“I don’t know.” I could feel the viselike grip on my chest. “Charles will be upset ’cause the kids will be away all weekend.”
I was about to say something else, when Allyson cut in, “Goddamn it, Di, so what? You’ve got to stop thinking about him. He doesn’t think about you. He doesn’t think about anyone but himself. You’ll stay home and he’ll be off doing whatever he does all weekend . . . so pack the car, pick up the kids, and come here!”
I took a deep breath and said, “Okay.” I did call Charles, but he didn’t answer, so I left him a message on his answering machine saying that the kids and I were going to New Jersey for the weekend.
I still couldn’t just leave, just like I couldn’t just change the locks on the door or throw him out.
The kids were excited when I picked them up. They loved going to see Aunt Allyson and Uncle Harry and their three girls, who were all very close in age to my kids. As we drove, we listened to Harry Potter on tape, and the escape into Hogwarts was a magical respite.
It was so nice to be with Allyson and Harry and the girls. There was no tension. The kids played; we laughed and talked, drank wine, went out to eat. That Friday evening, Charles called, just to say hello. He called again Saturday morning. Then he called again Saturday evening. When he called at noon on Sunday, his tone was a bit less friendly. “When are you planning on leaving?” he asked, with the clear annoyance of a parent to a teenager who has already missed her curfew.
“I’m not sure. We were going to take the kids to a local fair, and I thought we’d head back after that,” I said casually, feeling a sense of panic wash over me.
“You always do what’s good for you, don’t you?” he quietly admonished me, and then hung up.
“Ready to go? Kids are already in the van. . . .” Allyson stopped and noticed the phone in my hand.
“You know, maybe we ought to leave now.” I shrugged, my stomach in knots.
“He always does this to you, Di. He’s the most controlling person I’ve ever met. The kids are in the van, and we are going to the fair. You can’t let him scare you.”
“You’re right,” I agreed, and she was, but, although the gray matter in my head may have known it, I still felt as if I were going to throw up.
It was about four o’clock by the time we had the car packed up and were ready to head home. The kids were all outside, and Allyson called me back into the kitchen. She was holding an envelope.
“Listen, Di, this is a gift. I want you to use it for one thing and one thing only.”
She opened the envelope and took out a check, showing me that it was made out to me, Diane Pomerantz. She continued, “I am giving you this check for three thousand dollars because tomorrow morning I want you to start making phone calls so that you can consult with and retain an attorney. You need a lawyer. This is the retainer.”
“Allyson, I can’t take this.” I tried to hand it back to her, but she wouldn’t take it.
“You can and you will. This isn’t Harry’s money; it’s my money from my own account, and I want you to have this money so you can get an attorney, now.” She wrapped her arms around me, and we both cried. I told her that I would pay her back, but again she told me that this was a gift, a gift of love and friendship.
There wasn’t much traffic, and both of the kids fell asleep on the way home, which made it easy for me to drift off into imagined conversations with Charles, with Victoria, with Victoria’s estranged husband, being very clear with each of them about what I saw and what I knew to be true.
It was almost nine o’clock when we pulled through the gatehouse and then into the driveway. The kids had already awakened, but Sammy, still tired from the long weekend and the drive, moved slowly toward the front door. Elli ran in, saying, “Hi, Dad. I have to use the bathroom,” as she sprinted up the stairs. Sam walked in ahead of me, looking very tired.
“Your mom sure didn’t think about how it would be for you guys to get home so late when you have school tomorrow, did she?” He laughed as he tousled Sam’s hair and walked with him upstairs, shaking his head slightly with not-so-subtle disapproval.
“Sam, get ready for bed. I’ll be up in a few minutes,” I called upstairs, and then I walked into Elli’s room. She was already sitting on her bed in her nightshirt, drawing, when I walked in. “Mom, I hope you and Dad don’t get into a fight.” She looked up from her sketch pad.
“I’ll do my best to avoid it, sweetie,” I said, though I knew Charles was ready to fight.
By ten o’clock, the kids were asleep. I was sitting in bed, reading, when Charles walked into the bedroom.
“Do you think it was really fair of you to make it so I couldn’t see the kids at all this weekend?”
Although I knew how close to the edge he was and I could have avoided what came next, I said, “Come on, Charles. You spend very little time with the kids on any given weekend. Even when you’re supposed to be with them, you leave them alone and go off to the office or wherever you go to be with Victoria. What are you making such a fuss about? What, was Victoria not around this weekend? Is that what the problem is?”
“Don’t you dare ever mention her name. I don’t want to hear her name come out of your mouth.” He walked out of the room and smashed the bedroom door. I heard the wood crack and his fist go into the wall as he screamed, “This should be your face!” He came back into the bedroom. “You fuckin’ bitch. You’ll pay for this!” he shrieked, grabbing some things from the bathroom and storming back out. His raging continued; he shouted every foul word there was, all the words that so offended him when I went into my angry rages. His ranting went on and on, until finally he retreated to the basement, probably to share more about my black, evil soul with Victoria.
