by Daleen Berry
After what seemed like hours, the front door opened and I heard Eddie’s metal dinner pail and Thermos crash to the floor. Either he was angry, or something was wrong. I was out of bed then, quickly crossing the room to meet Eddie in the hallway.
“Hey there. What’s going on? Did your truck break down again?”
“No, my truck didn’t break down again. I wrecked it. I had to have it towed it home.” His voice was tired but hostile, and directed at me.
“Are you all right? You didn’t get hurt, did you?” I was suddenly frightened.
He stood at the sink, wetting a washcloth, and as I looked at him closely, I saw a streak of blood on his forehead. My hand flew to my mouth. “Eddie!”
“I hit my head. Can you find the cut and tell me how big it is?”
I quickly found a large, wet spot on his head, matted with blood. “Eddie, you need a doctor!”
With trembling fingers I parted his hair, until I could see the large gash better. It looked deep, and I was afraid he could have a head injury. “How bad is it?” His voice was grumpy. “I’m not going to a doctor, at least not tonight, anyway.”
“It looks like it went deeper than it should have, and yes, you are going to the doctor. I’ll drive you there. You need stitches.”
But his refusal was adamant. “Maybe in the morning. Not now. Just clean it up, will you, and then bandage it for me.” I stared at my husband’s reflection in the mirror. He was still covered with black soot, and only the whites of his eyes showed against the darkness of his skin.
I pursed my lips together tightly, knowing it would be fruitless to argue. I carefully washed the cut, afraid of hurting him. I wished he would go to the doctor. I thought it might be dangerous to wait until the morning, but I knew he wouldn’t change his mind. Instead, I prayed he would be all right.
“What happened, Eddie?” I had been so concerned about his injury I forgot to ask about the accident.
“I fell asleep and ran into a telephone pole and some guy’s garage.” He told me how he began dozing off, only to wake up enough to continue driving. The next thing he knew, he heard a terrible noise, and then was tossed around the truck cab. When he came to, a man was leaning over him, trying to talk to him. Eddie said he told the man not to call an ambulance. When he got out, he realized he had sheared off a telephone pole just before the truck had plowed through a garage, less than five miles from home.
“Do you realize how fortunate you are? You could have been killed. I’m so glad you’re all right.” I gave him a hug and clung to him, afraid if I let go, it would actually turn out to be worse than it was. “Please, please, stop working so much overtime. You’re killing yourself. Tonight is proof enough of that. What good is all the money in the world if you’re not alive to enjoy it?” I looked into his eyes, pleading with him, hoping the pain and worry in my own eyes would convince him. He looked awful, and any adrenalin from the accident had worn off, because he was clearly exhausted.
“I just want to go to bed, Daleen. My head is killing me.” Eddie moved slowly toward the bed, and as I helped him undress, I thanked God he was still alive.
The next morning came much too soon, but I called Eddie’s parents, telling them about the accident and reassuring them he was all right. Mrs. Leigh was upset, though, because I hadn’t called her sooner. I told her it wouldn’t have done any good, and would have only gotten them out of bed.
“Besides, Eddie wouldn’t go to the doctor, because he said it’s just a cut.”
“I’ll be right up to see him,” Mrs. Leigh said.
Within a few minutes she was there, and after seeing the gash, she grew agitated, telling Eddie he better go to the doctor. He finally gave in, saying he would go—just to make her happy. I drove him there but after an exam, the doctor said the cut wasn’t as bad as it looked, and just bandaged it up.
Eddie didn’t seem to suffer any side effects of his head injury, but after that things just snowballed out of control. I was defrosting the fridge one day when I heard someone screaming. Rushing toward the front door, I saw my next-door neighbor. “Daleen, get out! Your trailer’s on fire!” Ruby screamed.
I froze. It took a fraction of a second for her words to sink in. Finally able to move, I ran outside and looked in the direction she was pointing. “Down there. Look!” she yelled.
I saw bright yellow and red flames crawling out from under the back of the trailer. “Oh no!” I cried. “Call the fire department, quick!”
