Chapter 4

 

A Chance Meeting

 

~

 

It’s gotten easier, if that’s even a good term to use. But “they” are right when “they” say time will help someone heal, from even some of the deepest wounds—at least for me it has.

 

It’s been weeks since Derrick came after me with his little toy ball, and even though I can feel his eyes on me in class, burning and scathing, it doesn’t have the same impact. More importantly, I have no inkling to forgive him or take him back this time, which means the time apart, this healing time, is for real this go-around. I’m not going back, and he isn’t trying to change my mind.

On that subject, this does tend to cause me a bit of distress. A silent Derrick is a deadly Derrick. He’s up to something; I just feel it. Even if he doesn’t want me back, he certainly has too big of an ego to handle me not wanting him back. I’m a thing to him, and even though my confidence is blooming back into the daylight, soaking in the sun like a salve, I can’t shake the itch in my mind that he’s planning something.

That seed, digging away at the corners of my mind like a leech upon lake-soaked skin, is not going to distract me tonight. I’ve come too far, though it’s honestly taking a good deal of my energy to keep myself from remembering the boy I thought I knew, to keep myself away from seeing those pictures in my mind of our first date, our first kiss, his touch (the nice ones, that is), the happier times before he changed. No, changed isn’t the right word. Before he removed his perfect-boyfriend mask to show the monster beneath. It’s harder than you think. I’m not a soldier. I haven’t returned from a horrific war, but I have my battle scars, my own version of PTSD, and being alone now—or away from him, at least—should help. For some reason, though, the loneliness stays. Especially after not being on my own for so long. Others say I need this time. In the back of my mind, I know they’re right, but my heart isn’t always in agreement with those sentiments.

My fingers grip my sweater around my body tighter. I’d venture back to the table for something hot in this drafty room, but I can’t seem to leave my seat. I almost chose not to come tonight after reading about the speaker who’ll be joining us by video call. She’s been in and out of the hospital since the accident that nearly took her life, instead taking that of her abuser merely a year ago. She had hoped to come in person, but circumstances have made it nearly impossible for her to leave home without distress. It’s too horrifying to imagine someone who is supposed to love you doing something so terrible, but I know that could have been me, so I must hear her story. I must look into her eyes and show her she’s not alone, and that we fight her fight.

I spy Janet at the coffee table, her delicate fingers trembling as she pours five ripped-open packs of sugar into her mug. Those of us who have made this support group a second family have a permanent home for their mug, the table in both a state of disarray and coziness reflected in their décor and small blemishes from repeated use.

I untangle my fingers from the holes they’ve created from the tight spaces between the soft, neutral yarn. I can’t leave her up there like that. She’s had it harder than most. She’s older than me, in her early thirties, but a practically childlike marriage at the age of eighteen to her ex had him becoming more of her keeper than her husband. The years under his thumb stunted her in a way. She’s learning how to do things without him, but it’s a long road.

“Hi, Janet.” My greeting is followed by a light touch on her arm, the one place she’s finally able to stand without jumping. “If you put any more sugar in that tea, it’s going to be hot liquid sugar.”

Her fingers stop their motion toward the unopened sugar packets lined up in a white porcelain container. “It’s going to be an emotional night. I debated coming tonight. It’s still so new. I’m not even sure I should stay. My counselor said I’ll know if I need to leave, but that I should take this time to try. I-I don’t know.”

“I’m nervous too, but I know this is going to be good for us, and for her.”

“Yes, that’s what Dr. Donna said.”

“See, there you go. My psych class is paying off.”

Janet snorts, tea nearly flying from her hands and her nose. “I only need one of those and I thought you were going pre-med?”

She means my parents want me to go pre-med. No, that’s not fair; it’s what I’ve always wanted as well. Every Halloween when I was little was spent in scrubs.

“I am. The major requires psych also, so I opted to take it in my elective slot this semester.” What I really should say is that I was desperate to understand myself and to make sense of what Derrick was doing, but that would sound as dreadful from my lips as it does in my brain.

