The rest of the story—the true parts, that my husband abused me for years and that my children and I have been bouncing from emergency shelter to emergency shelter for months now; the almost true parts, that we’ve got nowhere else to go; and the lies, that my husband was killed in a construction accident—she accepts without question. Even with her training, training that surely included careful admonitions not to buy into the stereotypes of victims of domestic violence as being poor, powerless, and poorly educated—in other words, not like people this woman lives next door to, not people from nice suburban neighborhoods, or even wealthy ones, with neatly trimmed hedges and late-model SUV’s in the driveway—part of her still finds it easier to accept my story precisely because it feeds into the stereotype: poor teenage girl marries a boozing, battering, blue-collar boy she thought would be her salvation and didn’t realize what she was getting into before it was too late. She finds it easy to believe because it’s almost true and because she wants to believe it. The whole truth would hit too close to home, send her to the phones and files to verify my background, but this? It doesn’t even cross her mind to check my facts. I can tell.
She smiles and gets up from her desk, excuses herself for a moment and promises to be right back.
Maybe, if I wanted to, I could stay here for a while. This seems like a nice town, filled with nice people like the woman who’s the intake counselor. She’s just a couple of years younger than me. If I lived here, maybe we’d be friends, go to the movies or shopping. Do the things that girlfriends do. It would be nice to have a real friend, someone who wouldn’t back away even if they knew the truth about me, to stay here for a long time, to live here, maybe forever.
No, I remind myself. That can’t be.
If she knew the true me, she would back away. And we can’t stay here. Not forever and not for long. Even if I’m right and the counselor never checks out my story, or if I’m wrong and she eventually does, it doesn’t make any difference. We’ll be gone before the truth comes out. We have to.
If we stay too long in one place, he’s bound to find us. It isn’t safe to stand still. But if I’m careful. Then maybe? For a while? I’m so tired of always looking over my shoulder, of carrying my life and my children’s lives stuffed into a suitcase constructed of half-truths, and only as large as can be fit into the trunk of my Toyota.
The office has plush carpets and well-oiled hinges on the oak doors. I’m lost in my thoughts and don’t hear the counselor when she comes back in the room.
“Mrs. Peterman? Ivy? Are you all right?”
The sound of her voice startles me, jars me back into the moment, into the quiet room with the soothing yellow walls, high ceilings, and thick, dark wooden molding around the window frames. An elegant room. More like the conference room in a fancy hotel than a counseling office in a women’s shelter.
“Yes,” I smile apologetically. “I just lost my train of thought. Guess I’m tired.”
The counselor tips her head to one side, murmurs sympathetically. “I can imagine you are. Don’t worry about it. We’re almost done here.” She puts the clipboard down on her desk and sits down again. “Then we’ll get you and the children something to eat and see you settled in for the night.”
“You can take us? Tonight?”
My surprise and pleasure is genuine. Most of the shelters we’ve been to in these last weeks and months have been packed and we had to wait for a day or two or five, living in the car while waiting for a space to open up. I can’t quite believe what she’s saying.
“You’ve got a room open in the shelter right now?”
She nods, pleased that I am so pleased. She has gone into this line of work because she wants to help and she beams when she tells me the truly amazing news, like she’s handing me a wonderful and unexpected gift, and it’s true; she is.
“Even better than that. I just talked to our Assistant Director. We have an opening in the Stanton Center. Not tonight, but soon.”
I look questions at her and she goes on to explain. “The Stanton Center is an apartment building for women and children who have been victims of domestic violence, the home of our transitional housing program. You can stay there for up to two years while you’re getting back on your feet. Initially, you can live there rent free, but we’ll encourage you to find a job as soon as possible and then we’ll charge modest rent that’s a percentage of your earnings. While you’re there, we can offer you vocational, financial, and psychological counseling, and child care.” She grins, waiting for me to say something, but it takes me a moment.
“Really? A real apartment?” Tears fill my eyes. I can’t stop them.
She nods. “A real apartment. There’s a nice community room where we hold special meetings and programs for the residents and a playground with a swing set and slide for the children.
“It’s in a secret location, no sign in front, and a good security system so residents feel safe. Of course, since you’re a widow, you don’t have to worry about that so much, but the other residents have fled violent relationships and we do everything possible to make sure their abusers can’t find them. It’s like a safe house.”
I blink hard, willing back the tears, trying to stay composed, not to let her see the effect those words have on me—safe house. It has been so long since I even dreamed of such things.
“So?” She asks cheerily, already certain of my response. “What do you say? Would you like the apartment?”
“Yes,” I whisper. “I would. Thank you.”
“Good!” She stands up and nods, indicating that I should follow her. “You’re tired. I’ll come over and finish the paperwork tomorrow, after you’ve had a chance to settle in a bit.”
She opens the door and leads me through the three right turns of the corridor that will lead us to the playroom that backs up her counseling office, talking as she does. I’m still in shock, able to offer only short responses to her commentary.
“Of course, you’re not required to accept any of the counseling services we offer to residents, but I do urge you to take advantage of them as much as possible—even the group counseling sessions. Your abuser can’t hurt you anymore, but even so, the effects of domestic violence can stay with you long after the abuse ends. The counseling sessions can help you work though that and I think you’ll appreciate the chance to develop relationships with women who’ve dealt with similar problems.”
“Yes. I’m sure you’re right,” I say, knowing that I’ll never go to even one of those group sessions. I’m not going to get close to those women. I’m not going to get close to anyone.
“Good.” She looks back over her shoulder, pleased that I agree. She is a good person. I feel bad for deceiving her.
We have arrived at the playroom. She puts her hand on the knob and turns to me before opening the door. “You must be on a lucky streak.”
If I am, it would be the first time in a long time.
But, then again, this kind, well-meaning woman just told me she has a place available for us. A safe house. Tonight. Now.
Somewhere in this beautiful little town where there is room for us.
Maybe she is right. Maybe, at last, my luck is changing.
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
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Copyright © 2008 by Marie Bostwick Skinner
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ISBN: 0-7582-3704-9
Table of Contents
With Gratitude
Prologue
1 Evelyn Dixon
2 Evelyn Dixon
3 Abigail Burgess Wynne
4 Abigail Burgess Wynne
5 Evelyn Dixon
6 Evelyn Dixon
7 Abigail Burgess
Wynne
8 Evelyn Dixon
9 Evelyn Dixon
10 Abigail Burgess Wynne
11 Evelyn Dixon
12 Abigail Burgess Wynne
13 Abigail Burgess Wynne
14 Evelyn Dixon
15 Abigail Burgess Wynne
16 Evelyn Dixon
17 Evelyn Dixon
18 Abigail Burgess Wynne
19 Evelyn Dixon
20 Abigail Burgess Wynne
21 Evelyn Dixon
22 Abigail Burgess Wynne
23 Evelyn Dixon
24 Abigail Burgess Wynne
25 Evelyn Dixon
26 Abigail Burgess Wynne
27 Evelyn Dixon
28 Abigail Burgess Wynne
29 Evelyn Dixon
30 Abigail Burgess Wynne
31 Evelyn Dixon
32 Abigail Burgess Wynne
33 Evelyn Dixon
34 Abigail Burgess Wynne
35 Evelyn Dixon
36 Evelyn Dixon
Author’s Note
Discussion Questions
A Single Thread (Cobbled Court) Page 33