The Finish

by Jade Eby

  "I'd like to open the floor to anyone having a particularly hard day. Let us hear your pain."

  The room is silent.

  Emily looks around the room, lingering on me for a moment and moves on. "Everyone is having a great day then?"

  That gets a round of laughter.

  "Okay, fine. I'll start." A woman with long curly black hair stands up. "I'm Faye."

  "Hi Faye," the room shouts in unison.

  This is like every AA meeting I've seen on TV.

  "I wouldn't say that today was a bad day, but it wasn't good. I went to pick up my youngest from school and when I pulled up, my ex was already there. I had no idea what he was thinking since the protection order was put in place two weeks ago. It's like he doesn't care what the law says, he's going to do what he wants. Law be damned."

  Some of the women shake their heads. Some murmur words I can't make out.

  "I was so scared he was going to make a scene. We've already been through that once, and the other mothers, they think we're crazy. They don't get it, right? I nearly lost my shit right there in my car."

  "What did you do?" someone asks.

  "I'd already contacted the principle and teachers and told them about the protection order and that Andy wasn't allowed to be anywhere near the kids or me. They told him if he didn't leave, they'd call the police. Should've seen the look on his face. He believes he's so damn strong when he thinks no one knows who he is or what he does. But he couldn't risk being arrested again. Prison time."

  "That's great that the system is working for you, Faye. That's what we like to hear."

  "Took them long enough," Faye mutters.

  Another round of nods and uh-huhs.

  "Thanks for sharing, Faye. Anyone else?"

  Everyone exchanges glances. And then another woman volunteers.

  "I'm Parker."

  This time I join in the chorus of "Hi Parker."

  "I can't say that today is any worse than the rest of the days I have. I'm struggling. Last week was actually a good one for us. Dominic was being so sweet, attentive. Brought me flowers home after work. Made me breakfast in bed. He didn't hit me. Didn't call me a bitch or a cunt. He was perfect. And then… it's like he turned into a different man. Every day this week something I said or did set him off. Burnt dinner. Broken vase. Makeup not put on right. It's like I can't win and I'm so tired. I'm tired of wondering which Dominic I'm going to get. But I love him. I just can't leave him, you know?"

  Her words hit me deep down in the gut. In a place that makes tears well up in my eyes. She might as well have been reciting a week in my life. I feel her struggle so intensely, I want to wrap her up and hold her close to me. See if our hearts are beating as one.

  "You might love him, but he doesn't love you, honey," Kenya says, cutting through the silence of the room.

  "Kenya. You know the rules. We're here to be supportive, not tell the other person what they should feel," Emily says.

  "I am supportive. I'm trying to make her see that she deserves a better kind of love," Kenya says back.

  Parker's lip quivers. "I know you're right, Kenya. I know, but it's hard. I can't see myself living without him."

  I don't know what comes over me. "It gets easier."

  Every eye turns toward me.

  "Living without him, I mean. It's not easy. But every day that he's not in your life gets a fraction easier. Remember how much easier it became to get used to the pain? It's kind of like that. Except reversed."

  No one speaks. Not even Emily and I don't know if I've overstepped boundaries or if anything I've said actually helps Parker. Hell, I don't even know where it came from. These words.

  I guess maybe I'm starting to believe them.

  "How long have you been without him?" Parker asks.

  I don't have to think about it. "Nine months."

  "How'd you find the courage to leave?" she whispers.

  I swallow, even though my throat is raw and tight. "I didn't. The night I was supposed to die, I shot him."

  Gasps. Some of the women seem to make the connection now. Kenya smiles. Emily looks slightly concerned.

  "You're Tawny Brooks," Parker says.

  I nod.

  "I heard —"

  "I'm gonna step in for a second," Emily interrupts. "This is a unique position I haven't had to be in. But I feel the need to say this upfront before we talk anymore about Tawny and her situation. Please don't get any ideas in your head about killing your abusers. We are a support group committed to ending violence. Unless you are in a life-threatening situation, please do not resort to violence to end the cycle. There are other ways. Okay, I'm done with the PSA. Parker, if it's okay, I'm going to ask that Tawny shares her story, now."

  Parker nods and my throat seems to swell shut in seconds. Share my story? Didn't I just do that? What more do I have to say?

  When I don't talk, Emily speaks up. "Tawny, we're all very interested in hearing about you and your story. I know it's an uncomfortable thing to do, but we're all here to support you."

  I wipe the perspiration from my forehead and stand up, the ground slightly wobbly beneath me. Shit, I don't know if I can do this.

  Yes, you can. Your voice deserves to be heard.

  Damn you Carla and your voice of reason.

  I clear my throat. "I'm Tawny Brooks and yes, I killed my husband. It wasn't planned. I didn't want to shoot him and honestly… I'm not sure that I could do it again if I went back in time. I lived with his abuse for ten years and the night I told him I was pregnant for the fourth time, he killed the baby by punching and kicking me in the stomach. He choked me. Told me he was going to kill me. That was the last time I was going to let him touch me. The next morning I made a plan to leave. Packed my suitcase and then he came home early. We struggled and I picked up the gun… and shot him."