Janet whispers something I can’t catch.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that.” Do I want to know? Her furtive eyes tell me it must have something do with her ex-husband, Brian.

“I-I almost called him last night. I know, you don’t have to say it, but I didn’t do it and I wouldn’t have. It’s just…I had no one else for years, not that he was ever a good listener and basically told me everything was my fault, but I just, I just…”

I touch her lightly once more and then pull her a little closer. “I still listen to some of Derrick’s old messages. The sweet ones. I don’t know why, and I know it’s not healthy, but I’ll never judge you, Janet. Just, promise me you’ll be careful. If you call him, he may be able to find out where you are.”

The frail woman nods, her intricate braids creating a beautiful picture along with the pale pink dress that pops from her dark skin.

She’s come a long way. Broken bones heal, but in her case, they healed awkwardly since he never allowed her to see a doctor. Some of her fingers are oddly angled and she has a bad back for a woman her age. They only had one car, and she could only ever use it if he was with her. She’s a terrible driver because of it, but our group chipped in for lessons. It’s the little wins that keep us going.

“I heard from my friend back home that he’s found a new me. She’s young, your age, barely in her twenties. I feel awful saying this, but I’m glad his attention has moved off of me,” she admits while wringing her hands. “I’m awful. I mean that poor girl, but she knows about what he did to me and she doesn’t care.”

“That or he’s convinced her that it’s all lies. If he’s anything like Derrick, that’s their gift: lying.”

“I sound like a total…bitch, don’t I?”

“Why, Janet, such a potty mouth.” My faux aghast includes a clutching hand to my chest topped off with prideful eyes. This woman wasn’t allowed to even say damn in her own house. “And the answer is no. You don’t sound like a bitch. You sound like a survivor. It’s okay to be selfish, remember?”

“Doesn’t it make things cockeyed for you sometimes? I mean care about yourself, and learn to say no, but also be empathetic, but not a pushover. Be assertive but not a…”

“A bitch?” We share a laugh and I steer my fellow survivor to our seats.

I know I’m one of the luckier ones in this group. A sliver of dread inches its way up my spine when I think about the woman we’ll soon meet on the screen. It dances between my vertebrae, pushing and pulsing. I’ve felt this before, like a shock of intuition shaking me awake. She’ll see us, we’ll see her, but where most of our scars are hidden in our minds, hers will be out in front for all of us to see.

Janet’s right, though. After you’ve been in an abusive relationship, you have to retrain your brain, and even then, we don’t always react the way we hope or expect, but who can say they ever do? It’s the frozen moment when someone does something awful, and you can’t defend yourself, followed by the shame from others when they can’t see why you didn’t do something—anything. Yell, scream, hit back, run...it’s the shock. The deer being hurtled down upon by the wheeled monster’s headlights. I’ll never blame a person for what they did or didn’t do in the moment of abuse or assault. Even those of us who think we are emboldened and strong can never guess how they might react. The girl inside of me who tears apart dirt and asphalt under her shoes didn’t know what to do, and I’m sure my competitors would never picture me here. I sure as hell never did.

“Okay, everyone. We’re about to begin. I’ll allow Ms. Bends to introduce herself but please remember what we’ve talked about over the last few meetings,” Mrs. Roberts—Kathy, she keeps telling me to call her—calls out. She never gave up on me. I owe her big time.

Kathy debated bringing in Ms. Bends, worried it would trigger us or trigger her. Regardless, she and the group ultimately decided we all need this.

“She can see us as much as we can see her,” continues Kathy, her blond hair in perfect ringlets down her back. “She knows this is going to be emotional for you all and her, so tears are likely—hell, even sobs—but as we’ve worked on building ourselves up to not be ashamed of our scars, Ms. Bends’ scars are wide open for everyone to see.”

Pieces of ice shards travel down my back. The resulting shiver is impossible to hide, and Janet places her hand on mine where it rests on my knee and gives it a good squeeze. None of the stories we’ve heard in this room resulted in someone so scarred that they couldn’t leave their home, let alone a death.

