“‘Why are you still with him if he hits you? You need to leave.’
“‘And go where?’ I asked. I didn’t want to go anywhere, even if there was a place.
“‘Here, take this.’ Paula handed me a card. ‘This place will help you.’
“When she walked away, I slipped the card into the trash without even looking at it. I just figured I could handle Grover myself. I would find a way to get back the Grover I fell in love with all those years ago.
“I was walking into the house when I heard the scream. I dropped the grocery bag I was holding and ran through the rooms to the source of the scream. It was Grover and he was in the bathroom throwing up blood.
“‘Oh my God,’ I cried out and went to him. “I have to get you to the hospital,’ I said.
“‘No hospital,’ he groaned.
“‘Grover you’re puking up blood. This isn’t good.’
“‘It’ll stop. It always does,’ he said.
“‘What? This has happened before?’
“Maggers, I’m sorry. I’m going to fix this. I’m going to stop doing drugs and I’m going to take better care of you I promise. I don’t want to live like this anymore.’
“I wanted to believe him, and he was as good as his word. He stopped hitting me, his health seemed to improve, and I got pregnant with Molly.
“I was nervous about telling him, but when I did I got a shock of my life.
“‘Holy cow! Maggers, I’m going to be a daddy?’ He hooted and cheered and those beautiful eyes were back on his face again, although the drugs had taken its toll on them. Dark circles under them made him look older, and more tired.
He took very good care of me during the pregnancy. When Molly was born though, he was nowhere to be found.
“He had been out getting drunk or ‘celebrating’ as he told it. He sobered up long enough to bring us home from the hospital. The first few days were fine, but I started to notice something odd: Grover didn’t play with Molly, or help out in any way with her care. He acted as though she wasn’t even there.
“Grover had replaced drug abuse with drinking, and if I thought he was a mean drug addict, he was an even meaner drunk. When Molly was two months old, Grover came home at two in the morning wanting to climb into bed with me.
“‘No, Grover. No!’ I whispered hoarsely. He would not go away. I pushed him off me and tried to climb out of the bed. He struck me several times in the face then tore off my nightgown. He had his way with me as I lay there stunned and crying. He finished and rolled over and passed out. The next morning as he still lay sleeping, I packed some stuff and Molly and I left.
“I knocked at the door of the yellow house, not sure what kind of reception I might get; but when Paula opened the door and saw my face, she had nothing but sympathy and compassion for us. She drove me to the emergency room where I was stitched up and allowed to leave. Paula continued to encourage me to press charges, but I refused.
“Paula drove me to the shelter. Maggie and I were seen to a room and that was where we lived for the next twenty-eight days.
“I was out looking for an apartment when Grover finally tracked me down.
“‘Maggers, Baby, listen. I made a mistake. I didn’t mean it. I don’t even remember it; that’s how drunk I was. Please don’t leave. Come home to me and I promise I’ll change.’ His plea sounded heartfelt, and he was even crying.
“‘I have to be on my own for a while,’ I said. ‘Let me do this and we will see where things go from there.’
“He agreed to let me have my space. I found an apartment and moved in. Grover would come to visit, and he even played with Molly. I almost believed him this time when he said he had changed.
“Almost.
“I was playing pat-a-cake with Molly when Grover stormed through the door. He was drunk I could see, and his eyes; once so caring and warm and beautiful, were now brown sockets with bloodshot orbs that stared out at us, cold and angry.
“‘Pack up your crap. You’re coming home with me now. I’m tired of this bullshit.’ He was shouting and slurring his words. I wound up Molly’s swing and left her there while I dealt with her father.
“‘Grover, you’re drunk. You promised me this wouldn’t happen again. Get out of here. This is it: it’s over! Do you hear me: over! Please leave.’
“He raised his hand to hit me, but I swung first. I punched him right in the stomach. He doubled over. Before I could back away however, he swiped a meaty fist out and plowed it into my cheek so hard I literally was seeing stars. That is true, you know. If you get hit hard enough, you really do see them.
“Molly started crying. It was loud and piercing and wouldn’t stop.
“I shook off his blow and lowered my head and rushed him. I took him in the chest like a charging bull and knocked him over. I was about to kick him in the balls and end this when he grabbed my foot and toppled me. I landed on my back with the wind knocked out of me.
“Maggie was crying hysterically now.
“‘Shut that brat up!’ he screamed, and that pulled me out of my stunned state. I crawled to my feet, and went for his eyes with my inch-long nails. I growled like an animal.
“He put out a hand and hit me so hard in the chest that I flew backwards, landed on my butt and continued sliding until I struck a stand and knocked a lamp to the floor. When I looked up he was taking Molly out of the swing. I heard a noise like a siren and thought: Did the neighbors hear us fighting and call the police?
“No, the wailing sound was coming from me. I was screaming. Grover was shaking Molly, shaking her so hard her little head was swinging and almost touching her back. By the time I reached them, Molly had stopped crying. I pulled her out of his hands and was trying to see what was wrong with her, but my tears were blurring my vision and I couldn’t see.
