“And there’s a daughter?”
“Yeah, cute little girl named Ashley. Age four.”
That’s what my intake record says, too. “And the asshole’s name is . . . Steven?”
“Steven Stratton, yep.”
I push through the curtain. The mother, Brandi, age twenty-two, sits on the hospital bed, her little girl, Ashley, asleep in her lap. The little one, thank God, appears untouched. Brandi’s right eye is swollen shut. The left side of her face is heavily bandaged. Her right forearm is wrapped—a burn, according to the intake sheet, when she tried to deflect the frying pan.
Brandi looks me over, fixes on my credentials.
“Hi, Brandi,” I say quietly, though I doubt the girl will awaken. “I’m Vicky, with Safe Haven. You want a place to stay tonight?”
“I can’t . . .” She looks away, tucks a strand of hair behind her ear with her free hand.
She can’t go back there. She can’t go back tonight. She can’t go back ever.
But almost all of them do. He’ll apologize. He’ll shower her with affection. He’ll make her laugh and feel loved. She’ll blame herself. And she’ll consider her lack of other options. Rinse and repeat.
“It’s your decision, Brandi. Our facility isn’t much. You’d have to share a room, and our A/C sucks, so it’s just fans. But it’s quiet and it’s safe. We have locks and a security guard. Maybe . . . maybe you and Ashley deserve a quiet, peaceful night’s sleep?”
Maybe you’ll come to our facility and let me convince you to leave that abusive creep you call a husband? We can do so much for them if they let us. They can stay with us for up to two weeks. We can get them counseling. We can find them a pro bono lawyer to get restraining orders and file divorce papers. We can find them alternative housing.
But they have to say yes. They have to learn to fight for themselves.
6
Friday, July 15, 2022
Well, once again, I built up all these terrible outcomes in my mind, and it turned out so much better than I expected.
I wasn’t even sure this would happen. Telling someone sure, let’s meet for coffee, is easy enough to do and then cancel later. Promise to follow up, sure, but then it doesn’t happen, or you don’t return a text. And it’s too amorphous to know whether it was an intentional blow-off or just one of those many things in life that ends up not happening, nobody’s fault, “no worries,” etc.
I’d basically convinced myself that when we saw each other at the club last week, you only agreed to meet for coffee to be nice, because what else were you going to say? Say yes now, blow me off later.
But there you were, Lauren, at Max’s Café, just as promised, in a white tennis outfit, ponytail tucked through the back of your hat.
And you spent so much time asking me about me, which is good manners and very thoughtful, though for some reason not what I expected. And I didn’t lie or sugarcoat anything when I talked, Lauren. I made a vow that I would never lie to you again, and I didn’t.
I didn’t lie to you about Vicky, either. It started as small talk, what she does for a living, how long we’ve been married, and pretty soon I was opening up about Vicky’s childhood, growing up in poverty in West Virginia, running away from home at age seventeen, getting hooked on drugs and doing degrading things to support herself. How she was a mess when I met her, but so was I in different ways, both of us adrift and helping each other get back to the shoreline. How proud I am of her, how much we mean to each other, and before I knew it, Lauren, I was so comfortable that I was unloading, telling you everything, and I mean EVERYTHING. How I love Vicky and always will, but that we’re different, we started in very different places and never really met in the middle. How we care about each other, we’d do anything for each other, but however our relationship had evolved, the spark is gone. We’re more like roommates than spouses, more like pals than lovers.
I laughed a nervous chuckle when I was finished. “Gee, aren’t you glad you asked?” I said. “Sorry about that brutal-honesty thing.”
But you didn’t smile, you didn’t wave it off. No, what you said in response changed my life.
“Would it make you feel any better,” you said, “if I told you my marriage was a train wreck?”
It did make me feel better, actually, and here’s an example of why you will never read this journal, Lauren. I wouldn’t want you to know how much I wanted to hear those words. I know how that sounds, but it’s true. I was hoping you’d tell me you were unhappily married, too.