by Malcom, Anne
Eliza and Karen were on my other side, newly married and trying to start their own business. They moved in just after Nathan and I did and were my closest friends. Our family.
They were a support system.
I had them around me.
But I had Robert in my freaking house.
I turned, leaving the front door open. I needed it open, I needed the light from the outside world, from my current world, to seep in as my previous life dripped darkness all over my handmade rug.
Robert was looking around the living room in disgust.
It was an open plan, a patchwork sofa to the right of the front door, covered in pillows and throws. I usually fell asleep there with something stupid playing on the TV, which was pretty ancient, especially compared to Eliza and Karen’s ‘Smart TV’ we watched Game of Thrones on. I didn’t have cable. But I had a bulging shelf of books to the right of the TV. I had three different books on the giant oak chest I used as a coffee table. There was a rocking chair beside the sofa, covered with laundry that I used to rock Nathan in.
To the left of the door was a small round dining table that I’d found at a flea market, sanded down, restored and painted. Same with the chairs, and a few other bits of furniture around the house.
Karen told me I should start a business selling it because it was ‘dope’. But I didn’t have time for things. I had a kid and a job. And laundry.
There was a bowl of crystals in the middle of the dining room table. A salt lamp on a side table near the kitchen. A framed poster of the lunar cycle on the wall Robert was scowling at.
I wasn’t sure if he was scowling at the poster or the chipped paint on the walls.
“You need to leave,” I said, my voice small, but strong.
He snapped his eyes to me, running them over my body in a way that made me feel ill. It was a balmy day and we didn’t have AC, only a laboring fan that was usually in Nathan’s room.
I was wearing short yellow shorts with a rainbow on the right side and a matching yellow tank with an illustration of a sun. I wasn’t wearing a bra. I didn’t normally need to since I naturally had small boobs. They’d grown when I was pregnant and breastfeeding but somehow had reverted back to their small, perky state. Granted, they were a lot less perky than before, and covered in stretch marks, but still not bad.
The rest of my body had bounced back at first because Robert ensured I had an exercise schedule weeks after having Nathan and he monitored my diet because he didn’t want a ‘chubby wife’.
After we left, I didn’t diet out of need, only necessity. At the start, I barely had enough money to feed both Nathan and myself. It went without saying that if it was a choice between us both, I’d go hungry. I’d never failed to feed my son, even when I’d done so for myself. Now we had a bit more money so our pantry was stocked with as much organic produce as I could afford—and we had a vegetable garden in our tiny back yard—and cupboards full of off-brand food, but I just didn’t have time to eat.
So my natural curves were nonexistent.
I hated that Robert’s eyes were on so much of my exposed skin.
“Robert,” I snapped, finding the anger that should have been at the surface since I’d opened the door. “You need to leave. You cannot be here.”
I didn’t want to know why he was in California and not the state he’d been determined for us to live, and die in. It would be easier for him to run for office with his father’s help and connections in the state.
Something moved in his face with my words. My tone. The strength in it. He despised it, I could tell. Robert only liked women weak, agreeable, beaten down.
The fury in his eyes sparked an old fear, and emotional flinch that was muscle memory.
I hated myself for the fact I did actually flinch as he moved toward me, the footfalls of his boots echoing in my ringing ears.
The hit that I was expecting didn’t come.
Not until he slammed the door at least.
He didn’t want an audience.
He made sure that no one saw the bruises, evidence of his abuse. Made sure that he seemed like the doting husband, father, and reputable detective on the surface.
Once the door was closed, he turned on me, got in my space, my entire body was held taut, shaking with his proximity. All the strength I thought I’d built up over the years tore like the flimsy film that it was.
“I cannot be here?” he whispered. He never yelled. In all the times he’d raised his fists to me, he’d never raised his voice. But those whispered threats, insults, warnings, they made my skin bleed. “I am your husband,” he hissed, leaning in so I couldn’t escape his face taking up my vision.
He was close.
Too close, taking up my space, my breathing room.
“I am allowed to be wherever I want to be. Where my wife is raising our child in fucking squalor,” he said, gazing around the room in distaste.
I found my backbone with the mention of my son. I moved around him, away from him so I was standing in the middle of the room. I eyed my cell phone at the breakfast bar. I doubted I’d be able to dial for help if things went bad—and they always went bad when Robert had this look in his eye—but I could yell for help. I could fight. I would fight.
“Squalor?” I repeated, looking around my living room. Sure the paint was chipped, the furniture was second hand, the carpet was faded and the kitchen appliances were almost older than I was. But the pantry was stocked. Everything was wiped clean to the point of obsession—a takeaway from my marriage when I wasn’t allowed to leave a speck of dust anywhere—the pile of laundry the only thing messy. It was cluttered, sure. With my things and Nathan’s toys. But it was so far from squalor it was laughable. I knew squalor. I grew up in it.
Squalor was cigarette burns in battered and filthy furniture. It was roaches crawling on the floor. It was an empty fridge. A rotting fruit bowl. A one-bedroom trailer housing three people.
