by Gina Holmes
“As soon as I saw that sculpture in the foyer,” she continued, “I was like you, Penny—mesmerized by it. I didn’t know why I was so drawn to it but knew I had to have it for my little girl. The artist was local. I tracked her down and asked her about its meaning. It turned out she was also once the victim of abuse. Women, to her, were like butterflies—beautiful and free to love and be loved—but sometimes they would tie themselves to someone or something that wouldn’t let them be free, wouldn’t let them be the women God created them to be.
“Without words, that piece said all the things I couldn’t seem to articulate. Before I could give it to Sara, he beat her to death.”
I had to look away from the rawness of Callie Mae’s pain. “I’m so sorry,” I said. “I didn’t know.”
She dabbed at her wet eyes. “I have to live with the fact I never confronted her about my suspicions. I mentioned them to Matthew, but he couldn’t help but think the best of everyone. I knew, though, Penny. In my heart, I knew she was in trouble. I was so afraid of speaking up and losing her. I should have told her I knew. I should have told her allowing it is encouraging it. I should have said something.”
I leaned over and laid my hand on her arm. “You can’t blame yourself. Believe me, she already knew all of that.”
“What are you going to do if he starts hitting little Manny?” she asked.
“He wouldn’t,” I said, feeling sick to my stomach. “He loves him so much. You should see the way he—”
Fatimah’s hand sliced through the air like a karate chop. “What if he do?”
It was a question I’d asked myself a hundred times, but I honestly didn’t believe he would ever harm a hair on your head, Manny. Looking at the concern in my friends’ eyes and hearing the question asked out loud forced me to consider it anew. There was no hesitation in my answer. “If he did, I’d leave him.”
Fatimah stomped her foot. “Why is your baby worth more than you? You should leave him now!”
The loudness of her voice made my stomach jump. Callie Mae, on the other hand, didn’t so much as flinch.
“You’re supposed to be a Christian,” I said, trying to keep my tears at bay. “You know what the Bible says about divorce.”
“It doesn’t say you have to stay with a man who abuses you.” Callie Mae sounded eerily calm next to Fatimah’s hysterics.
I shook my head. “Yes, it does. God hates divorce.” I thought about my parents’ marriage; it had suffered ups and downs, but never once was there talk of divorce. No one in my family had ever divorced, as far as I knew. You made it work. That’s what you did. No one was perfect. Men sometimes strayed or lost their temper. Sometimes wives did too. That’s just the way it was.
Callie Mae locked eyes with me. “I’m pretty sure God hates what Trent is doing to you even more than he hates divorce. For your own safety—and Manny’s—you need to get away from him.”
“Then what?” I asked, tears now streaming freely down my cheeks. “I spend the rest of my life alone?” Didn’t the Bible say that if someone divorced their spouse and remarried, they would be committing adultery? Leaving Trent was one thing; staying alone for the rest of my life was another.
“You will find a man like Edgard,” Fatimah said, “who will love and show you kindness.”
“If you can show me where in the Bible it says I can remarry, I’ll leave tonight, but you can’t because it’s not there.” I was practically shouting. “You’re trying to sentence me to a lifetime of loneliness.”
Callie Mae walked over, sat on the arm of the chair, and took my hand. “You wouldn’t be alone, Penny. God makes a fine husband—I should know—and you’ll have Manny and us.”
I considered her words. Leaving Trent was an option, just not an appealing one. I had read the Scripture for myself that hadn’t condemned separation. But then what? I knew myself well enough to know I wouldn’t be able to tolerate being alone for long. I would crave another man in my life, and then I would fall. Besides, I loved Trent. He wasn’t perfect by any means, but he was my husband. Your father. And Callie Mae was exactly right; I was addicted to him.
Callie Mae drew my head to her shoulder like she’d done in the hospital and kissed the top of my head. “If you had a daughter, and she came to you and told you her husband was treating her the way Trent is treating you, would your advice be to stay with him?”