When I awoke and walked out of the bedroom the next morning, I noticed a picture hanging in the hallway outside the bedroom. I didn’t recall having hung it there. I looked more closely and saw that it covered the hole in the wall that Charles had punched the night before. Never before had I consciously been physically afraid of Charles, but now that was changing.
After I took the kids to school the next day, I started my search for an attorney.
Chapter Twenty-Three
BY NOVEMBER, CHARLES HAD DEEPENED HIS RELATIONships with his female entourage even further. He called these women, including Victoria, his “four muses.” He and Victoria were still spending countless hours on the phone and e-mailing and writing letters, discussing whether they were going to continue their relationship. If it hadn’t been so crazy, it would have been funny. Nevertheless, I couldn’t stop reading the communications between them. Everyone told me it was toxic for me to do so. I just couldn’t stop. I couldn’t believe what was happening—he even called me his “childhood friend” in one message.
By the time I called Calvin Jones, a well-regarded divorce attorney in town, I had already met with a number of other lawyers. I wasn’t sure what characteristics I wanted in an attorney, but when I met Cal I knew he was someone I could work with. He spent over two hours listening to my story, he didn’t charge me for the consultation, and then he said he wouldn’t charge me a retainer, either. He was outraged by what Charles had been doing.
“Diane, the thing is, it’s not in your best interest or in the best interest of the children for him to lose his license, so we have to be smart in the way we play this, okay?” Then he told me everything he wanted me to bring to him within the next few days. I left his office feeling as if I had someone in my corner, someone who would take care of me. That feeling wouldn’t last long.
The kids and I made tacos for dinner, which they always enjoyed doing. Knaidl was under the table, waiting for all the droppings. It was a warmish evening, so the three of us took our bikes out after dinner and rode around the community.
“Too bad Daddy never gets to do fun stuff with us,” Sam called out as he did a wheelie, almost tumbling over. I shuddered.
Elli rolled her eyes as I looked at her and shrugged my shoulde
rs, not saying anything as we pedaled behind him.
Charles arrived home at about ten. Sam was asleep, but Elli ran downstairs to greet him, and then he went up to her room and read to her for a while. I was in my bedroom when he came in and sat on the corner of the bed, smiling, and said, “You know, I’ve been thinking about you working. I think it will be too much for you to work full-time right now. I know we need the money, but not that much. You need time to heal.”
No decision I made would be right. I just looked at him, smiled, and said nothing. I breathed deeply and quietly. I had already made my decision. Living the way I was living now was more stressful than any full-time job could possibly be. No, I knew exactly what I was going to do. I had gotten an attorney, I planned to have my reconstructive surgery in December, and then I would get a job, to begin as soon as I recovered from my surgery. I wanted to be working by February.
My friend Pam was a social worker, and she worked in a very well-established group practice. She told me that someone was leaving the practice, they needed a new person, and they would love to have me. I decided I would do it. They would provide me with patients, and I wouldn’t have to do marketing or pay office rent. The percentage of money I would bring in was fair. Charles was pleased with the arrangement. Conscious or not, my decisions were still driven by his response.
Why I kept telling him what I was up to, things I should have kept to myself, was something I continuously kicked myself for doing. But he was such a part of me, it was so ingrained in me to talk to him about anything and everything, that I still did so, even knowing what I knew, even when it was not in my best interest.
My mood was still awful. Panic attacks were the norm, and, although I managed to function and do all of the things I had to do, it was only on the surface. I was having a lot of fender-benders—at least four—and many more near misses. I always felt very disoriented afterward. I also was falling a lot, though back then I didn’t know why. Dr. Putman kept saying it was a result of my inattention because I was so anxious. I wasn’t so sure. It seemed to me like something else. Perhaps, I thought, the cancer had spread; perhaps it was already in my brain.
Charles certainly didn’t make things any easier. Some days he said he thought I should work part-time and have the reconstructive surgery now so I would feel better about myself. Other days, it was as if he had never said that at all, and he went on tirades about money and how if I wasn’t working full-time and had the surgery or was out of work, it would put us “on the brink of financial disaster.” No decision I made would be right.
Since that was the case, with the encouragement of my reconstructive surgeon, Dr. Kealz, one of the many doctors in my support system who went the extra mile for me, I scheduled a tram flap procedure for December 3, 1999, six weeks away.
Feeling energized by the warm conversation I’d had with Dr. Kealz, I began doing some of the paperwork that had been sitting untouched on my desk. Before long, the phone rang. It was Charles, and his voice was filled with controlled wrath. “I just checked the balance in the checking account, and it’s overdrawn by five hundred dollars. Someone made an ATM withdrawal and caused an overdraft. I expect you to correct what you caused.”
“Charles, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I haven’t used the ATM. I don’t remember the last time I did. Either this is a mistake or someone has gotten into the account and something fraudulent is going on.” My chest tightened as I felt that old rage at being wrongly accused, but I was calm. “If you want me to take care of it, I most certainly will,” I continued. “I will be over to the office in a few minutes to get all the information, and then I’ll go to the bank.” With that, I hung up the phone and drove to the office.
Charles didn’t have much more to say when I arrived. I told him that I was going to get to the bottom of it and that I had not been to the bank or withdrawn any money.
