He looks as sad as I do when he sits on the other side of her bed. “Did you call 911?” He carefully picks her hand up and places it on his. I watch as he strokes it tenderly.
“I did. They should be here any minute now.” I stroke the hair away from Grace’s pale face as my tears continue to fall.
When I hear the sirens I say, “We need to call her daughter.”
He stands from the bed. “We’ll talk about that when everyone leaves.”
I stand in the corner of the bedroom as Tyler talks to the police and to the coroner. I don’t hear what they’re saying since I’m lost in my own sorrow. I didn’t know her long, but she touched my life in ways I’ll never forget. She was like an angel who came to me when I was lost. On one of my darkest days of my life, she was there to save me. I’ll never forget her. I just hope she knew how grateful I was to her. Did I ever tell her how thankful I was for everything she did for me, and for our friendship?
“We’ll give you a few minutes to say your goodbyes,” a man says.
“Say our goodbyes?” I ask in confusion.
Tyler leans in and says, “Grace donated her body to the university. Her wishes were she didn’t want a funeral or to be cremated. She wanted to help others learn about the human body and illnesses, and she felt this would be the best way to do it.”
“Illnesses?” I ask.
“I’m sorry, Amber, but Grace had terminal cancer.”
What? That can’t be right. She would have told me. Everyone leaves the room, and I walk over to where Grace lies peacefully on her white, cast-iron bed. Her body is covered to her chest with a handmade quilt probably made by her mother or grandmother.
I sit beside her and take her hand in mine.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were sick? I would have helped you. I would have made sure your daughter was here with you.”
I cry and tell her how blessed I was to have met her. I tell her how much she helped me and how much strength she gave me.
“Thank you for everything, Grace. I love you and I’ll never forget you.”
When I walk out of the room, Tyler hands me a letter. “Grace wanted you to have this.”
I watch as he leaves to say his goodbyes to Grace.
With shaky hands and a broken heart, I open the letter and read it through blurred vision.
My sweet Amber,
If you’re reading this, I must be in Heaven flying high with my loved ones who have passed on before me. Don’t worry about me; I’m finally at peace.
Do not be upset with me for not telling you of my ailments. I didn’t want you fussing over me. You have been a blessing in my life every day that I’ve known you.
I watched you grow and change every day since we met on the bus. Oh, how proud I am of your strength. You’re beautiful, strong, and so very smart. Don’t ever let anyone take that away from you. Stay true to yourself and always aim for the stars. The sky is the limit for you, my dear sweet friend.
Remember, if God brings you to it, he’ll see you through it.
I’ll be looking over you, Amber. If you ever doubt that, just look in the sky and the brightest star will be me.
Love you to the heavens, Grace. Xo
I reread the note over and over until Tyler enters the living room from Grace’s bedroom. We both watch with tear-filled eyes as they carefully remove Grace’s body from her home. Once she’s gone, that’s it. I’ll never see her again. There will be no place to visit or leave flowers. There will be no place to mourn her. It makes me sad to think that this is truly the final goodbye.
When everyone but Tyler leaves, I suddenly realize how empty the house feels without her. There’s a sadness in my heart that I know no amount of time will heal completely.
“Do you want some coffee?” he asks.
Sitting at the table, I think I answer him, but I can’t be sure. I watch in a fog as he measures the coffee and fills the water reservoir in the coffee pot. He sits across the table from me and opens his brief case. I watch through a blur as he lays papers out on the table.
“Grace had terminal liver cancer that metastasized to her other organs. She’s been in liver failure for the past several months.”
“Why didn’t she tell me?”
“She didn’t want to burden you.”
She could never be a burden. “Were you taking her to chemo in the mornings?”
“I was but I also took her to run errands or whatever she needed.”
“Have you called her daughter and grandson yet?”
“I hate to tell you this, but her only daughter and her unborn grandson died several years ago.”
I suddenly feel faint. “She goes and visits them. I met her on the bus when she was on her way back from seeing them.”
He says slowly and sadly, “She often went to the town where they’re buried and visits them at the cemetery. Grace has no living relatives.”
He must be mistaken. “Are you sure?”
“I am.”
I wipe the tears from my eyes. “How did they die?”
“Sadly, it was the result of domestic violence. Stephanie died at the hands of her husband. As a result, she also lost her unborn son, Jaxon.”
My heart hurts from hearing this. He stands to pour us coffee as I try to process the news. I was so focused on my own injuries and sadness that I didn’t notice Grace’s pain. She was so kind and giving to me. Why didn’t she tell me about her daughter? Why didn’t I pay more attention to Grace?
When he sits down, he places my coffee in front of me.
“Grace made me executor of her estate.”
Suddenly I remember I’m staying in her house and she’s gone. “Of course. I can pack my things and be out in an hour.”
“No, you don’t understand. She made it clear to me that she wanted you to stay here as long as you needed. Her first concern was your safety.”
My heart fills with gratitude. “Oh, Tyler. Thank you.” Tears flood my eyes with sadness and gratitude. “I don’t know what to say. Thank you just doesn’t seem like it’s enough.”