“I already called! They’re on their way,” Ruby said.
“They’ll never make it!” I knew the fire department was only a few miles away, but it was also staffed with volunteers who had nine-to-five jobs and families to feed. “It’ll burn down before they arrive!” I ran toward the trailer then, knowing it would be fully engulfed any second.
All our belongings—childhood mementos, wedding gifts, Eddie’s new stereo, my new sewing machine, the newly purchased drapes and carpeting, and everything else that was in there—were going up in flames.
But the smoke was already building up inside, and I knew I couldn’t endanger my unborn child: we could replace the material goods, but not the baby. I didn’t realize I was crying until Judy yelled for me again, asking if I wanted to use her phone.
With shaking hands, I dialed Eddie’s work number. “Arkwright Number 2,” a voice answered.
“My husband, Eddie Leigh. Can you get a message to him? Tell him our trailer’s on fire!”
Then I went outside, to stand with the crowd of gathering neighbors and the volunteer firefighters who had just arrived. I looked at the trailer, which was covered with red-hot flames. Their tendrils reached toward the surrounding trees and smoke poured out, blanketing everything it touched. I looked around and watched as our home went up in flames.
I had escaped with my life, and I knew that was what was most important, but I still felt like I should have done something. I had let everything burn. My favorite childhood belongings were gone: old school papers, saved from first grade through graduation; the fabric I brought home from Jordan a year earlier; all kinds of books I had read or planned to read, and my journals.
I was devastated by the loss of my journals, which I’d kept since I was twelve, writing reflections about life on their pages. They contained my hopes and my dreams, and my insight into the people, places and things around me. They drew a line of the life I had lived, almost like a roadmap. Sometimes, when I meditated on something from the past, I went back and read the passage where I had poured words onto paper. Reading what I had written there helped me to sort out my thoughts and put everything in perspective. It wasn’t a loss to anyone else, and of no monetary value, but those written words were part of me. They helped me understand myself. As I stood there watching them burn, I wondered how I would ever make sense of my world without them.
We moved in with Eddie’s parents after the fire, so we were in his old bedroom when I went into labor in early December. For the last few months, the baby had been determined to let me know it was there. It would begin to move around, kicking me in the ribs and causing mini camel humps all over my balloon belly.
At Lamaze classes, I felt self-conscious because I knew several other couples from high school. One girl had gotten pregnant during the school year, and got married about the same time I did. The first time I saw her, I felt vaguely uncomfortable. It was impossible for me to keep my due date a secret, since they were all posted on a blackboard. I was horrified when I realized she would know I had gotten pregnant before I was married. I was ashamed about my secret relationship with Eddie, and for getting pregnant. I was afraid she would think I was a slut. Somehow I forced myself to remain cool, as if getting pregnant was something every sixteen-year-old girl did.
Eddie had gotten off work just a few hours before I went into labor, and we were in bed making love. I had begun having back pain during intercourse, and often just the act itself was enough to make me wish we could forego sex. If I experienced pain, I usually grew tens
e and Eddie, sensing the change, would ask if I was all right. When I confessed how painful it was, he said we could stop if I needed to. But he made no effort to do so, so I just gritted my teeth and went through with it.
So that night was the same as the others—he was soon satisfied and sound asleep. I looked at him, torn between love and loathing, but not knowing why. I rolled over so I could be alone with my thoughts.
But later that night, the pain became unbearable. Intense pressure in my lower back woke me up. It hurt so much I couldn’t lie still, so I got out of bed to make some hot tea. The cramps started right away, but I thought it was false labor.
The baby isn’t even due for another month.
But instead of decreasing, as I knew false contractions should, the pain increased until I could no longer stand it. Clutching my stomach, I kneeled over Eddie, trying to wake him up. “Eddie, I think I’m in labor.” I was nearly in tears.
“But you’re not due for another month,” he protested sleepily.
“I know, but I think the baby’s coming,” I moaned.
He bolted upright in bed. “Do you think? I mean, could I have done it, when we made love?
