He has been
arrested for beating me. I wait in the patrol car as they lead him away in handcuffs from the front door of
our love nest. His dark eyes are defeated underneath his bowed head and he
looks miserable. My palpitating heart wrestles with my spirits as our once
unquenchable dreams dissolve. The experience causes me to feel distant from
Victor, and not an "open book" united in eternal love. Instead,
we are separate, apart, and wretched.
we are separate, apart, and wretched.
As he has said,
maybe I have always been apart.
As he exits the
apartment building with the officers he glances at the patrol car where I watch
from the back seat. He doesn't see me. I see him though, too clearly. He is a
once idealist beaten down by personal torment and non-attainment of life's
goals, a step ahead yet out of place, always wanting what he believes in his
heart he is not good enough to have. He doesn't see me because he can't see
anything at all at moment except for his blurred future, and the ricocheting
past that brought him here to this moment.
An hour
previously Victor picked up the knife and flashed it in my direction, ordering,
"kill me now and put us both out of our misery!" I backed away and as
he came after me I slipped to the floor, my slackening body deadening with its
weight, remembering my self-defense training and knowing that going limp would
make it hardest for him to grab hold of me. Bitter instinct was kicking in, and
despite the surreal nature of what was transpiring, my reactions where as sharp
as the knife which now glittered from the parquet floor of the once-lovely
low-rise apartment we lived in.
His eyes blazed
with a fury I had only previously glimpsed. As he began kicking me with the
stiff boots I had bought him for Christmas, I rolled over to shield myself,
then he started in on my spine, his screams mangling with my own. The
relationship was caught in the death throws. I thought he might kill me as I
scrambled away, accidentally hitting my head on the slate of the fireplace, or
on its surrounding brick wall, which was located bare inches away. I had in
some sense, already killed him, he would later say.
At last, I
crawled away and he didn't stop me. It was as if he knew he might exterminate
as both if at that moment he didn't let me go. With a glance at his eyes I
grabbed my phone and careened out the door, slamming it behind me and stumbling
down four flights of stairs. Down the steps out onto the street-- where was I
to go? I was ousted from my home and unable to go to anyone who knows me.
I make a frantic
call, the numbers jumbling under my fingers, my disoriented thoughts out of
control. "311," I remember, for city services.
Somehow, after
several blurted explanations, I get a city hospital operator on the line.
"I am looking for help, I say, "I'm afraid…"
…afraid he might
one day really hurt me. How did I
end up here? How did we?
The voice on the other end says that their only recourse is
to advise me to call 911. They'll help me there.
My thoughts are zigzagging from the violence and confusion.
I was not a child. This shouldn't be happening. I was a self-respecting,
successful, middle-class research-scientist. I had a well-adjusted, grown
child, and was from a socio-economic background completely unfamiliar with this
type of event. My only association with domestic violence heretofore had been a
fundraising effort on the part of a battered woman's shelter back home. I had toured
the facility then, warmly greeted by the CEO, who expressed gratitude for
someone of my "unconnectedness" to be making this sort of effort on
the shelter's behalf. I would bring in supporters who didn't have their type of
facility on their mental radar, she explained.
Had this been
circular continuity of the universe?, I have to wonder now.
I met the women
then, cowed creatures attempting to get their moxie back in a cheerful place
meant to shelter themselves and their children. At least temporarily, there
they could be coaxed into some sort of return to life, without fear of their
ex-es, pimps, or fathers finishing the hatchet jobs they had begun. Through my
sympathy I still felt very far removed from them, and worlds away.
Now, those women
were part of my existence. It was cold this January night with no coat, as
aimless, miserable, and without a home I stumbled through the near empty
streets. I had nowhere to go. No recourse. I had put everything into him, and
into us. If I returned he might kill me, or worse. I wanted help, direction,
counsel--isn't that was what women in this situation were due?
It was nearing
11pm, exactly one hour till my 39th birthday. But this didn't occur to me then:
I was thinking about the hours before.
Jan.
14, 2009 3pm
Sandy and her
journalist friend, Jess, had shown up unexpectedly, dropping off some equipment
left over from the exhibition we had just finished, then staying in the
excitement of my recent move and in the unexpected delight of me having a balcony.
As I pulled out the folding chairs, I asked Victor if he wanted to make drinks.
