The Road Through Wonderland

by Dawn Schiller

  The woman visibly trembles. Looking back and forth from me to her husband, she has no idea what to do.

  Crack, snap, rustle, rustle. The noises from the brush are right behind me.

  “Open the door! Hurry! Open the door! He’s behind her!” the elderly man in the driver’s seat shouts urgently. “He’s right behind her! Hurry!”

  The lady fumbles for the lock, her gnarled fingers pulling deftly at the handle. The door swings open, and I scramble into the backseat, a rush of wind pushing me in with the slamming of the car door.

  “Thank you! Oh, thank you!” I weep with relief, my body convulsing with the flow of adrenaline that still courses through my veins.

  “There he is!” the gray-haired man shouts, stepping on the gas and barreling onto the freeway. “Let’s get out of here!”

  “We saw a guy chasing her on the side of the freeway, so we turned around to see if we could help,” the old man reports to the police.

  I sit trembling, in shock, clutching a scratchy wool blanket an officer has handed me. My elbows, knees, and back are bleeding from my fall out of the car. The bottom of my shoeless foot is bruised and swollen, and skin is missing from the top of my big toe. I have already told the police everything that happened: everything except the part about John beating me and sending me out on the street. “We just had an argument. He pushed me a little, and I, I wanted to go to my friend’s house.”

  “You’re a lucky girl.” The officer at the desk taps his pen on the stack of papers in front of him. “Truckers saw you but couldn’t stop, so they called it in. We had someone on the way, but it only takes a few seconds for something really bad to happen. Like I said, you’re a lucky girl. Now, where can we take you? Your family’s not in California, right?”

  “No. No family here.”

  “To your boyfriend’s then? Maybe he’s calmed down by now.”

  “Okay. Yeah. T, t, to my boyfriend’s room, please. I guess that’s okay,” I stammer. I am exhausted and again have nowhere else to go. John, I call out in my head. John. I just want you to hold me like you used to. Hold me in your arms and keep me safe. Please don’t be mad anymore. Please, John. My God, I was almost killed.

  I watch the desert sun rise outside a gray cement window behind the officer’s desk and realize how I nearly missed seeing this morning. This very light could have found me lying dead in the thick dry brush on the side of the freeway.

  Nothing can be worse than this. I’m sure of it.

  The police car pulls up next to the Chevy Malibu in front of the warped and water-stained orange door to our room. One of the officers knocks while I wait in the backseat. I hear Thor barking and get excited. Moments later, John sleepily opens the door, shirtless, scratching the shaggy curls on his head. The officer speaks to him briefly, then gives his partner a nod.

  “Thanks, officers,” John calls brightly, waving with his other arm tucked around me protectively. Their car pulls off, and John guides me inside.

  I sit on the bed, wanting to lie down and sleep. Thor sweetly dances for my attention, hopping about like a Mexican jumping bean. “Hey, little guy.” I bend to pick him up and kiss his little cheek. “My goodness, Thor! You sure have started to turn white.” I think about what I will see if I look in the mirror. John is in the bathroom taking a pee. The toilet flushes, and I look up to greet him with a faint smile. He says nothing.

  “John, I…”

  “Shut up!”

  I freeze. No! No! my mind screams. This isn’t what he’s supposed to say. No! God! Not again. I have no strength. No energy left to fight. No heart to battle what I know, but can’t believe, is coming once again: John’s violent hand. Before his body strikes mine, I close my eyes and curl into a ball, covering my head. Over and over, his fists hit my back, sides, and neck.

  For the first time ever, I hear Thor growl at John and I catch a glimpse of the small champion charging at his flailing hands. I barely raise my head in time to see Thor’s tiny body hit the wall, give a breathless yelp, and slide lifeless to the floor. Slipping off the bed I try to crawl where Thor lies in a puddle where he fell; then I feel the swift kicks of John’s boot ram into my ribs.

  Like a child about to rest in her mother’s arms, I curl into a fetal position again while John yells like a crazy man, a stranger. “You were asking for it, weren’t you? You wanted him to rape you. You little whore.”