I covered my face and wept into my hands, thinking of you, Manny. The answer was all too clear when she put it that way.
She rested her forehead against mine. “The Bible says God loves us even more than a mother loves her child. Do you really think he would tell his daughter to stay and be abused?”
“You don’t understand,” I said. “Trent needs me.”
Fatimah stood and stomped her foot. “He do not need you. He only need air, food, and water like all people. If you stay, you are a fool! He will kill you. And your son.”
“I’d like to go home now,” I whispered.
On our way out, Callie Mae lifted the winged statue from its arch. “I won’t say another word to you about this. Whether you stay or go is your choice alone. But I’m going to pray my heart out that God will open your eyes. This isn’t his plan for your life, Penny.”
She held out the statue, and reluctantly I took it.
“Every time you see this, I want you to think of my Sara. Promise me you’ll put it where you can see it every day.”
Wanting to get out of there as badly as I did, I would have promised anything.
TWENTY-FOUR
UNABLE TO FACE Callie Mae or Fatimah, I called in sick the next day, and the next, until I didn’t bother to call anymore. I did, however, put the statue Callie Mae had given me in a place where I would have to look at it every day—on my dresser in front of the mirror. Each time my gaze fell on it, my reflection stared back at me. I knew that kind of longing. I was that woman with the wings of glass.
Trent was pleased as punch I was no longer working. He was back to behaving like the man I’d married, and I tried hard to convince myself it would last. Norma came around less and less, and each time she did, she looked worse and worse. She was becoming nothing but scabs and bones.
I worried she might have HIV, but calmed myself with the knowledge that I’d been checked for that as part of my pregnancy lab work. I reasoned that since I didn’t have it, then your father also didn’t, which could mean if Norma did, I’d been accusing him of cheating for no reason. If they gave out degrees for denial back then, I was well on my way to earning a PhD.
Being due in just a few weeks, my thoughts were more consumed with you than with what Trent may or may not be doing with Norma, anyway. I spent at least an hour a day lying in bed, watching your elbows and knees push out around my navel, as I wondered what kind of parent I’d be and what you would look like. Would you have his eyes and my demeanor? Or, heaven forbid, would it be the other way around? I prayed more during that time than I ever have before or since.
As I browned hamburger to make tacos for dinner, I started having contractions. Slowly, I took in a deep breath as my stomach, with you inside it, hardened into a tight ball. The doctor told me false contractions were called Braxton Hicks, which sounded to me more like a country music band than a medical term. I’d had plenty of them in recent days, but they were few and far between and always went away after a few minutes, so I wasn’t particularly concerned.
Moving the spatula around the greasy pan, I turned over pink pieces of ground beef until all were the same shade of brown. As I poured the meat onto a plate lined with paper towels to drain the fat, another contraction came, followed by another. I turned the burner off, set the pan back on the stove, sat myself down at the kitchen table, and began timing them. The first few were six minutes apart, then five, then four.
Callie Mae had told me most first-time mothers had plenty of time once labor started before the baby came—hours, maybe even days. With this in mind, I remained surprisingly calm as I finished cleaning up, then packe
d my hospital bag with toiletries and a set of clothes for each of us to come home in. Lastly, I went into your nursery to make sure I was ready for you if you were indeed on your way.
The green paint didn’t look so bad with the teddy bear border I’d put up and the white furniture I’d picked up at Goodwill. Thanks to Callie Mae and Fatimah, your changing table was stocked with plenty of diapers, wipes, and creams. My mother had sent a dozen newborn outfits, all but one in baby blue. When I turned the light off in your nursery, it finally struck me how dark it had gotten outside.
It was winter, so the sun set early, but not before six thirty, which meant Trent was late . . . again.
Another contraction hit me as I stepped into the hallway. They were getting so close I barely had time to hold my breath between them. Your father had driven the car to work, so I had no way to get to the hospital, even if I wanted to. I considered calling an ambulance, but if it turned out to be a false alarm and Trent was left holding a several-hundred-dollar ambulance bill, I’d never hear the end of it.