  I say it all so fast, I have to catch my breath at the end. The room sort of spins around me and I sit down. Put my head in my hands. I think I'm having a panic attack. Within seconds, there's hands on my back, clapping and voices. "Is she okay?" "Tawny?"

  I inhale several long, sharp breaths and look up. My vision is blurred by the tears streaming down my face.

  "I'm okay," I say.

  "That took a lot of courage to tell us that," Emily says.

  "You're an inspiration," someone else yells.

  I've only told this story to Carla before. It feels strangely liberating to tell it now though. Like setting the truth free gives me strength.

  "I don't feel like one," I say.

  "We all fight personal battles, but your strength to persevere is most definitely inspiring, Tawny," Emily says. "I'd like to hear someone else share their story now."

  Faye's courage to stand up and share started a trend. Woman after woman stand up and share their story. And with every one, my heart grows heavy.

  I haven't been alone in my struggles this entire time.

  Carla was right. If there's anyone that understands what I'm going through - it's these women.

  June - 2009

  I don't think I've ever had a night where I curled up on the couch with a glass of wine and a box of chocolates like I'm doing tonight. There was no such thing as "alone time" before Carter died. There was only us time. But now… the abundance of alone time shifts every day. There are moments I wake up to the silence, breathe in deeply and know I'm safe. At least as safe as I've ever been. But there are days, hours, minutes that the silence is excruciating. It's terror filled and cautionary and it's so fucking loud. How can silence be so loud? But it is.

  The living room speaks in tongues of Carter. The fire place spits flames and all I see is his face. Hear his voice. He's in the bathroom when the shower runs. In the kitchen opening a beer. I see him everywhere.

  And the thing is - I miss him. I crave his presence in those moments of silence. I go back to the beginning when things were so right and I try to retrace where everything went wrong. Carla has told me how destructive this is, but I can
't help it. I try to find the exact minute where we crossed that line - the one that took us down the path that lead us here. No matter how many times I try to figure it out though, I'm left empty handed. I'm left wondering what I could have done better. I try to imagine how much stronger I could have been to prevent his angry fists.

  The truth is - this is how it was always going to end. Some version of this. One of us ending up alone. It was always going to be either him or me. It was our destiny.

  We've talked about it in group - how outsiders don't realize that the people we were, the people we are and the people we want to be are all so different. I don't think Carter wanted to be who he was either. I know that he tried to fight it. In the sweet kisses and the loving embraces - he wasn't that man. The one that hurt me. He was just Carter.

  And I miss that part of him so much it weighs me down until I'm left questioning if I made the biggest mistake of my life.

  I pass by our bedroom every time I go to the bathroom and I haven't opened it since coming back to this house, but tonight, there's some part of me that thinks it's time. Maybe it's the wine. Maybe it's all the thinking or maybe it's just that the longing I feel for him can only be satiated by being in the room I imagine his presence stays the most. The scene of the crime.

  The light flickers when I turn it on. The room is awash in 60 watt light and it has never looked more different and yet… it's all the same. The bed and duvet look untouched as if they've never been slept in. The blinds, though - they look brighter, whiter, less dingy than I remember.

  The closet doors are shut and I open them and it's like stepping back in time. His shirts hang up right to left, in perfect order as he liked. Brown plaid. Grey button down. Navy vest. They're all there, every bit as Carter-ish as I could have imagined them. I reach up and touch them, squeeze the fabric between my fingers.

  It even feels like him. What I remember of him. The brush of fabric when he came home from a long day at work. The way it became worn and faded with every wash.

  No one tells you what it's like to see clothes that became part of your every day and then realize the person that wore them can't anymore. They'll never button up a shirt again. Tie a pair of shoes.

  Carter won't ever pull on his navy vest because he's dead and I killed him.

  And suddenly I'm furious. That I have a closet full of his clothes he can't wear. That I have to look at them right now and know eventually, I have to do something with them.

  "Ahhh!" I scream tearing one off the hanger. I rip the next one down. And the next one. I am a monster set on destruction and I pull every goddamn shirt down until every piece of clothing that once belongs to him lies on a heap on the floor.

  The closet is now bare except for a few things of mine Rose never moved to the other room. His favorite dress of mine. It swings slightly in the wake of my tsunami like movements. I hate that dress. Everything about that dress is not me. I run to the kitchen and grab the pair of scissors from the drawer.

  I stab at it, ripping stitches and holes into the fabric and then I shred it. I destroy it until it resembles nothing more than fraying wool and cotton.

  I choke down a sob. What did I just do? I hated that dress, but Carter loved it. It was a piece of him I can never have back.

  It's time to move on, Tawny. Let it go. Let. Me. Go.

  I hear him like that every now and again. Instead of being afraid of it like before, I relish the times he comes to me.

  "I can't let go," I whisper. "There's too much of you everywhere. I miss you."

  He doesn't answer me back. That's how it is sometimes. When I want him there, he never is.

  Picking up the shredded pieces, I carry them to the bathroom. It too, remains untouched. Even the trash. The blue pregnancy stick lays on top of the heap and I shouldn't touch it. I shouldn't even be in here, but I grab it.

  Two pink lines. Still. After all this time.