“Grover was standing dumbly at my side. ‘I’m sorry,’ he kept saying. ‘I’m sorry, Maggers I don’t know… I don’t…’
“At some point he must have left, but I was trying to get Molly to breathe and had no idea when. I stumbled to the phone and called 911.
“‘It’s my baby,’ I screamed into the phone. ‘My baby, Molly. Baby I’m so sorry. Molly, what have I done? My baby isn’t breathing.’ The operator asked for my address and I provided it. Tears and snot were drooling out onto the phone, and there was a tennis ball sized lump lodged in my throat that I couldn’t swallow away. I couldn’t breathe.
“The EMTs seemed to take forever, but the report said they arrived on the scene three minutes after the call was made. I was in shock. People were leading me around telling me what to do and what to say. Before I knew it, I was on trial for killing my baby girl.
“I was released on bail, but couldn’t go back to my apartment, so I stayed at the shelter. The trial took about as long as Molly had been alive. The prosecution brought in all kinds of experts and psychiatrists to say that I was suffering from post-partum depression and probably didn’t know what I had done. I was so numb, I barely knew what they were saying half the time. The other half, I just didn’t care. At night, as I lay in my bed, I would pretend I was still holding my sweet baby and cried until my throat hurt from the effort. The only time I would sleep was when my exhaustion was so great I had no choice. One of these times I managed to sleep, I dreamt of her. In the dream, I was sitting naked in a field on my knees and Molly was lying across my shoulders like a cherub. In her hand she held a straight razor. Molly dragged the razor across my throat and as the blood rushed across my breasts, I felt such exquisite love for her I knew I wanted nothing more than to join her. Upon waking, however; I was thrust back into the real hell that was my life. I showed up for court day after day looking more and more sallow and unhealthy. My lawyer began to worry.
“‘You have to show emotion. Let the jury see you cry,’ my lawyer was saying to me. I turned to him with a look of incredulity on my face.
“‘You think I did it, too, don’t you?’ I said, realizing the truth.
; “‘That’s not important now.’
“I flushed with rage. ‘How is it not important? If I can’t convince my own lawyer I’m innocent, how can I expect to convince twelve strangers?’ I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream. I wanted my life to be over.
“‘This isn’t the time to discuss your guilt or innocence with me. Please Miss Owens, sit down.’
“Before I sat down, I looked around the room at all these faces that saw me as a monster. My life was over, and I didn’t even care.
“But luckily for me someone cared. Paula cared, and she testified on my behalf. For all the good it did, though.
“‘So it is your testimony to this court,’ the lead prosecutor was saying during her cross examination. ‘That you know for a fact Ms. Owens was a victim of domestic abuse?’
“‘That is correct, I helped her—’
“The prosecutor cut her off. ‘Then I, and this courtroom, would be led to believe that you witnessed this abuse firsthand. Is that correct?’
“‘Well, no. But I…’
“‘You mean to tell me that your testimony is based on what Ms. Owens, herself, told you?’
“‘I saw the bruises. I helped clean her wounds. I know domestic abuse when I see it.’
“‘And why would that be? Isn’t it true that you, yourself, were a victim of domestic abuse?’ the prosecutor asked.
“Paula leaned forward and said into the microphone, ‘yes, I am.’ She was defiant and strong when she said it. She didn’t divert her eyes or cringe away. I was so proud of her then.
“‘And isn’t it also true that you would see domestic abuse in every cut on a woman’s face, or in every bruise: no matter how the said wounds got there?’
“‘No, that is just not fair. It’s not—’
“‘This witness is excused, your honor,’ the prosecutor said and turned away from Paula, even as she continued to protest.
“‘You may step down, miss,’ the judge said calmly.
“I testified on my own behalf. I spoke of the love I had for Grover and how he betrayed that love with violence. My tears were raw and they were real. As I looked out at the stone-faced jury, I spoke of the night that Grover came to see us how that night had ended.
“I was busy getting ready for supper when I passed Molly and noticed she was blowing spit bubbles and making funny faces at me,” I testified. “I had to stop. She was so beautiful sitting there in her windup swing, playing. I got down on the floor in front of her and copied the faces she was making. She laughed so loud…” Sobs escaped me. I collected myself and continued. “She laughed so loud she got the hiccups. I was playing with her there on the floor when Grover burst into the house. He was drunk and upset. We fought. When I was down on the floor, it was then that he grabbed her, screaming for her to stop crying.” I was inconsolable now, although no one was trying to console me. “That was when he killed her.”
“Then the prosecutor played the 911 tape. The room was stunned into silence. When the tape ended, the prosecutor began. ‘I’m so sorry. Molly, what have I done? My baby isn’t breathing.’
He turned to me. ‘What were you sorry for, Ms. Owens? What did you do?’
“My tears turned to rage. ‘I let that man into my house—let him kill by baby girl. Yes, I feel guilty. I deserve whatever I get, but not for the reason you want to place on me. I never hurt my baby, except by letting that man get anywhere near her.’”
“‘This witness is excused,’ said the prosecutor, and oh how I wanted to put a knife in that man’s back.
“Closing arguments were swift and powerful for both sides. Then the case was in the hands of the jury. They deliberated for a week. Both sides were claiming victory. The outcome was a shock.
