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WHEN I VISITED this emergency room with Maisie Zumstein after her fall, the notice in the women’s restroom asking, "Are you a victim of abuse?" or "Are you afraid of your partner?" had caught me off guard. Now I recognized it for a hand extended to pull someone out of hell, or the key to unlock a prison door.
After programming the number into my phone, I hurried outside for privacy and a reliable signal. Trotting across the driveway to a tree-shaded sidewalk, I waved to Chelsea, waiting for the valet parker to retrieve our cars. Cissie and Caroline rested behind her on one of the benches.
Natalie, the shelter manager who answered my call, sounded young and competent. I sketched out the situation as best I could, adding with regret that Cissie only agreed to leave her husband for one night.
"It's a start," the manager reassured me. She suggested we meet at a certain corner of an Acme supermarket parking lot. "I'll be driving a green van."
"We need a few minutes to pick up a prescription, and maybe some lunch."
She told me she’d be there in twenty minutes, “and I'll wait."
My, "Thank you," sounded grossly inadequate.
***
I noticed Natalie surveying our surroundings before she emerged from the van to greet us. She appeared to be scarcely older than Cissie with black hair and startlingly beautiful blue eyes. She wore a pale yellow t-shirt tucked into a summer skirt and flip flops adorned with beads.
After introducing herself with a smile, she cautioned, "We shouldn't stand around too long." Addressing Cissie, she asked, "Would you like to ride with me?"
"My car’s here, but I'm not supposed to drive."
Natalie nodded. "Pain meds, right?"
Cissie had confided to Chelsea and me that three of her ribs were broken, and just breathing hurt like crazy.
"So here's the thing," Natalie explained. "You're welcome to have a car at the shelter; but you should realize it may be spotted if you go out."
Cissie cast a panicky glance toward her gray Subaru, and I could almost hear what she was thinking. Her car represented freedom.
"Or your husband might report it stolen," Natalie added. "We can give the police a heads up to avoid that, but it might be best to let your friends park it back at your place. What do you think? It's up to you."
"I'd like to have it with me," Cissie insisted.
"Okay. Then everybody follow me." Natalie climbed back into her van and waited while everybody else got belted in. This time Chelsea drove Cissie's car with Caroline and Cissie on board. I trailed along in my own car.
A few minutes into our drive, a terrifying thought came over me. Mike Swenson. Never mind that I wasn’t certain he’d been tailing me. The truth was I’d been too distracted by everything else to check my surroundings, and the realization made my heart hammer and my palms sweat. The last thing I wanted was expose Cissie, or anybody else, to more danger.
If I’d started out twitchy nervous, now I was hyper-vigilant. Every plain black sedan potentially belonged to Mike, and the roads were overrun with black sedans. Left, right, front, and back. I saw them by the dozens until I was nearly crazed with concern.
Natalie’s route led through the close-packed suburbs west of Philadelphia, where shopping centers and strip malls and big box stores were plentiful, and housing just as dense. Only when we reached the countryside and thinner traffic could I feel certain that Swenson/Cotaldi wasn’t along for the ride.
At last we turned into a long, crushed-stone driveway ending at a sprawling blue farmhouse. Three or four cars were parked around back, but the green van stopped out front.
While the shelter manager and Chelsea helped Cissie and Caroline, I lagged behind to calm myself and take in the place.
The curling black roof shingles and peeling paint underscored the organization's lack of funds, while an inviting row of red impatiens in industrial-sized coffee cans bloomed on each porch step. Off to the left, a blonde girl pumped and kicked a tree swing for all it was worth. A barefoot boy of about three sat splay-legged in a sandbox shoveling his way toward China. Their mother supervised from a blanket in the shade, but even in deep shadow the sling on her right arm was plainly visible.
Distressing enough, but it was the wheelchair ramp leading to the porch that drained the last of my emotional reserve. It reminded me that abuse has no age limit and that even young victims like Cissie might arrive unable to walk.
Natalie noticed my body language and shot me an understanding glance.
Embarrassed, I made a show of reaching inside the car for my purse. Only when the others were safely inside would I wipe my eyes and blow my nose. I’d had a short night, a frightening morning in the woods, a difficult lunch with George—all before this episode with Cissie. Add to that my fears about Mike Swenson, and my mood could only be described as grim.
Natalie emerged from the house and caught me using a tissue.
"You did good," she said as she sauntered over. "You got her here. That's enough."
I gestured with the tissue before putting it in my pocket. "The wheelchair ramp got me," I confessed.
"Hard to fathom, I know."
"Why do men do it?"
She’d been leaning against my car but shoved off and began to walk. "That's a long story for another time," she said. "Let's just get Cissie and Caroline settled in, okay?" She held the farmhouse door open with her foot. "There's a fan, but no air-conditioning I'm afraid."
"But they'll be safe," I remarked over the lump lodged in my throat.
"Yes," Natalie reassured me. "They'll be safe."
...for now, remained unspoken.
***
CISSIE'S TINY, THIRD-FLOOR room in the shelter had been an attic nook in the house's former life. Now it was painted a clean white and contained a single bed, a crib, a floor lamp and a rocking chair. Plastic boxes served as containers for the few possessions the new residents brought with them, perhaps their only possessions now. At the single, screened window ruffled curtains puffed in and out on the breeze.
Chelsea changed Caroline on a towel on the floor while Cissie curled uncomfortably on the bed. Now that she was safe, the toll of last night's beating and today's tough decision had caught up with her. She stared at the floor as if she were already asleep.
As soon as Caroline was settled into the crib with her toy bunny and a pacifier, Chelsea and I said our good-byes.
When we reached the first floor, I stuck my head into Natalie's office. Two other women were there, a mere teenager dusting the bookshelves, another in her fifties dozing in an armchair. I understood. My own lowest points always came when I was alone. It made sense that those with the worst nightmares would be comforted by the company of others.
Natalie was talking on the phone, guilting a grocery store manager into donating food. "You can? Thanks, Mr. Grater," she said finally. "I'll be there this afternoon. Right. Two on the dot. I don't suppose you could throw in a box of diapers? Okay. We're glad for anything you can spare." She hung up and switched her attention to Chelsea and me.
"You need food?" I inquired.
She nodded. “Getting enough to eat at home is a problem for some of these women, so I try to keep our pantry full. One less thing for them to worry about. But yes, we need everything—always."
Humbled and awed by the young woman’s dedication, I thanked her for being there for Cissie. “I hope she decides to stay longer.”
“I hope so, too. But be careful not to pressure her. Her husband is all about control, so we can’t be.”
“Of course,” I assured her, but it was timely advice. I’d already begun to compile the many reasons why Cissie should stay here.
"Caroline's going to wake up soon," Chelsea mentioned, "and Cissie’s due for more pain pills at three."
"Debbie, you got that?" Natalie asked of the teenager with the dust rag.
"Baby, check. Pills three o'clock," the girl repeated.
Natalie extended her hand for me to shake. "Watch your back," she urged both Chelsea and me. "Ronald may have spies in the neighborhood. If he thinks you had anything to do with Cissie leaving, it could get nasty."
"We will," I replied, but I was tired and didn't absorb the advice completely.
Natalie's brows lowered. "I'm not kidding," she warned. "Some batterers will do anything to keep what they believe is rightfully theirs."
"Anything," the teenager echoed, and I finally took the warning to heart. These women would know.