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“It’s going to snow like mad again,” Sarah groaned glimpsing the digital clock on the car dash. It glowed an orange eleven o’clock that December night. “Boy he sure picked one hell of a night to pull this again,” she whispered to herself peering into the starless sky.
Knuckles white bone through flesh, she gripped the steering wheel. As the car sped along, she listened to the lyrical groan of the wipers seeming to keep beat with the soft hum of the engine. Relaxing little by little, her gaze wandered as she began to notice the snow-capped trees drifting by; sheltering the houses and businesses dark for the night. Slowly she exhaled a sigh of relief; realizing that she was getting farther and farther away. Away from the scene where it had taken place. Away from the man who took enjoyment, it appeared, in destroying her life.
The argument had started over nothing it seemed; it was difficult to recall what set it off now. Then it progressed, as usual, so quickly. He was screaming brutal accusations– she was a whore. But in truth she hadn’t left the house without him in more than two months. She couldn’t. She had forgotten how to face the world, how to converse with strangers. Besides, she wasn’t good enough. People didn’t like her. He had told her so for years.
She adjusted the rear-view mirror and switched on the interior light. In the soft illumination she watched her daughter, Sam, sleep for a moment or two. The child rested so peacefully Sarah couldn’t help smiling at her tranquil, angelic face. Curls of rose gold hair were untidily draped along side the child’s small nose. A casual observer would never have guessed she had witnessed a horrific act of violence less than an hour ago.
Sarah had always accepted his insults, allowing them to roll over her, through her. But not tonight, tonight something was different, tonight something inside her snapped. She couldn’t take his cruelty anymore. She was finished being a receptacle for his abuse. She was furious and for the first time she fought back. She began screaming as well, her face contorted with years of internalized battering. His voice became fierce, his green eyes flashed a warning; those eyes that once engendered trust. “If you don’t shut your fucking mouth I’ll smash your face in,” he threatened. She knew he meant what he said, but she was beyond caring; she had lost control. The room was spinning, her adrenalin rushed. She held onto the wicker chair beneath her for balance. “If you lay a hand on me, I’ll make sure you go to jail,” she warned.
She saw it coming then. She buried her face in her arms...She couldn’t bear to be hit in the face. Her mind reeled in sudden panic....CRACK....a blow to the head. She felt only wet tears soak her arms and face; pasting her long dark blonde hair to her eye, across her cheek. “I’m sorry,” she begged....CRACK....then she heard noise in the distance, but was too confused to comprehend what it was: the T.V., his yelling, humming in her head, maybe everything....CRACK.....she fell off the chair and down onto the thick plush carpet, arms over her head shielding herself from the onslaught of blows. “Please stop hitting me,” she pleaded. Did he hear me? Did I even make a sound? She wondered now. It stopped. She scrambled to her hands and knees. She crawled through the hallway; her knees inching over an old coffee stain, her grasping fingers separating the carpet nap as she half-pulled herself along into the tiny bedroom and up onto their bed.
Her face slid reluctantly over the ridges in her grandmother’s quilt, its fabric mopping her tears as she pulled her body toward the head of the bed. She had just washed the quilt that afternoon; looking forward to climbing into a freshly made bed. Inhaling the scent of detergent, she buried her face into its crisp material. She heard the noise again and realized it was crying; hysterical crying. Her confusion lessening, she recognized the sound as Samantha. Her little girl had been watching everything. But she couldn’t go to Sam. She couldn’t stand. She couldn’t lift her head. It throbbed so badly she thought she might pass out. She could taste the sickening salt of blood on her lip.
“I could kill you,” she heard him say from the doorway; “there would be nothing to it. No one would care.” He was in the bedroom with her now; over her, entwining his fingers in her mousy hair. He pressed his knee into her back as he kneeled on the bed behind her. The weight of his body bearing down on hers insisted her compliance. His hands resting in front of her face; their every detail now fixed eternally in her mind’s eye: knuckles calloused from years of hard labor, a nail still cracked down the middle from an old work injury, the cuticles long and some torn, dirt under his nails, a pinky splayed oddly to the side having improperly healed since he didn’t believe in health care or doctors. Seeing a doctor was a sign of weakness.
Please not again, she prayed. “Please, David, I’m sorry.” “I should rip your fucking head off. Don’t make another sound,” his breath, warm and damp, the tinny stale smell of old beer wafted against her cheek. There she lay, silent and still, praying wordlessly for him to get up, to get off, to leave. Sam was still screaming. She knew she couldn’t to go to her. She knew Sam’s crying was evidence of his insanity. Comforting Sam would be seen as an accusation. Sarah continued to lay quiet; frozen like the old childhood game, Freeze Tag, only tonight no touch could unfreeze her and any movement might provoke another raging attack.
She replayed the scene over and over as she drove toward safety. She wondered if their escape would be successful. If Sam would be okay. If she’d be able to build a new life. She had no job, no money – she was mom to a small child with nowhere to live. As she pulled onto the long gravelly drive of the safe house, she glanced at the clock one last time; it was eleven thirty-three.
The next morning couldn’t come quick enough. Finally the sun broke through the darkness. It hadn’t been a dream, just another waking nightmare. Sarah’s body ached, her hands shook, and her head felt thick, like it was ten pounds too heavy. Yet she was ready to go on, to go forward, and to get back onto the road in their journey toward freedom.
She sat up, tried to focus on the strange objects in the strange room around them. Children’s toys, children’s belongings; a child’s room in a child’s home. Things she realized Sam didn’t have any more. Things they never truly had at all. Now they owned nothing except what Sarah was able to pack quickly into trash bags before they left.
Their home was to be a series of motel rooms far away from everything and everyone they knew; and if they were lucky they’d be eligible for some space in a transitional shelter the safe house owner spoke of.
She leaned over and kissed a sleeping Sam. Sam opened her eyes, looked into hers and smiled. Sarah had to believe that they would survive — alone together.