For some reason, Charles had set up our accounts with the executive/professional division of the bank, and when I arrived, I asked to see the manager of that division. She was a lovely, middle-aged woman, kind and quite solicitous. I explained the situation to her.
“Don’t you worry at all, Dr. Pomerantz. Let me handle this. I will get to the bottom of it, and as soon as I do, I will call you directly, okay?” She seemed to know more about what was going on than I did.
“That would be wonderful,” I said. “I really do appreciate your help with this. Thank you for being so kind. I’ll wait to hear from you.” We shook hands, and I left the bank. When I arrived home, I called Charles and left him a message saying that the bank manager was looking into the situation. I did not hear back from him.
The next morning, as I was leaving Dr. Putman’s office, my cell phone rang. “Dr. Pomerantz, this is Mrs. Dahly from Bank of America. Can you talk?”
“Yes,” I said, aware of the hesitation in her voice.
“Well, I do know what happened, and I really am very sorry; I hate to have to tell you this. Dr. Pomerantz, first of all, it was not an ATM transaction. We have the entire transaction on tape, and it was completed over the counter, last Friday, at 12:47 p.m. I’m telling you the time because it’s recorded. Your husband, Dr. Mandel, came into the bank and withdrew all of the money from the account and that caused the overdraft. Believe me, I’ve had to do this before, but it’s never easy. I am so sorry, Dr. Pomerantz.”
I already knew I had not caused the error. My anger was at having been wrongly accused. But this, I had not expected. I still felt blindsided by Charles’s more and more clearly conscious manipulation and gas-lighting.
When I was able to find my voice, I told her, “I’m sure it isn’t, but I do appreciate all of your help. Thank you so much.”
It was hard to see through my tears as I tried to find my attorney’s phone number. I finally got connected through directory assistance. When the receptionist answered, I said, “Is Mr. Jones in? This is Diane Pomerantz, and it’s very important that I speak with him right away.”
“Hi, Diane. What’s going on? Sue said you sounded very upset.” I was surprised when Cal got on the phone so quickly, and I blurted out what had happened.
“That sick bastard. I have to tell you, this is one guy I would like to find on a dark street corner and teach him a thing or two with my fists. Where are you now, Diane?”
“I’m in my car on the side of the road. I was going to do some errands when I got the call from the bank manager. I don’t have any patients until later this afternoon.” My voice was flat. I felt like a zombie.
“Why don’t you come over to my office? I’m going to call your husband and give him a piece of my mind.”
I said that I would drive over and that it wouldn’t take too long to get there. I didn’t allow myself to think about what it meant that he would be calling Charles.
Cal was standing by the receptionist when I entered the office. We went into the conference room and sat at the huge cherry table, and Cal just shook his head. “Your husband is really a sick puppy. When I called, he said he had forgotten that he had been to the bank last week, that he certainly hadn’t done this intentionally; it was an honest mistake. I had to stop him when he started going on about how you distort everything he does and how he wanted me to know the ‘truth’ about you.”
“There’s another problem, though, Diane. It’s not really a problem for me, but it may be for you in terms of how you feel about my representing you. When I was speaking with your husband, he brought up the name of his ‘friend’ Victoria Morgan. Until then, I hadn’t realized that the woman you’ve been speaking about is someone I’ve been representing for a couple of years regarding a legal suit she filed against someone. It’s not a very active case, and it’s not a conflict of interest for me in any way to represent you. But will you feel that you can completely trust me when you know I have a relationship with this other party? There are so many boundary violations already going on here with your husband and this woman that this may complicate things for you.”
Cal went on. “I want you to think about it. I don’t want you to say anything to Charles. He is not your friend—remember that. This is a decision that you must make, and I will help you make it. If you want to continue to work with me, I will do my best for you. If you decide it’s better not to, I will help you find someone I know will be right for you.”
I sat there, stunned. This bitch was worming herself into every crevice of my life. I felt like strangling her.
“I think that I can handle it, but I’d better take some time to really think about what to do,” I told him. “What about the money?”
“Let’s schedule some time on Friday, and we can discuss all of these things then. I don’t want you to get into any discussions with Charles about anything of any substance. He’s a manipulator.”
CHARLES came home that evening after Sammy was asleep. He went up to Elli’s room and sat with her for a while. He then went down to bed in the basement, never saying hello or in any way acknowledging anything that had transpired that day, never acknowledging my existence.
I moved back and forth between hatred and compassion. Part of me thought he must be in great pain to be doing the things he was doing. Everyone reminded me, “He feels nothing for anyone but himself—remember that.” I did try to remember, but still, I sometimes forgot—until the next reminder he gave me. And those reminders were definitely becoming very frequent.
By the next morning, after another sleepless night, I was feeling angry at myself for any compassion I had for his pain. His pain? That was absolutely crazy! I was the one who had gone through a year of treatment for cancer and faced death. The children had faced loss of their mother. None of us had his support. Yet he was in pain? A line I had read resounded in my head: the terrorist usurps the role of the victim in order to gain control. That was Charles: manipulator of all with whom he came into contact.
Lost in the Reflecting Pool Page 15