Seven o’clock passed, then eight. The contractions grew further apart, but were still within the five-minute interval the doctor told me might mean that labor was imminent. Finally, I swallowed my pride and called Callie Mae. When she didn’t pick up, I just assumed she was mad at me. Next I tried Fatimah’s house, but it rang and rang.
Although I was afraid we might get charged for the call, I didn’t feel like I had much of a choice, so I dialed the doctor’s office and got a message directing me to the hospital’s main number.
The operator paged the OB doctor on call. As I waited, the contractions continued. They must have made you angry because every time they let up, you kicked me like a cornered mule. I just wanted the pain to stop and your father to come home. Truth is, I was scared, Manny.
The phone rang and I snatched it up. “Hello?”
“It’s a girl, Penny. She’s had a girl!” Callie Mae exclaimed. “A nine-pounder. Can you believe that? Fati didn’t look that big, did she? She’s beautiful. Oh, she looks just like her. And tall! Oh, my word, the baby is twenty-three inches long. She’s the biggest in the nursery. She’s light skinned like her father, but has those bold features—”
“I thought she was going to deliver at home,” I said.
Callie Mae laughed. “As soon as the first labor pain hit her, Edgard drove her stubborn rear to the hospital.”
Grabbing my stomach, I groaned as another contraction hit.
“Penny, are you okay? Penny?”
The wave of pain passed and I caught my breath. “I’m sorry. I’m having some contractions.”
Silence.
“Callie, are you there?”
“Yes. Yes, I was just surprised. It’s too early. The maternity ward was bursting at the seams, and the nurses said that happens every time there’s a full moon. Something to do with the gravitational pull or something. Maybe that’s affecting you, too. Is Trent going to take you in?”
I couldn’t bring myself to tell her he wasn’t home yet. It was after nine now. “I’m waiting on the doctor to call me back.”
“I need to get off your line, then. Call me once you talk to him. Let me know you’re okay and what the plan is,” she said.
I hung up and, figuring I’d missed the doctor’s call, dialed the hospital operator again. Either I had bad luck or else there was only one lady on that night, because the same nasal voice answered. When I repeated the request to page the OB, she got snippy. “I’ve already given him your number. He just finished delivering a baby. He’ll get to you as soon as he can.”
Feeling as though I’d had my knuckles whapped with a ruler, I apologized and hung up. As I sat there rubbing my belly and breathing off the pain, I wondered if the doctor I was waiting on had delivered Fatimah’s baby.
Picturing her infant was easy if she was as Callie Mae described, a lighter version of her mother. I hoped Fatimah would let me hold her. I missed her and Callie Mae’s friendship more than I could have dreamed. They loved me and only wanted the best for me—and you. It was a far cry from whatever Trent and I were to each other.
A soft knock came at the door at the same time the phone rang. Looking at the door, then the phone, I wasn’t sure which to answer first. I decided on the phone. “Hello?” I said hurriedly.
“This is Doctor Reynard. I understand you’re having contractions?”
Another knock at the door.
I put my hand over the phone and called, “Just a minute!” Then, “Yes. They were really close together, and it’s been going on all night.”
“And now?”
“Further apart. Maybe five or six minutes.”
“So they’re not getting closer. They’re getting further apart?”
Knock. Knock. Knock.
I tried to stretch the phone cord to the door, but it stopped short several feet away. “Sometimes, yes. Not always. I don’t know.”
“Have you been timing them?”
“I was, but then I stopped.”
“Are you feeling the baby move?”
“Yes.”
“A lot?”
“Yes.”
When a face appeared in the window, I had to stifle a scream. It belonged to a gaunt, unkempt Norma. As my heart started beating again, I turned my back to her.
“Did you drink water?”
“Water, no. I mean, no more than I usually do. Why?” I asked.
I could hear something clicking outside, which told me Norma had found the doorbell but didn’t realize it was broken.