I shrugged, but said nothing. Deep down, I thought the lovemaking was a factor. “I can’t think about that right now,” I snapped.
Or about him. The baby within me needs all my attention.
It took almost an hour to reach the hospital, and I kept thinking about the baby.
If it’s premature, will it be all right? Will they have to put it in an incubator? What if it isn’t developed completely? What will its chances of survival be? Oh please, dear God, let it be all right.
“It’s a girl! You’ve got a beautiful baby girl, folks.” My obstetrician held her up for me to see, after many hours of hard labor.
I took the tiny baby girl the nurse handed to me, marveling at how beautiful she was, and held her against me. A thousand emotions swept through me, from amazement to ferociousness, as she nursed from my breast. When she fell asleep her tiny arms were crossed in front of her, and her little legs were pulled up next to her stomach. I rubbed her head, which had the softest blond fuzz on it. Not much, but enough to know it was there. The baby we later named Mileah looked like she would fit into a breadbox. I loved her the minute I saw her.
Over the course of the next two days, a few high school friends stopped by. Their responses were all the same: “I didn’t know you were pregnant!” “I didn’t know you were married.” “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Carla had broken the news for me, calling them after Mileah was born, because I couldn’t bear to tell anyone. The shame was still too strong. I didn’t want them to know I was a hypocrite, pretending to be a “good” girl, while secretly doing bad things.
When the questions came, I donned my brightest smile and pretended like nothing was wrong. “She’s premature.” I tried to be vague about how many weeks early Mileah had arrived. If their math was good, they could have figured it out, but if not then maybe—just maybe—they wouldn’t.
But some questions were more difficult than others. “I didn’t think you were going to have any kids,” or, “I thought you were going away to study music.”
I found myself torn between guilt and a strong maternal desire to show my beautiful newborn to the world. I let them think I had changed my mind about a lot of things in life, including the decision to get married and have children. If they went away confused about my answers, they were no more confused than I was.
I only knew I had accepted what life had given me. No, I didn’t want children, at least not for several years, after I had accomplished some things in life I wanted for myself. And yes, I was going to study music, but my father’s drinking made sure that didn’t happen. Besides, my life course had been mapped out from age thirteen: I was going to marry the only man I had slept with, for that’s what good girls did. I couldn’t do anything else.
That was something my friends would never know.
When Mileah was two-months-old, I became so sick I could barely get out of bed. My head and stomach hurt, my throat was raw and swollen, and I had a fever when I awoke to the sound of angry voices coming from the living room. I heard a man’s voice, and what sounded like a woman screaming.
I staggered into the living room and saw Eddie leaning forward on the edge of his chair watching television. A quick look told me it was a scene where the bad guy was getting ready to rape a woman. My stomach began turning somersaults.
“Eddie.” He didn’t hear me. “Eddie?” Entranced by the drama, he was oblivious to anything else.
“Eddie.” I called once more and he came over and put his arm around me.
“What are you doing up? You should be sleeping.”
As he helped me back to bed, I looked at him. “Do you think that’s something you should watch?”
“You know how those shows are.” He tried to brush it off, making me feel even worse.
I tried to block out the sounds coming from the TV by covering my head with the blankets, but I still heard enough to know that when it was over, the bad guy had actually succeeded. When Eddie came to me, I feigned sleep. I didn’t want him near me.
Within a week, we began house-hunting. I wanted to have a say in what went on in our home, which wasn’t possible while living with Eddie’s parents. Eventually we found a small garage apartment just across from my old high school. After some fresh paint and wallpaper, it looked nothing like the dingy old apartment it once was. The ivory wallpaper had a flocked design that complimented the plush hunter green carpet. Simple white sheers hung over the window blinds, and the entire effect was peaceful and soothing.
Just a week or two there and we settled into our new routine. Because he didn’t leave for work until late afternoon Eddie slept late in the mornings, while I got up and did housework. When he woke up we loaded Mileah into the car and ran errands, or stayed home together. Mostly, Eddie worked on his truck, adding a new stereo or putting on bigger tires. I often teased him, saying he loved it more than he did me.
