food.
She rolled under tabled trying to get away from him as the came around to where she fell. Crawling on her hands and knees she fled to the kitchen, running to the back door to get out of the house.
Once out the door she ran to the neighbors’. Covered in blood from tiny glass cuts, they took her in, calling the police, locking their doors and barricading her in a back room when he came banging on their windows. Screaming for her to come outside, a carving knife held high over his head.
The police had to taser him when he wouldn’t lie down on the ground. Trussed up, arms and legs, he was unceremoniously hauled to a waiting police car and tossed into the back seat. All the while he continued to call her vile names and threaten to kill her.
A soft spoken female detective covered her in a blanket and escorted her to a waiting ambulance, asking her to tell her what happened. On the ride to the hospital, she explained the it was all her fault, she had provoke him. He wouldn’t have been so upset if she had only done was she was supposed to.
The detective took notes, asking if there was anywhere she could stay for the night. There wasn’t. She asked what was going to happen to him, and was told he was going to be booked on charges of domestic violence, aggravated assault and any of a number of other crimes.
She began to cry. She didn’t want him to go to jail, she didn’t want to press charges. it was her fault, you see. It was out of her hands, the detective said. Once the incident went outside, once the neighbors were involved, she didn’t need to press charges for him to be arrested.
Later that night, after emergency room doctors examined her injuries, and bandaged the deepest cuts, the detective drove her first to her home to pack a few belongings, then took her to the Women’s Shelter. She was introduced to Sister Margaret and shown to an empty room. Simply furnished with a bed, a dresser for her few clothes, a closet, a desk and nigh table, this was to be her new home – at least for a while. A lamp on the desk and a smaller one on the table by the bed the only light in the room. A window facing out to the back yard, was covered by a wrought iron grate. She wondered if that was to keep people out or keep them in.
Over the next few weeks, she spoke more to the detective and was told he would be going to jail for a long time. She also had many conversations with the Sister, and became friends with the other women at the shelter.
Soon she woke up to the fact that nothing she ever did made his abuse okay. That word alone, ‘abuse,’ was so hard for her to accept, but that was exactly what she had been subjected to – verbal, emotional, psychological and physical. It took a little longer for her to believe that it wasn’t her fault.
Then one day the detective came to pick her up. His case was finally being heard, and she had agreed to testify against him. All that time in jail hadn’t mellowed him. If anything, it had made him more rabid. He continued to blame her for his problems.. Her incompetence was just too much for him to have to tolerate. He had to teach her how to cook, clean, pay bills, everything. He had only reacted out of frustration. She wasn’t hurt, not seriously. And the property damaged was his.
The judge and jury didn’t see things his way, and he was found guilt of all charges. She was in the courtroom when the verdict was read. If it had not been for the bailiffs and other security guards, he would have vaulted the railing between the galley and defendants’s table and attack her again. As they wrestled him out of the room, he continued to hurl insults and threats at her. This time, she felt no guilt and was glad she had a safe haven at the shelter.
Sister Margaret met her when the detective brought her back after the trial. They talked for a while about the events of the day, and how she felt about it. She said that all she felt was relief. He would be going to jail for a long time, long enough for her to make plans, to figure out what she wanted to do and where she wanted to go. The only thing keeping her in this town, she said, was money.
He never let her have access to bank accounts and since they weren’t married she had no claim to his assets. That’s when Sister Margaret said she might have a solution to that problem.
The shelter’s sponsoring church donated their alms contributions to help relocate abuse victims. She would be provided with enough money to move anywhere she wanted, plus money for rent, food, transportation for three months. Long enough to find a job and start over in her new home.
Now, she said, all I have to do is decide where I want to go.
Do you have any family, the Sister asked. Is there someplace you could go where you’d have a support system?
My parents are in Virginia, and my grandfather is still alive, but since being with him, I have spoken to anyone.
The Sister offered to call them for her. to explain what had happened and that she wanted to come home.
I don’t know if they will want me back, she said.
No sooner had Sister Margaret told her parents she was free of her abuser and wanted to make a new start, and they pleaded for her to come home. Her room was still as she left it and she was welcome to stay as long as she needed.
She hugged Sister Margaret and thanked her for everything she had done, then went to her simple room to pack. By the next morning, she had a bus ticket, enough cash to get her home, and a debit card and a pin number for access to a bank account in the city.
Saying goodbye to the other women was harder than she expected, but they were happy for her. She gave them hope that they could break free too, and have a new life. Sister Margaret drove her to the bus station, said a prayer with her and wished her luck.
You better call me once you get home, the Sister said.
I will, and thank you, for everything, she said.
Finding an empty seat near the back of the bus, she felt an overwhelming sense of relief. She was going home and she couldn’t be happier.
Opening her purse, she looked inside the plain white envelope the Sister had given her. Inside was a variety of small bills, several $20s and $10s, a few $5s and about a dozen one dollar bills. Flipping through them to get a quick count, she was an odd $1, rimmed in red lettering. She was jolted out of her revery by the rumble of the buses diesel engines coming to life.
The driver came on the intercom introducing himself and explaining they would be leaving soon. Their first stop would be in Cleveland where they would be stopping for a quick lunch.
She sat back, put the envelope back in her purse and smiled. When they made that first layover, she planned to do something she hadn’t done in years. Her first purchase as a free woman would a a cheeseburger and fries.