It was beer bottles, empty and full within reaching distance of children. Along with a crack pipe.
It was filthy clothes that were two sizes too small.
My home was not that.
“This is a home,” I said, forcing calm into my voice. “My home. Not one where I’m slapped for forgetting to vacuum a room. Or have my hair pulled for using the wrong fabric softener. Or being punched in the face for forgetting that you hate peas and putting them in your dinner. That isn’t a home. That’s a prison. Which you need to go back to. Right now.”
I clenched my fists at my sides, my entire body shaking. I forced myself to maintain eye contact with Robert.
I enraged him. I could see that. It both terrified me and pleased me. Never had I stood up to him. Not even when I left, I’d stolen away in the night, when he was out drinking, or cheating on me.
He’d never seen this version of me.
It shocked him a little.
But only a little.
“You had everything,” he snapped. “A home you never could’ve dreamed of when you were in the poverty I pulled you out of—”
“I’m not speaking about this,” I cut him off, the memories too close. “I’m not speaking to you. Unless you’re here to finally sign the divorce papers, I have nothing to say to you.”
He laughed. It was unexpected and entirely unpleasant. It filled my beautiful, warm home and immediately turned it colder than any kind of AC.
“Divorce?” he said, still chuckling. “I didn’t come to divorce you, despite the fact you’ve entirely let yourself go since we’ve been apart. That’s easy to fix, though. No, I didn’t come to sign anything. I’ve come to get my wife and son back.”
I blacked out for a moment at his words. Pure, naked panic blinded me with the certainty and confidence at his words. Like Nathan and I were something he could just take. Own.
Hurt.
It was the thought of him laying a hand on my beautiful, kind, and special son that had me lucid.
“Never,” I hissed, eyeing him, my eyes watering
. “Never will you get back something that you threw away in the first place. With your violence. With your vile words. We were never yours. And we never will be again.”
That fury came back as a muscle in his jaw ticked. Then he smiled, slowly as if he were realizing something.
Then he strode calmly over to me.
I stood my ground. I didn’t flinch this time.
And this time he did hit me.
Hard.
I tumbled back into the breakfast bar that separated the kitchen and the living room.
White pain scored over my pain and my stomach lurched with the intensity. The memory of pain is a funny thing. Like childbirth, at the time it is so excruciating you’re sure it’ll be seared in your memory, into your bones, something you’ll never forget. Something that will ensure you never do anything as stupid as deciding to grow human life ever again.
But pain fades. Even the worst kind. Especially when the worst kind is replaced by the most beautiful miracle in the world.
Even when it isn’t replaced with anything, it fades away. Your body doesn’t let you hold onto it. Not when you’re moving on.
So I was shocked with the pain at being punched in the face. Even though it had happened many times before, I’d become used to it years ago, it felt like it was the first time. And maybe it was. Because I wasn’t the same woman who used to be a punching bag.
I was a new woman.
But the same man was battering me.
Boots filled my blurred and tear-filled vision and more white pain exploded in my scalp as he grabbed a handful of my hair and yanked my head up to meet his eyes.
When I’d lived with him, I’d kept it short for this precise reason, less of it for him to yank. Now I was safe, I grew it long, past my bra strap. I liked it long. I liked to do all sorts of different styles, curl, straighten, braid. But I liked my thick, natural waves falling down my back too.
Now, I hated them.
“You don’t talk to me like that, trailer trash,” he whispered. “You’ve got some things to learn. To remember.”
The promise was rancid in the air, and I almost vomited from the reality behind it. My worst fears come to life.
He continued to stare at me with a cruel and evil version of my son’s eyes, taunting me with the power he thought he was entitled to over me.
My cheek was hot, the skin already tight and stretching from the swelling.
I was aware that Nathan could be coming home any minute. Coming home to see his mother on the floor with a black eye and the father he didn’t recognize holding her by the hair.
A memory I promised myself he would never have.
A trauma that would never touch him.
I had to get him out of here.
I had to fight.
Right when I was about to, Robert let me go, I fell onto my hands.
My wrists buckled with the impact.
Robert didn’t say a word, he didn’t need to, violence always spoke louder than words. He just turned and walked out.
I’d lain on the floor for exactly five seconds.
That’s all I let myself have.
Five seconds of pity. Fear. Tears.
Because five seconds was all I could spare.
Then I got up.
I tended to my face the best I could.
Looked up a reputable family lawyer.
Called to make an appointment for Friday, wincing at the initial cost.
Then I took a photo of my bruised face. I knew I needed it. The evidence. If it would come to that. I prayed it wouldn’t. I really prayed that Robert had come here today to see if he could still control me, to see if I’d immediately go running back to him. And that I’d never see him again.
But I couldn’t bet my life, my son’s life on a prayer.
So I prepared to fight.
I considered running too.
It was an option. A tempting one. The smartest one.
But I had a home here. I had friends. A job that wasn’t great, but bosses and co-workers that were. Nathan had just started school. Making friends. I was friends with a couple of moms who helped with the school run, playdates, and birthday parties.