After he left for work, I played with Mileah and puttered around the apartment. I loved to clean and organize, or spend my time baking and planning our weekly dinner menus. Since Eddie didn’t get home until after midnight, I went to bed alone during the week. I had long ago learned to dread the nighttime, and was often anxious about Mileah’s safety. I worried someone would break in and rape or murder me, and take her. Our bedroom was just big enough to squeeze in the crib. Having Mileah there made me feel better, since I was close enough to protect her. But I still tried to stay awake until Eddie came home.
He had changed jobs, supposedly to cut back his hours, but before long he began working later and later. I was growing more tired than usual, trying to care for a newborn and a household. Eventually, I was so tired I started to doze off waiting for Eddie, while reading in the rocking chair, or sewing at the kitchen table. I had to swallow my fear just to get a decent night’s sleep. If he wasn’t home by midnight, I turned in, so exhausted I fell asleep right away.
Then came the beginning of a succession of nights that felt like a recurring nightmare.
As if in a dream Eddie came to me, kissing me down there. It took me awhile to wake up and realize what was happening, and I begged him to stop. He did, but only after he was finished. By then I had kicked like a wild animal, to try to get away from him. I quickly learned it was fruitless, because I was no match for Eddie’s size and strength. Besides, that tactic seemed to only heighten his pleasure as he grabbed my legs and held me so I had no chance of escape. Like I had for so many years, I just lay there and hated myself for being such a traitor and giving in to him.
Then he slid up and over me, pinning me beneath him as I asked in a voice devoid of all emotion if he would please let me get my diaphragm. I didn’t want to get pregnant. Most of the time he said nothing, or he said “no,” and I began to struggle against him. It was no good, and any fight on my part only fed his hunger. I sim
ply learned to accept the fact that he was going to do what he wanted anyway.
One hot night when he was finished, I stumbled to the bathroom. When I turned on the light, a stranger stared back at me. I peered dumbly at the marks on the woman there. Bruises covered her neck and breasts and her arms were red and splotchy from where he had held her down. Her lips were puffy and there was an ugly mark on her shoulder.
You are so ugly. I hate you!
Her neck looked terrible. It reminded me of the girls from school, the ones everyone knew by reputation. They would come to school every Monday with those dark, telltale rings on their necks. Sucker bites, they called them.
I hate sucker bites.
I ran cold water on a washcloth and wet my swollen face, averting my eyes so I couldn’t see the mirror. My entire body felt bruised and battered.
Why? Why won’t he listen to me?
I ran the hottest water I could in the bathtub, hoping it would wash away the filth. Then I scrubbed and scrubbed until my skin was almost raw. An hour later, I painfully and slowly climbed out of the tub and put on a clean nightgown, leaving the room bathed in darkness as I returned to bed.
To him.
I turned toward the wall and moved to the very edge of the bed, as far away from him as I could get without falling out. I needn’t have worried. As usual, once his greedy passion was satisfied, he was fast asleep.
My last waking thoughts were of my baby. Since Mileah was only seven-months-old, I knew if I got pregnant, she wouldn’t even be two when that baby came. I didn’t want that. I desperately wanted to give Mileah all of my love.
The next morning I awoke to bright sunshine pouring into the room, but I was greeted with the memory of a horrible nightmare. Eddie was still asleep, his back to me. I felt sore all over. I knew then it hadn’t been a dream. What had happened had been as real as the new day before me.
Oh God, please don’t let me get pregnant.
I thought about my life, and what was happening within my marriage. I knew I didn’t want another baby in the near future, if ever. I still couldn’t face the fact we had some serious problems, but somewhere in my subconscious something told me that bringing another child into our family would be a serious mistake. Besides, Mileah needed all of my time and attention, something I repeatedly tried to tell Eddie. It was useless. He pretended to agree and to respect my feelings. Then he would just do the same thing. Again and again. It had become a cycle.