  The battering continues over and over into my right rib cage till I hear a snap and then…then I block all pain from my mind, leaving nothing but the thudding sound of his boot reverberating against my side. I don’t know how long it lasts or when it stops. I only remember relief when I hear the door slam behind him, the car start up and drive off.

  Squeezing my eyes shut, I want to disappear; I want the world to go away. The cruelty, the violence—I don’t understand any of it. I am hurt. I know it, but I’m not going to look at my body. Never get up; never move again, I tell myself, forcing down the pain.

  I wish myself into hopeless oblivion, pressing deeper into a fetal ball, never wanting to see the world again. A strange shivering warmth touches my cheek; lightly, delicately, timidly at first. Then with more persistence, the warmth pushes again until the shivering furry face presses so hard and intense that I have no choice but to roll my face toward it. A thick veil of sweat-and blood-drenched hair is stuck to my cheek, covering my eyes. I try to lift my head to see and let out a moan. The warmth presses harder, more desperate into me, and I open my eyes. Blurred, and through strands of sodden hair, I see him. “Thor!” I feel my heart take a beat again, and tears spill onto the old, filthy carpet. It is Thor. He is alive and in pain, crawling on his belly over to see if I am all right. He licks my tears and wags his tail, snuggling under my long, matted hair, reminding me, like an angel, that I am loved and not alone. We both lie close, burrowed unmoving into each other, until we eventually fall asleep.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  My Name Is…Dawn

  La, la.

  La, la.

  Pretty bird.

  Oh, you poor thing.

  The thorny cage

  prick your wing?

  La, la.

  Pretty bird.

  Poor thing.

  Flapping about,

  On one crippled wing.

  La, la.

  Don’t feel so pretty.

  Sorry thing.

  Smell the sweets

  But can’t reach your swing.

  La, la.

  Pity bird

  Withering…

  Surprised no one hears?

  You thought you could sing?

  La, la.

  So sad. Pretty bird…

  Dead thing.

  My poetry comes dark, full of self-loathing. How could it be anything else? Once I was a queen in his arms, beautiful and prized; now I’m alone and broken like an old discarded doll. My mind, my only sanctuary, is no longer safe.

  I stay very still, afraid to sit straight because of the stabbing pain in my ribs. My head slumps over onto my chest as I stare numbly from my paper on the bed to a long, red welt on the inside of my leg. I feel sad, tired, and old—ancient, in fact. I get it now, I tell myself. I finally get it. If I don’t resist, he won’t hit me anymore. Thor, my little hero, stays glued to my side. Little man, little man, I speak to him silently with my eyes, how is it you can keep me caring…about anything? You’re so sweet. I stroke his wrinkled, worried brow and flash briefly on the rainy day when John and Sharon let me bring him home for the first time. Nestled in my arms under the warmth of my Mexican poncho, his tiny, shivering, hairless body ached to be loved with every ounce of his being, and we bonded instantly. “Yes, we are still kindred spirits, aren’t we, boy?” He closes his eyes.

  When John comes back late in the evening, I am in bed and the room is dark. Keeping the lights off, he undresses in a few swift moves, crawls under the covers, and quickly turns his back to me. Thor and I lie motionless. God, please don’t let him touch me. I cr
inge as he rolls onto his side. Thankfully, he doesn’t, and instead acts as if his feelings are hurt, covering us in a blanket of silence.

  In the morning John continues to mope, banging around the shabby rented room with loud noises and jerks. A stained chair falls against the splintered desk and over onto the floor. Slowly, he becomes aware he has no audience and registers my mental absence…the severity of my injuries. Through his creased and bloodshot eyes, John sees I’m not moving and my trips to the bathroom are labored; I’m bent over in pain.

  My own eyes, though swollen, tell me he is out of dope again. Half-assed, he tests me to see if I am faking, casually asking me to hand him an ashtray or a match. Ignoring him, I tell him flatly, “My ribs are broken, John.”

  He locks eyes with mine and, for one desperate moment, looks frightened and lost. We both know from the gleaned medical knowledge we picked up from Sharon that there is nothing you can do for broken ribs except to keep them immobile enough to heal. I might be stuck here, I tell myself as I turn my back on him, but he doesn’t have to be important to me anymore.