He was reluctant, and I was angered by this, because I had had little contact
with friends at this point and was so desperate for outside connection that I
would put everything on hold in order to experience it. Victor and I had been
holed up for months, with little but our tangled passion to keep us occupied,
except for the work I was doing on the exhibition and the half-hearted effort
he was putting into his artwork.
He pulled me
into the bedroom, explaining.
Weren't we going to see a movie for my birthday that night? Tomorrow he
had things planned. I didn't care, I just wanted to enjoy the company of
friends. I didn't choose to see what would happen when we liberally mixed
liquor with equal amounts of hurt.
So like a good
boy he trotted off to get my tequila, my bankcard in tow, and mixed up
masterful margaritas that made our heads spin. "His specialty," he
said, I recall.
Sandi, Jess and
I reveled in his attention, and when we were too cold to stay outdoors any
longer we came inside and tried on high heels for fun. Soon afterwards Sandi
and Jess departed, and not used to drinking in the afternoon, and not used to
such powerful margaritas in general, I collapsed on the bed. Victor kept
drinking.
It was the
ringing of my cell phone that woke us up. Victor was beside me and grabbed the
phone first. I saw the digital glow in the darkness. How many hours had I lain
there, insensible? "Who is this?" he growled and I snatched the phone
from him. I didn't recognize the number.
"It's one
of your boyfriends!"
"No, I--I
don't know. It's not a number I--"
The first blow
struck with the full force of his weight. In due course we were grappling in
the living room, grabbing at each other. Then he was kicking me, and I was
scrambling down the street, wondering what had become of my life.
I hung up the
cell without dialing 911. Then, rounding the corner, the local police station
arose before me. I had never been inside a city precinct, in fact had never had
contact with the police at all, except for the occasional traffic ticket or nod
on the street to assure them they were doing a good job. My taxes paid their
salary, didn't they? They were there to help me.
My insides were
aflutter as I made my way to the acrylic-shielded counter. At home my books
were still in boxes. My field notes and computer were barely unpacked. The life
I had once known was gone in a
blink of an eye, when, bare months before, I had walked out on the
stability of my 15-year marriage to Alan, my corporate, once loving husband. He
was an affable finance type, and I was his researcher-wife whom he enjoyed
showing off to compatriots. My life, what there was of it, would make good
cocktail fodder now, that much was for certain.
The desk
sergeant was at once filled with empathetic understanding. No doubt, I didn't
fit the prototype. He took a cursory explanation from me, then, before I knew
it a kind female officer was ushering me into a small soulless room to have me
show her my injuries. Pictures were taken, and she chatted amiably with both
her partner and me throughout the process. She had been in this situation
herself, Maria explained, lowering my pants so she could get a better view of
my injuries. It was, unfortunately, not at all uncommon, she said.
She asked about
bruises on my arms, the cut on my face. The last was unrelated I explained,
touching it.
The officers
didn't seem to hear me. They appeared to be my friends, friends whose faces I
can't remember now. Maria told me lots of things. She told me that this would
get worse until one day I would end up dead, or, as I feared, seriously
injured. The only way to stop it was to sign the complaint.
Back at the
front desk, the sergeant placed a typed statement in front of me. My words, he
said, had been neatly summed up. I didn't need to read over them if I didn't
want. They would take Victor a way for a few hours, for his own benefit. They
would explain the severity of what he was doing, and where it was likely to
lead if he didn't get help.
I was still in a
dream, as if this was happening to someone else. To me, those officers, that
precinct, those typed words on the page, were floating somewhere outside my
periphery. I read the statement, but
had no comprehension of the words printed there, nor of their consequence. I
signed the document. They failed to give me a copy.
Back on my
street in the patrol car, in the waning hours of my 39th year on
this planet, I watched them take Victor away. That was the moment that I
realized my actions would have far graver ramifications than I had conceived.
Jan. 15, 2009
The call from Victor leaves me rattled. He was allowed to make one phone
call before leaving for parts unknown. He has been in a holding cell for 18
hours without food, drink or legal counsel. His cellmates are users, murderers,
and two Chinese guys arrested for peeing on the sidewalk.
He sounds like death.
I spend the day shaking like an accident victim, having long since
forgotten that it is my birthday.
Later
Unable to do anything but duck birthday calls
from my well-meaning family, I turn through the pages of my journal, and begin
reading.