  I hurl it back into the trash. I didn't just lose Carter last year. I lost my baby. I lost myself.

  No one seems to know how hard it is to grieve for three instead of one. The shredded dress goes on top of the test, hiding it. Carter's right. It's time to let go.

  When I shut off the bathroom light, I notice the ceiling fan spinning at high speed. Little speckles of dust fly off and float in the air before falling to the carpet.

  I look at the spot. The one I never thought I'd look at again. The one place I've avoided to look at until now.

  If I were innocent, I might not notice anything different but there's a pink tinge I can't miss. It's stained in a way that brings back that day in a flash.

  Carter standing there, his eyes full of rage. The bullet ripping through skin, skull and embedding into the wall. Carter face down.

  Oh God.

  It all comes back so sharply, I'm brought to my knees. I close my eyes and lay down on the carpet, my fingers running across the now pinkish-cream fibers.

  "I hate you," I say aloud. "I hate you for making me love you. I hate you for making me kill you. I hate you for ruining my life."

  I'm sorry.

  "You don't get to apologize," I scream. "You don't get to feel sorry after what you put us through. What you did to our baby."

  You need to forgive me. So you can move on.

  I pound my fists against the carpet as tears fall to my knuckles. "I don't think I'll ever forgive you, Carter. Ever."

  You will. You have to. It's the only way.

  I don't want to believe him. Because hating him, blaming him is so much easier than accepting what happened.

  Forgiving him means forgiving myself and I'm not ready to do that. Not yet.

  August - 2009

  Carter's been gone a year and it's taken almost that entire time to find myself among the broken pieces he left behind. One year of nightmares, blame and guilt and wishing I could join him in whatever afterlife he's living in. A year of more tears than I ever cried when he was alive. A year of Carla.

  A year of breakdowns and setbacks and missing him. Hating him. Loving him.

  "You have quite the intense look going on, Tawny. What are you thinking about?"

  I look up at her. "That time has gone by both incredibly fast and slow. I can't believe it's already been a year and… I'm surviving."

  She chuckles. Carla hardly laughs. "As I said you would. You've done an incredible job of healing. You're not where I'd like you to be yet, but your progression is really something. You should be proud of yourself."

  I shrug. "There are some days I don't feel any differently than I did the day after Carter died. And then there are days when I feel like… there's this whole big wide world waiting for me. And if I don't hurry up, it's going to pass me by."

  She nods. "Every day you're getting stronger, but not all of them will be easy ones, that you are right about. And yes, the world is big and wide and you have a lot of living to do in it. It won't pass you by unless you let it."

  She's so wise and deep that it's annoying sometimes.

  "And you just got a job at a bakery? Is that going well?"

  What job? Somedays it feels more like I'm getting paid to play with dough and fondant and raspberry filling.

  "It's great. I didn't know that I could get paid to do something I enjoy so much. Everyone always seems to complain about their jobs or careers, but I don't think I have anything to complain about."

  She smiles. "Ah, that's something many people are not fortunate to have. Also, perspective. You haven't had many opportunities in your life to work for your own money. Or to discover the things you're good at. It makes sense that you feel so strongly toward this. I'm glad. It's one less thing for you to worry about."

  It is strange to have money of my own but it's also strange to have bills come due. I couldn't handle that stuff the first few months after Carter was gone. He always handled the bills and payments. I didn't even have access to the bank account. When I talked to the bank, I was stunned to find out he had several thousand dollars saved. Enough to
last me through my melt-down. Rose handled the finances there for a while for me.

  But now, it's time for me to be on my own. Learn how to live in the real world without any one else helping.

  "The thing is, this job doesn't pay enough to cover all my bills," I say. "I'm worried about being able to afford everything, now that the savings is gone."

  She grabs her trusty steno pad and writes something down. "And how do you think you'll handle that?"

  I shrug. "I have no idea. That's why I'm here, right? To get this shit figured out?"

  She tsks. "You need to be thinking differently now, Tawny. You don't have Carter to lean on for everything. You have to take responsibility for the things going on in your life. If you only get a certain amount of income coming in and it's not enough to cover the bills you will need to do what?"

  "Get rid of something?"

  She smiles, again. "Bingo. So what's your biggest expense right now?"

  "The house."

  "So what do you think about selling it?"

  I choke on the words wanting to come out. But I let the question stew in my head for another minute. "Who's going to buy a house where a murder took place?"

  "Guess you'll find out, won't you?"

  * * *

  There's a flurry of activity when I get to support group. I set my purse by my chair and insert myself into the group. It's an act that has become natural to me in the last few months. Some new part of me I never knew existed. The only Tawny I've ever known would never invite herself into a conversation like this. At least not happily.

  "What's going on?" I ask.

  Kenya turns around, her smile wide. "Parker left her husband. Emily just got the call."

  "That's great. Where is she?"

  "Oh, she won't be coming back here. She was shuffled to a safe house and from there who knows where she'll go. It's part of the program."

  What program?

  "Oh right, you probably don't know about that. Think Underground Railroad except for domestic abuse victims. They get shuffled off in the middle of the night by handlers, moved place to place. They even get new identities."