  In the days that follow, John realizes how badly he has beaten me and is apologetic, loving, even doting again. He’s really scared. I can sense it and am curious at his vulnerability. As with every other time when an episode of abuse ends and he finally comes down from his high, remorse consumes him. But this time the reality of how close he came…to killing me…strikes a twisted sense of panic in him.

  He brings Thor and me food, gives me Valium to help me sleep through the pain, and carries me to the bathroom when I need it. He is nervous and jumpy. He tries to crack awkward jokes, hoping I will respond with something—a smile or a nod, some gesture that will relieve his terrible mounting guilt. He looks like a gangly monkey, I note, still not connecting him to anyone familiar.

  John kneels down beside me on the bed, reaches for my arm, and begins massaging. “Baby?” he chokes and moves in to hold me. “I love you.” His head presses hard against my chest, and he melts down into my lap with a groan when he realizes I’m not responding as I always have when he’s said those words to me. He knows those are the words that move me. It is the love I live for that he manipulates. I freeze and then robotically touch a curl of his dirty blond hair that lies needy; he is more like an unkempt stray dog in my lap than a man I love. An audible sigh escapes him as he wraps his body around me, thinking my resistance has softened, careful not to disturb my ribs. I allow him to draw me a bath and brush the tangles from my hair, hiding the clumps that he has pulled out, as if I can’t see. Putting on his best performance, John moves in to make love to me. I let him guide me through the motions, my arms and legs lifeless, limp like straw. He pours desperate kisses over my naked skin, across my breasts, down my sunken belly. His eyes are closed, and his mouth is pursed tight as he displays for me his erotic movie face. I stare at him as if he’s a stranger. His pounding slaps the headboard above me, sounding oddly like distant hammering, until he is sweaty and spent, holding me as if we have made passionate love.

  Thor, who once loved and trusted John with all his little might, now moves warily from him, jumping in fear at every move he makes. John makes an effort to try and be gentler and more playful until, nervously, Thor complies. His tiny legs dance halfheartedly, like a run-down windup toy’s. John knows he has broken more than bones this time. He seems aware that he has fractured the most innocent of hearts and with feeble, stumbling attempts, tries to pick up the shattered pieces.

  I can tell from John’s movements that he will be going out again soon and he is trying to make it okay by being overly nice and fussing over me. My stomach tightens when I see the signs that the insanity is about to begin all over again. I keep ignoring him, though. I don’t believe any of his lies anymore, and they are all lies. I am actually glad to have what I guess will be at least a couple days alone.

  “I’ll be back as soon as I can, baby,” he says, sweating and looking like he can’t stand to be in his own skin. He bends down to kiss me good-bye. I recoil at his gesture of intimacy. Don’t kiss me on the mouth. I turn my cheek toward him instead. He backs up, sadness flashing in his eyes for a moment; then without hesitation he shrugs it off, grabs his briefcase, and walks out the door.

  As the car chokes then sputters off, my stomach unwinds. I’m relieved that he is finally gone. Then panic seizes me. Did I let my guard down too far? The thought that he might be outside shoots me off the bed like a bolt of lightning, and I run for the window.

  Snap! The loud sound like a breaking tree branch reverberates inside me.

  “Ohh! My ribs!” I cry out into the darkened room, doubling over in pain from the rebreaking of my bones. Falling against the window, I clutch awkwardly at the sill and push off toward the bed, not daring to breathe. I drop onto the slippery polyester spread, pop a Valium, and try not to think about the burning fire in my side, the searing pain in my heart—or the fact that tonight is Christmas Eve.

  John comes back the next morning, just before checkout time, high as a kite. “Come on, baby. We gotta get out of here!” He is frantic and reeks of sour sweat.

  Mmmmm. Shit, I think, rolling over onto my good side to try to shake the Valium off. Reluctant to leave my dream state for the reality of being with John, I lie perfectly still, until the clamor of the midday traffic forces its bleak way into the room. I keep my eyes squeezed shut anyway.