“The jurors could not come to a verdict. Too many of them wanted me to fry for what happened to Molly, but enough of them—four I believe—chose my side and would not budge. The judge ruled the case a mistrial. When the prosecution couldn’t come up with enough evidence to bring me to trial again, the case was thrown out. Everyone at the shelter was so happy for me, but I still could not bring myself to rejoice. My daughter was still dead, and I was alone.
“The first time Grover showed up at my door after the trial, I flew into a rage. Eventually, however, I just didn’t have the strength to fight it anymore.
“One day he showed up and found me going through old pictures of Molly. I was crying and didn’t know he was standing there until he spoke.
“‘Look on the bright side,’ he said. ‘She’s in a better place.’
“‘She’s in the ground,’ I growled. ‘How is that a better place?’
“‘She’s not suffering,’ he said.
“‘She wasn’t suffering before you killed her, either.’
“I expected a beating for that, but Grover wasn’t into the physical abuse after what happened to Molly: he was going for the emotional kind now.
“He said, ‘Now everyone knows you killed her, and you’re trying to blame it on me to ease your guilty conscience.’
“I turned red. My vision clouded. It was the first emotion besides utter despair I had felt since losing my baby girl. I just started beating on him as hard as I could. ‘You did kill her!’ I screamed as my fists pommeled him. ‘You killed her, you bastard. You!” During the entire tirade, he was laughing—laughing! The more he laughed, the more I attacked him.
“When I had had enough and was too tired to keep up the attack, I tried to force him to go. He left, eventually. But he came back. He always came back to torture me.
“Luckily his visits were few and far between, and I would manage to pull my life back into some semblance of order.
“It was about a year after Molly’s death that the reporter started coming around asking questions. I thought: what fresh hell is this? First I lose my daughter, and then they try to pin her death on me; now they want me to relive it?
“When I was a child, I sometimes had dreams that would come true. I also had waking visions that would turn out to be things that were happening at that moment. I had a gift.
“It was during this time when the reporter was snooping around that I started honing my different skills. I wanted to use my ability to see the future. I wanted to astral project. I wanted to use my gifts to fight back at this mob of sensationalists who wished to do me harm. I started paying attention to my dreams again. I was looking to see which dreams were coming true and which were fizzling out.
“I wanted to know what the reporter was going to write about me. And as it would turn out, it wasn’t in my favor. Apparently, someone was out to try and reopen the case and get me back into court. I was ready to jump out a window. I couldn’t believe how low my life could sink.
“Amazingly, it was Grover that managed to get the reporter out of my life.
“The newspaper ran the story Where Is She Now: The baby killer that got away? It rehashed the trial and my subsequent mistrial. It ended with a plea to see justice done for Baby Molly. The reporter happened to come around while Grover was in the middle of another of his psychological torture sessions. Grover chased him off and the last thing he said to the reporter—and which I believe killed any future stories calling for my arrest—was: ‘leave now or I’ll kill you just like I killed Molly.’ Then he pretended to shake the reporter until his head exploded. He laughed at his own gruesome pantomime.
“I asked Grover to leave after that, and he did without complaint.
“The reporter never returned and to my knowledge never penned any other stories about me.
“But the one article he did write caught the eye of a certain hunter: David. I was marked for death. And I knew it was coming. In a way, I was happy that it was coming.
“In my vision I saw a stranger straddling me in bed. He had red eyes and fangs. He reached down and bit into my neck. As I lay there listening to him suck out my blood, Grover shows up with a stake and kills the vampire that was attacking me. At first I didn’t understand what this vision meant. I had
no idea vampires existed. I thought it was like the dream of Molly cutting my throat. But something of it did ring true. I was attacked in my bed by a vampire, and Grover was there to save me, but by becoming Antony’s next victim. Turns out, stakes won’t even kill a vampire.”
Maggie smiled, and Randal smiled, too.
“And although the real events were different than in my vision, the dream did come true. And how I cherish the day I was attacked by that vampire in my dream. It was David who tracked me. It was Antony who was about to feed on me when Grover walked in. It was Grover who gave Antony an alternate blood source that allowed me to live. David and Antony took me in, and I have proven my worth to them. I don’t know what would have happened if Grover hadn’t shown up when he did. Would Antony have taken me? I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. Grover did show up, and I thank him for that. If nothing else, he did that one thing right. He was more useful as a source of blood for Antony than he had been in all his thirty-two years on earth.
“You can trust David and Antony,” Maggie said in conclusion to her story. “They are good men and I love them both dearly. I am the happiest I’ve ever been since I’ve been with them. They love me too, and that above all else is worth staying alive for. Their love and companionship make up for all the horrors I have seen at the hands of an unforgiving and ignorant public, and at the hands of a violent despicable man who fathered a child then removed her from the world. I hope that one day you, too, will overcome the horrors visited upon you and will feel what it’s like to love someone again, like the way I feel for David and Antony.”
Randal didn’t feel love, though; and he didn’t know when—if ever—he would be at that place in his life. But he did feel gratitude, for her, and for them, as well. He was happy that Antony had done for him what his creator had not. Antony had shown him how to feed. He would forever be grateful for that.
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