Kathy’s eyes scan the room, no doubt gauging how everyone is doing as she prepares to bring this woman willing to bare her soul to all into our lives. “Can everyone see the screen well? Raise your hand if you can’t, and we will help you get a better seat.”

My eyes trace a path around the room to see the lack of hands in the air. It’s eerily quiet, not the typical chatty beginnings of the group since everyone has become pretty comfortable with each other.

“Okay, well if we are all ready to go, I’m going to get her on the line and get started. Are there any last questions or concerns before we move forward?” The pause allows a crackle of energy to shoot throughout the air in the rec center basement. “Well, as we talked about last week, if you need to speak to someone or just need to take a break, Lena is in the back, and she’s ready to help with anything you might need.”

“This is it,” whispers Janet, her hand pulling from mine to grasp her other one tightly enough to make it appear as if only fingers exist, as her nerves appear to take over.

“Can you hear and see us, Ms. Bends?”

My eyes leave Janet’s hands and dart back to the screen. A woman with stark black hair and a pale face flickers onto the screen, like an older version of Snow White. She wears a brightly colored royal blue scarf on her head, which adds to the princess-like picture in my head. Something appears off about the shape of her nose, but it’s her voice that nearly brings me to tears.

“I’m here, Kathy,” Ms. Bends responds in a raspy voice while her hand moves slowly to her throat. “I apologize for my voice. I hope you all can hear me, and my best friend, Debbie, who happens to be a nurse is here to help if I need a break. Lucky her.”

A laugh breaks out as Ms. Bends turns to look at someone off-screen.

“Well, it is wonderful to have you here with our group finally. Everyone has been eagerly awaiting this night, and I know I speak for each of us when I say thank you for taking the time to speak to us and for your bravery in being here.”

Thank yous pour out, some in whispers, some in strong voices, others broken sounds from choked-back tears. Twinkly eyes look out from the TV screen to everyone in the room and land on mine.

I will not cry; I will not make this woman feel sad about herself after what her husband did to her. I won’t.

Instead, I take a deep breath and smile. The slight quiver trembling my ribs on my inhale stays hidden by my bulky track sweatshirt. I catch Ms. Bends’ eyes, or at least it seems like she’s looking straight at me. Who can really tell in this sketchily lit room? But the tingle along my skin relays that she sees me as clearly as I see her and, at that moment, I know her. Is it that she’s a reflection of where my life could have led? The familiarity lingers even as her eyes shift to others holding their breath in the room.

With the entrancement severed, I manage to break away from the screen to check on Janet. She appears still as stone, but I touch her hand, and she breathes.

“You okay?” I take her small nod and continued inhales and exhales as a good sign. We would have to be robots not to be impacted by the sight and sounds of Ms. Bends’ brutal survival.

“Well then, we can get started,” Kathy announces. “Ms. Bends, as you know, we are a group of survivors of abusive relationships. Some of us endured physical abuse, others mental, and most, I have found, have endured both. Many of us struggle every day, even years after a successful escape from the abuse. Can you share with us a little about your story and how you find the strength each day to move forward, to be so brave as you are today here with us?”

“Yes, of course. I’m pleased to be here today and to meet all of you. You have something special here in your group, and being here, committing to your safety and happiness is a huge step, and each of you should be very proud of yourselves. If I had been able to find something as you all have, I might have escaped the state you now find me in.” The woman takes a deep breath, the inhale an obvious struggle. “Where to begin? Well, I guess the beginning is best. I met my ex-husband when I was sixteen, he was twenty, and I didn’t listen to my parents or my older sister about our difference in age. Even my friends, for that matter. Soon they stopped trying to change my mind. That’s what happens when you spend all of your time with one person and let your friends slip away. You lose your support system, unknowingly of course, because you’re in love.”

Head nods answer like a choir of angels singing the chorus to her song.