  Then the memory that it is Christmas comes over me, and for a brief moment a dream appears…a tiny hope. Maybe, just maybe, we will go home and see Sharon today and have some kind of celebration. A welcome image appears behind my resistant eyelids. It is our old house—John’s, Sharon’s, and mine. The door is open…beckoning. Our once-treasured red stockings glisten with the gold of our names: John, Sharon, and Dawn. They hang over the stone fireplace behind a slightly crooked Scotch pine decorated to the brim with the bright and silly ornaments we’ve collected over the years…

  Light burns its way in, disrupting the warmth of my fantasy and forcing me to open my eyes. John’s face is sweaty. He is biting his lip and, with one look at him, I feel my dreams wash away. It doesn’t look like he got much from Eddie, I notice, disheartened.

  I roll out of bed, stiff and sore, trying to be careful not to shift my ribs again. Eddie has been strict with John ever since he bailed him out of jail. Their relationship has changed on another level as well. John doesn’t act confident, like the favorite child, anymore. Does Eddie still trust John? I wonder. He looks dope sick every time he comes back from a run at Eddie’s—ever since that night.

  When Eddie Nash gets mad, John gets very scared. “We owe him,” John keeps repeating, but the money isn’t the only pressure he gets from the house on Dona Lola Drive. Eddie wants to know who that other voice on the phone was—the one who referred to him as John’s brother.

  John grabs up our things from around the room and begins throwing them into plastic bags. “Take a shower before we go. It may be a while before we get another room.”

  Here we go again, I think with a sinking heart. I don’t want to know anything else, and I do as I am told. Gingerly I move to make my way to the bathroom, mildly surprised that my body is feeling better. I watch hypnotically the steaming water cascade over the diminished bruise marks on my side, running my hand slowly down the length of my ribs. My fingers fumble around a large circle of calcium that is forming over the break, keeping me sorely aware that my injuries are real.

  John has my clothes set out on the bed. Jeans, tennis shoes, and an oversized gray University of Oregon sweatshirt. “Put this on,” he says as if he’s talking to an assistant. Again, I do as I am told. Happy to be wearing warm clothes, I sit on the edge of the bed and, with difficulty, comb my long, wet hair.

  John packs the rest of our things in the car and comes in to sit next to me on the bed. He opens his briefcase and uneasily lights the pipe, baking the sides of the stem to melt down the brownish residue that clings to the glass. He manages a large cloud of smoke and un
characteristically puts the pipe to my lips. “Here. Suck.” He offers me the first pull of freebase.

  I draw the billowing smoke into my lungs, feeling the stab of my right side catch my breath and stop me halfway. I choke back air, squeeze my eyes shut, and fall on the bed to search for that blissful numbing oblivion when John, anxious for some of the high, reaches down to suck my breath into his.

  “Is that good, baby?” he asks after a while.

  I don’t answer; only barely nod.

  Without a sound, John closes his briefcase, helps me up, and escorts me to the waiting car. Latching on to what bit of high I can, I try to stay numb but can’t resist stealing a final peek over at Frosty’s door and whispering a silent good-bye. Good luck.

  On the side of the road off of Dona Pegita, a street near Dona Lola Drive, John finds a vacant spot under a thick patch of eucalyptus trees. He parks the Malibu, sets up his brown Samsonite briefcase between us, and lights the pipe, once again melting down the darkened resin from the glass and the screens. The glass reddens with the heat and looks ready to explode as he attempts to drain every drop of the drug from a bone-empty pipe, this time blowing only gases of burnt screen ash into my mouth.

  So this is Christmas, I say to myself flatly as I watch John manipulate the pipe. What did I expect? My body begins to hurt again. I am moving around more than I should and the drugs, what little there are, have worn off. I desperately want to be numb again, and watching John’s frantic scrapings of the pipe only makes it worse. I turn away from him, lay my head back against the sticky vinyl car seat, and stare at the grimy headliner.

  “He wants to see you,” John finally says to me, not looking up, and spits a piece of tobacco from his mouth.

  My heart pumps loudly at his words. “Wh, wh, who?”

  “Nash,” he says, using Eddie’s last name. He spits again.