“There’s nothing to say.” He interlocks his fingers. “Once the house is empty, it’ll be donated to a domestic violence shelter.”
“She was so giving. I’m going to miss her.”
“You’re not the only one.”
I take a drink of my coffee. “How did you two meet?”
“I helped her through a very tough time when Stephanie died.”
“Were you her attorney or something?”
“I’m an advocate for victims of domestic abuse. I met her shortly after her daughter’s death.”
“I had no idea. She’s been through so much.”
“She was a very private person.”
Tyler stays with me and we spend the day reminiscing about Grace. It feels good to have someone to talk to about her. I can understand why she trusted him so much. When he leaves that night, I cry myself to sleep.
It didn’t seem right to not have a memorial service for Grace, so Tyler and I decide we would have a celebration of her life. We thought it would be a small celebration, but as word got out about her passing, mourners came to her home to show their respect. It seems that almost everyone in the community loved and respected her.
It’s been six months since Grace’s passing. I’ve learned a lot since my short time with her. I’ve decided to live my life with no regrets. I don’t look back at my past or the people who hurt me. I focus on me and making my future better.
Tyler and I became good friends, and we just recently started dating each other. Our relationship is developing slowly and he seems okay with it. I’m not sure if I’ll ever be able to trust or love another man again, but he’s willing to give me the space and time I need.
It only takes me a few weeks before I find a modest one-bedroom apartment. I work from home through the day and I volunteer at the local domestic violence shelter on the weekends.
I also start a blog about domestic violence where I
share my personal and private stories with others. I want people to know they’re not alone. In the blog, I suggest that people donate items and volunteer their time at their local shelter. I honestly feel that awareness is key, and if you want to make a difference, you have stand up against it. Of course, in order to do this, I had to heal and move on from my past that kept me captive.
# # #
No One Heard
By Bill Baber
My father tended to be pretty happy-go-lucky. At least he always had been. But I guess the strain of his job really began getting to him. He had grown quiet and withdrawn and his mood could change like the weather. The pressure at work caught up with him. He had climbed the corporate ladder, becoming the vice president of a customer service firm before a downturn in the economy put his job in jeopardy. More than once I heard him complain to my mother that he felt as if he were under a microscope.
Two nights before he hit her, the first thing he did when he arrived home from work was to go to the liquor cabinet and pour a tumbler half full of straight bourbon, without ice. Minutes later, he refilled his glass. When he went for a third, Mom spoke up, telling him his drinking was getting out of control, and if it didn’t stop, she would leave. That left me wondering what might happen to me.
Until his drinking escalated, we were a relatively normal, happy family. My mother stayed home, taking care of the house and me. Sometimes on Sundays, we’d drive to a small town an hour to the north past farms, fields, horses and cows. I cherished those days. At a small park Dad and I would play catch. Sometimes Mom would join in, and afterwards, we’d get hamburgers and milkshakes from a drive-in across the street and eat while sitting on a blanket in the cool grass. I can still see my father on those trips, behind the wheel of his Chevy, the window down and a cigarette in his hand. He would sing along with the radio and my mother, wearing sunglasses and a scarf around her head, would smile at him. After all these years, that’s the memory of happier times I still carry with me.
One night my Dad didn’t come home until after ten, drunker than hell. After everything that had been going on, it pissed Mom off and she made the mistake of saying something to him about it. He slapped her. After fifteen years of marriage, he had hit her. She decided right then and there it would be the last time. While he slept it off, she busied herself getting a restraining order, contacting a lawyer, and starting divorce proceedings. For a while, I didn’t see much of him. Before long before I didn’t see him at all. In the divorce settlement, she was awarded the house, a sizeable alimony check and full custody of me. Dad didn’t contest it and the proceedings didn’t take long.
I was twelve years old. I found it ironic when Mom really started to hit the booze. Dad was gone and I worried what would happen to us. At that tender age, I desperately needed someone to make me feel loved. When Dad’s drinking got out of hand, he seemed to forget about us, so I never really blamed my mother for the choice she made. I honestly believe that night would have been the only time he hit her, but how could I be sure of that? I guess I just wanted our family to stay together. But I do blame my mother for what happened after he left—and for what it did to me.
From the time I was a baby, everyone said I was the spitting image of my father. Perhaps that had something to do with it. Maybe that was why she came to hate me. I’ll never know. What I do know is that even before she started drinking, something had changed between us. It seemed as though she stopped caring about me after my father hit her. In fact, she seemed to quit caring about anything.
I was too young to know much about drinking. When it began, I thought she just really liked orange juice since she drank so much of it. I didn’t realize she was mixing it with vodka. Quite often when I came home from school, she would be in her bedroom. I thought she was sleeping. It took a while for me to learn she was passed out.
Within a year, she pretty much gave up cleaning the house and cooking. And, she had started to hit me. Prior to my father hitting her, she had never even spanked me. Other things had happened too. One night, six months or so after the divorce, she was passed out when I got home. Around five, she came out of her room completely disheveled. My mother had always been an attractive woman and to me as a young boy, I was shocked that she just stopped caring about her appearance.