“If it’s false contractions, drinking two tall glasses of water and resting should make them go away. If they don’t, then you need to come in. Or if you stop feeling the baby move. Try the water, and call me back in half an hour if it doesn’t improve. Or if your water breaks—it hasn’t, has it?”
“I don’t think so.”
Norma started knocking again, this time louder.
“I checked your chart. You’re not due for a few more weeks, and this is your first, right?”
“Yes.”
“Yeah, I think it’s probably a false alarm, but do what I said and let’s wait it out.”
A tapping came from the window, which I ignored.
“Can I ask you one more question, Doctor?”
“Quickly. I just got paged to the OR.”
“Did you deliver a baby for a Sudanese couple?”
“I’m not allowed to say.”
“She’s my best friend.”
“Drink two tall glasses of water, and call me back if the contractions don’t subside.”
I thanked him, hung up the phone, and went to the door. Before I could open it, tires crunched over gravel, which meant Trent was finally home. I put my ear to the door to listen. The car door slammed. Norma was “Hey, baby”ing him, but I couldn’t hear his reply, if there was one. From what I could make out, she was asking for money. They both started yelling. Two pairs of footsteps climbed the stairs. More yelling. Then, something—or more likely, someone—slammed into the front door. She screamed. He yelled for her to shut the expletive up.
I turned off the lamp and peeked out the window. Holding her head as though she’d been hit, Norma tried to put her free arm around Trent’s waist. He pushed her off. She was hysterical now—crying, screaming, and pleading. I almost felt sorry for her.
When Trent grabbed the doorknob, she yanked at his arm. Because he was facing me, I could see him snap before she could. In a blink, his hand was a fist and it met her on the side of her neck. Her arms flailed wildly as she fell backward off the porch and down the stairs. One of her spiked heels lay on the ground beside her.
She used her hands to shield her face from Trent, who was stomping toward her with both fists raised and ready.
I wanted to hide in the bedroom closet, cover my ears, and hope he didn’t come for me next. As much as I despised her, my conscience wouldn’t let me leave her to the fate awaiting her. I opened the front door, creating as much
noise as I could in the process.
When Trent whipped around toward me, I saw murder in his eyes. Then, just as quickly, it was gone, as if my presence had scared the demon out of him. Knowing what I know now about the spiritual world, that might have been about right.
With Trent’s back to her, Norma scrambled to her feet, faster than I’d ever seen her move, grabbed her shoe, and ran to her car. Trent screamed something I won’t repeat as she burned rubber out of the driveway.
A moment later, he walked into the house as if nothing had happened. I could smell the whiskey on his breath as he kissed my cheek with his icy lips. Instead of an explanation or apology, I was met with, “What’s for dinner?”
TWENTY-FIVE
“JUST LIE DOWN, Penny.” Trent handed me another glass of water.
I set the cup on the bedside table and turned away from the stench of smoke wafting off his sweatshirt every time he moved.
He pulled the quilt up, tucked it around my legs, and sat beside me on the bed. The mattress squealed and leaned under his weight. “I wish you’d let me take you to the hospital. ‘I don’t know nothing ’bout delivering no babies, Miss Scarlett.’” A fleck of tobacco clung to his chin stubble.
“Very funny,” I said glumly, picking the debris from his face. If I’d been reasonably confident these contractions were the real thing, I would have taken him up on the offer to drive me to the hospital. But the more time that passed, and the more water I drank, the calmer you and my contractions became.
Trent timed them against his watch. A few were five minutes apart, but then there would be one that was eight minutes, then two, and so forth. A clinic nurse had mentioned that false labor felt just like the real thing, except real contractions would get more painful and closer together. I was becoming convinced it was a false alarm after all, but Trent wasn’t so sure.
When he put his cold hand on my round stomach, I jumped. “Sorry,” he said, taking it away. He rubbed his hands together and blew on them. A set of fresh, catlike scratches ran over his knuckles and down his hand. I didn’t have to wonder who gave him those.