I wouldn’t run.
When Nathan came home, the bruise on my face was only beginning to form, and he was on a high from all the fun he had, so somehow I managed to get him in the bath and into bed without noticing.
I knew the next day would be a different story, when the skin swelled more, when bruising took over my face. There would be questions. From my kid. From Karen and Eliza. Everyone at work.
But that was tomorrow.
I’d figure it out then.
I went to bed sore, terrified, angry, but not without hope. I went to sleep thinking that whatever Robert threw at me, I’d fight. Because I had support. Because I was stronger now.
Or so I thought.
Chapter Two
“You want some kind of revenge?” the man demanded, jerking me back into the violent present.
“Revenge?” I repeated.
The man nodded to my eye. Even his nod was violent.
“No, I don’t care about revenge,” I said. “I care about my son.”
The man froze and this time the reaction was not small. “Your son?” he repeated.
“Yes,” I said, my voice strangely cold and calm much like this foyer. My yelling panic had receded in front of the man I knew it wouldn’t affect. Plus, it wouldn’t serve me right now. Wouldn’t serve Nathan.
“My five-year-old son that my estranged, abusive husband kidnapped today from his school and that the police won’t help me get back.” I paused as utter and complete silence spread over the room. “The police won’t help me because Robert, my ex, he’s a detective. He comes from a powerful family. With money.” I gritted my teeth. “I’m not powerful. I don’t have money. But I am a mother. I’m not the best, because sometimes I forget that he has a dress-up day at school, or I do his homework for him because I’m too tired from working ten hours to explain it to him, and sometimes I feed him boxed mac and cheese because he loves it and even though I know it’s full of bad things, it makes him happy.”
That memory of a smile in front of a bowl of mac and cheese almost brought me to my knees, but I kept speaking.
“I let him watch cartoons on Sundays and I probably let him stay up too late. But I’m a good mother. I don’t have any of the things that Robert has, but I will do anything to get my son back. And anything includes asking for help. Because I don’t know what else to do, except find someone who isn’t the police, who isn’t scared of my husband’s badge and his name, someone who will help me.” I sucked in a harsh breath and willed myself not to cry. “Will you help me?” I asked the menacing man.
I begged him.
He stared at me. Gaped might have been more of an apt description. Those harsh and cold features seemed frozen from my words.
I held my breath as he didn’t speak. My heart was in my throat with the very real fear that the man in front of me had seen too much, done too much to be touched by my story, my desperation. That he would just be like the countless others I’d tried to look to for help. That would turn his back on me.
I vowed then that if that happens, I would knock on every door I could, offer up everything I had in order to find someone who had the means to get my son back. And if I couldn’t find someone, I’d figure out any kind of way. I would figure out where he was staying, living now, and I’d go there if I needed to.
I’d have to physically fight him for my son. And I wasn’t afraid of doing so. I wasn’t afraid of any single blow. No amount of pain could reproduce what I was going through right now.
I couldn’t be sure that he wouldn’t kill me.
I would die for my son. In a second.
But I would not die knowing that my son would then be brought up by a monster pretending to be a man. A monster who would either lay his hands on my beautiful boy, or spew his toxic and violent morals onto my innocent an
d pure little human.
Neither of those options were acceptable.
I had to figure out a way to get my son back without dying.
I had a backup plan. If I had to.
I would go to wherever he was.
Not to fight.
To surrender.
I would go back there, back to the house of horrors, pretend I was going back to be the wife. I would abandon my home, my friends, all of it. I’d wear what he wanted, eat what he demanded, and take every hit he gave. If I could put my son to bed at night. Make him breakfast every morning. Listen to stories about his stuffed toy, Feebo, coming to life when I wasn’t watching. I would do that for as long as it took to find a gap in the bars. Then, again, I would take Nathan and slip through those bars and disappear again.
I’d make sure that I did it for good this time.
But that was my last choice. Because in however long it took for Robert to get complacent and give me a chance to escape, Nathan would be exposed to a life that was so different than his own it was sickening. A house that couldn’t be messy. That he couldn’t draw on the walls of his bedroom in. That he’d be afraid of spilling in. He’d see his mother with bruises. Maybe even see his father inflicting them.
That was worse than death for me.
That was me failing him as a mother.
So I was standing here begging a stranger for his help.
“We’ll help you,” a different voice said from behind me.
It wasn’t full of hostility. It was soft. Kind. Masculine still, but warm. The accent was slightly off, different. Pleasing.
The man in front of me jerked at the voice, but I turned to see the owner of it.
The man was standing at the entrance to the doors, having obviously entered at some point during my tirade and I hadn’t noticed. He was tall. Muscled. Beautiful, with skin a similar shade than mine, but deeper. He was covered in tattoos, dressed in clothes that didn’t suit the office at all, faded blue jeans, a plain white tee, and biker boots. He had kind eyes. He had eyes that wouldn’t harden themselves from my pain. That wouldn’t turn away.