As she came into the bright light of the kitchen, I could see the dark circles under her bloodshot eyes. I was doing homework at the table and she completely ignored me. She grabbed a bottle from a cabinet above the refrigerator and without adding ice, filled a tall glass three quarters full before topping it off with a splash of orange juice. An hour later I peeked through a slight crack in her bedroom door. She was asleep, snoring loudly and unevenly.
For the third time that week there was no dinner. There wasn’t much in the way of food in the house either. I made a peanut butter sandwich and had just begun to eat when she emerged again. This time she didn’t ignore me.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she yelled. Her words were slurred and her eyes blazing.
“Nothing,” I replied.
“Bullshit you little bastard. You’re just like your father, no damn good. She slapped the sandwich out of my hand. When I made a move to pick it up, she was on me, hitting me with clenched fists and then kicking at me as I tried to retreat.
“You ask before you eat anything around here, understand?”
Through hot tears I answered, “Yes Mother.”
She quickly lost interest and became intent on fixing another drink. She sat with it at the table while I cried myself to sleep.
I avoided her the next morning, not sure what the hell had happened the night before. I had no clean clothes to wear, so for the first time I cut school. I was confused. I didn’t know what had sparked her outrage. I was also scared, knowing that she would beat me again. We lived in the suburbs. Not far from our house a nearly impenetrable patch of woods separated two sub divisions. It became my sanctuary, a place to hide out while cutting school and a place where I spent after school hours, invisible amongst the trees. I remember that first day; most of it was spent hurling rocks with a fury at old bottles. A couple of times I started crying, wondering if I could just run away.
My mother was relatively sober when I returned home. I could tell right away she was angry.
“The school called, where the hell were you today?”
I hadn’t considered I would have to answer that question. When I stammered, she slapped me.
“Get your ass in your room,” she spat through clenched teeth. For the second night in a row, I cried myself to sleep, hoping this nightmare would end soon.
I tried hard to stay on her good side, but nothing seemed to work. She would hit or kick me for no reason, often without a word. I became withdrawn, friendless, a loner. Other kids played on teams, attended parties or went on sleepovers. Not me, I had no one.
My mother’s behavior grew more erratic. She started drinking in the morning, not stopping until she passed out. That was how I would find her when I came home from school. In the early evening, she’d wake up and start again. She started having manic episodes in the middle of the night, turning the television volume up very loud, and then I’d hear her laughing. Or, she would sing along with the radio. Most of the time though, she screamed angrily—usually cursing my father and sometimes me, and throwing things around the shabby apartment before falling back into a restless sleep.
After several nights of this, she came into my room. I was awakened by a flood of light. She stood there looking like a monster, her eyes red and burning, a look of intense hatred on her face. A belt clutched tightly in her right hand.
“You little bastard, this is your fault. None of this would have happened if you had never been born.”
She might as well have stuck a knife in my gut, because that’s exactly how it felt.
“What did I do?” I cried.
That only served to enrage her even further. She attacked, whipping me in a frenzy of rage. I scre
amed at her to stop but the beating continued. The belt raised welts on my legs and belt as I tried futilely to avoid the attack. I was trapped, with no way to the door. For the first time, I wished she was dead. I started to make that wish often. I hated her.
Without explanation, the beatings stopped for a while and she cut back on her drinking. We didn’t speak much but her hostility was still ever-present. One afternoon I came home from my hiding spot in the woods to find a man sitting at the kitchen table, an attorney. My father was dead. A drunken driving accident—he was the drunk. There would be no more alimony checks. He had carried a small life insurance policy, but it wasn’t enough to last long. She would have to sell the house; we could no longer afford to live there.
We moved to a crappy two-bedroom apartment in the city. There was graffiti on the exterior walls and some of the windows were covered with nothing more than cardboard. The hallways smelled bad.
On my first day of school, shortly after I left our building, two older boys accosted me. They taunted and teased me before one pushed me into the other. They beat me up, laughing the entire time. The next morning, I carried a baseball bat my father had given me. Sure enough, they were waiting. They began mocking me, calling me a mama’s boy and a pussy. When the first one started for me, I swung the bat with all I had. The blow hit him full in the chest, knocking him to the ground. The other boy ran. I hit the one on the ground again, this time in the head. He lay there not moving. I went to school.
Later that morning, two policemen came into the classroom. They put me in handcuffs and led me away. They told me the kid was in the hospital, that I had broken several of his ribs and that he had a concussion. I didn’t feel at all bad about. The taunting would have happened every day if I hadn’t acted. He had it coming and I would do the same thing again. I had no one to stand up for me.
I was sent to reform school. I was small for my age and I would fight anyone who tried to pick on me. I won some and lost a few and before long I was left alone. I didn’t try to make friends; I just wanted to be left alone.
Betrayed: Powerful Stories of Kick-Ass Crime Survivors Page 33