“I see I am not alone,” she continues, with a smile not made of pity, rather, comprised of camaraderie. “My hope in being here today, something that would have been impossible for me a year ago, is twofold. For one, I wanted to prove to myself that my past can hold some good, that I can use it to help others such as yourselves. And the second is to help myself heal even further by getting the story out of my head and into the world instead of hiding as I did for years. Hiding caused more pain, as you can see.”

With hands younger-looking than the shadow that falls on her face at times, she carefully reaches to remove her scarf. A collective intake of breath reverberates around the drafty room.

“It’s kind of Frankenstein’s monster-ish, isn’t it?” Her fingers touch the area around the scar traversing her head, the hair growing around it making a jagged part at an odd angle. “I used to wear wigs, but those damn things are hot, and I don’t want to hide any longer. These scars are part of me now, a reminder of what I have gone through, yes, but also a reminder of my survival.”

I can’t pull my eyes from the rough pale skin on her head. It begins in the middle and runs in an uneven pattern down before disappearing behind her ear. What in the world did he do to her?

“There’s no easy way to say how all of this happened.” Her delicate hands trace her head down to her throat. “The last time I saw my ex-husband alive was during another of his drunken nights when I was in the way. In the way of his grasping hands, in the way of the furniture. After crushing my windpipe and throwing me across the room into our glass table, he set the house on fire, with both of us inside. He hated himself, and he hated me for what he saw in my eyes while I lay there dying, so he sent us both into the flames. I survived, thanks to my son, but as for him, his remains were found—what was left of him anyway—and he is now finally in his version of peace. And so am I.”

Warm rivers of tears form along both of my cheeks.

“I could have died.”

I could have too.

“My son may not have stopped by that night.”

He might not have stopped his knife that one time.

“But, I’m here. Here to tell you all that no matter how awful your past has been, you can start anew, you can be reborn, and even after years of surgeries, even though my voice will never be the same, and this stubborn scar refuses to grow hair anywhere near it, I am here. Even though my ankle was shattered and after six surgeries I am still wobbling when I try to balance, I am here. Where are you all?”

And without a thought, the answer echoes.

“We are here!”

“Yes, you are. And you are all beautiful, strong, amazing, talented, and forces of nature. Don’t let anyone take that from you, ever. Stay the course, and you will never be in the situations you found yourself in before.”

Applause and hoots flow freely between our crowd of twenty.

“I think I speak for all of us when I say, my God, you are a warrior, Ms. Bends,” Kathy says.

“Please, call me Nicole, everyone. I didn’t get here on my own, not by far. I have a group like yours up north, and thank goodness for them and their support. I’m also thankful beyond words for my oldest pulling me from the flames, and to Deb who has kicked my butt into rehab—like a drill sergeant, I might add—and wouldn’t let me lie around feeling sorry for myself.”

Nia is my drill sergeant. She’s the one who found this group for me and encouraged me over and over again to go. I may be smart in some regards, but I was not using my head much at all. Thank goodness she was.

A dog barks off camera and Ms. Bends, Nicole, gives a tiny jump before waving the hand on her shoulder off gently. I know that feeling—the one of being on edge, even when you are at the absolute safest position you can be in, even when, for Nicole, the beast is dead.

“Mom?” The call coming through the speakers ignites something deep in my chest. It’s as if my rib bones spread apart to handle the intake of breath rushing in. The odd reaction subsides, and Janet’s hand moves away quickly from where it was touching my shoulder once I wave it away as Nicole did to Deb.

I see who must be Deb move behind Nicole, most likely to cut off the male voice seeking his mother. Yet Nicole’s eyes light up in the opposite direction as a male frame comes into view—his arms hugging his mother tightly while his head drops to her shoulder. The head lifts from its resting spot and turns slowly, taking in the sight that must be his mother’s computer and webcam, eyes widening at the realization that he’s walked in on something he shouldn’t have. The dark eyes dart around for a moment, unable to peel away from what he’s just stumbled into before they connect with a pair of eyes that he knows.

Mine.