Fire in Me

by Dawn Mattox

  I thought I was different from my clients and never considered that I might fit the “codependent” profile. At least, not until I told Ashley that I had an interesting CODA case.

  “Have you ever thought about attending a codependence class? You should try it.”

  “Ashley!” My friend had deeply offended me—again—although we had made up with a trip to Java Juice and an “Oh, you're so sweet. You didn't have done that!” belated birthday present. “What would make you say such a thing?” I asked defensively.

  I hate it when Ashley or anyone else tells me what I should do. The minute I hear should, my heels go down and walls go up. I referred women to codependent classes several times a week but was stunned to consider the possibility that I—the one with all the answers—might have issues of my own.

  Ashley and I had launched our kayaks in the upper waters of the Feather River that morning and thrilled to an exhilarating ride through perilous foaming whitecaps as we thundered down the river to a point where the river slows, above Rock Creek Power House. Dragging the kayaks ashore, we tied them to some shrubs. Tired and hungry, we collapsed in the shade of Sandy Beach. Ashley dug out her lunch contribution of falafel and cucumber pita pockets with yogurt sauce, and I added jalapeño-lime potato chips and Oreo cookies.

  I lay back and focused on the spillway, quietly remembering the motorcycle accident that had taken place upriver, my near-death in a watery grave and Chance coming to my rescue.

  Ashley shrugged her shoulders as she opened the bag of cookies. “I went to CODA meetings for about a year after Shane and I were married.”

  Wide-eyed, I slow-mo blinked my disbelief. “You? You're both Christians. Why would you need counseling?”

  “Shane’s biker roots. Not gang related, but he was pretty controlling the first year we were together. I found myself saying ‘yes’ to things he wanted to do when my heart said ‘no.’ He would want to go places or do things that I didn’t feel good about. I blame myself, not him, and figured a little therapy couldn’t hurt. So I checked it out.”

  “And?” I was aghast. Their marriage seemed so sweet.

  Ashley laughed, tossing her hair back, gray eyes dancing. “Shane thought it was wonderful. He said he liked an independent woman who could think for herself. We just got... better.” Ashley went back for thirds on the Oreos. “I’ve got a book I’ll loan you.”

  I groaned silently before conceding. Ashley had only heard the vanilla version of my childhood. I had never dished out the bitter truth.

  “Just read the first chapter,” she said. “If you don’t like it, give it back.”

  Jimmy Hendrix once wrote a song called “Purple Haze.” And while he was almost certainly singing about the colors dancing through his drug-drenched mind, there is a real purple haze that adorns the mountains at twilight in the latter part of summer. I sat on the deck with Ashley's book in my lap, lost in the beauty of lilac skies and magenta-streaked clouds hanging over the coastal range, watching them diffuse into deepening shades of lavender and casting an amethyst glow on the trunks of pines and firs. This fleeting moment of tranquility is not unlike the “golden hour” that blesses the twilight hours in spring the same way “purple haze” graces the final weeks of summer.

  Knowing Ashley would require a book review, I opened the book and began. The prologue left me in tears. Kissme sat in my lap licking the back of my hand. I was stunned that someone had written a book about me.

  “You have one new message and three saved messages,” the phone responded to my touch on the button. Bored and lonely, with nothing of interest on the 600-plus TV channels, I listened to the messages. It was the beginning of another lonely weekend and Chance’s voice resonated in the hollow places in my heart.

  “Hi, Sunny. It’s me, Chance. The weather is perect. I thought maybe I'd take the boat out tomorrow. I was hoping you might want to go with me. You know, just for a few hours. Sunny, please pick up the phone. Even if you say 'No,' I’ll understand. Just... call me back, okay?” followed by a deep intake of breath. “I think it’s time we talk or walk. It's your choice, and I'll respect it. Okay?” Click.

  I indulged in a fanciful flight of thought and a nasty feeling of power knowing that I could let him stew and payback some misery. But then again, I am an advocate. My life's calling is to end suffering, not feed it. I abhor abuse of those who are vulnerable, and I am not a predator.

  The truth was laid out in black and white. After finishing Ashley's book, I made the decision to attend my first Codependent's Anonymous meeting. But first, I needed to talk with my pastor.

  God's timing is always perfect, I acknowledged to myself as I met with Mac. I had been doing so weekly. Except when I skipped once–or twice. I always brought questions, and he always let me take the lead, never directing, just guiding.

  “Pastor Mac!” I called as he headed inside to lead the weekly community AA meeting. We still had about twenty minutes.

  “Hey, Sunny. Nice to see you. If I knew you were coming, I would have got here sooner.”

  “Thanks. I'm sorry I’ve been such a flake.”

  Unlike me, Mac is reliable. He gave me his usual pastoral hug and chuckled, “You're not a flake. You don't hurt me when we don't meet. You only hurt yourself.” I sighed, adding a five-pound chunk of guilt to the emotional garbage bag I dragged behind me through life. “Are you talking to Chance yet?” he asked, as we entered the little building.

  “Was it you that got him to move back into his old house?” I helped unfold chairs and set up for the meeting.

  Mac stopped what he was doing and looked up, breaking through my defenses with a moment of silent consideration. “It's good to face your past. We have to make peace with our past in order to see our future. I'm sure your work teaches you that.”

  It took a moment for me to digest that. “I was thinking about attending a CODA meeting and wanted to ask your thoughts about secular twelve-step programs.”

  He had unfolded the last chair before he turned to give me the full weight of his attention. “Well, that depends. Who is your Higher Power?”

  The back of the parking lot provided cover as I scanned the people walking indoors. My pride was poised to bolt. Referring other people to these meetings is easy. It never occurred to me that they might be afraid or embarrassed.

  As challenging and humbling as it is to admit to a group that you have a problem, the hardest part is admitting to yourself that the problem exists. Denial is the greatest obstacle to success in any recovery program.

  It turned out to be a great meeting attended by caring people. I learned that I had given Chance complete control over my happiness. My happiness was dependent on his choices.

  If Chance repented... if Chance had been faithful... if Chance wants to keep the marriage... then...

  I had given him absolute power over my life and realized that it was time for Sunny to make some choices of her own. I knew I had it in me to make difficult decisions. After all, I had left Logan at the risk of being beaten to death, or worse.

  I tried to process the night's CODA message as I drove home from Chico. Moonlight skipped through the car’s open moon-roof, peeking in and out of scattered cotton ball puffs of clouds and bathing the hills with a pale yellow light. The warm air was rich with the last-days-of-summer smell of over-ripe, parched grasses longing for rain.

  Lord, help me to understand that Step One in every twelve-step program is the realization that I am powerless to change anyone but myself. Help me remember that I am whole, healthy, and complete, I prayed, declaring aloud, “I am cake,” imagining marriage as icing on the cake. My stomach sidetracked my brain at the analogy as images of chocolate cake and carrot cake flitted through my holy meditation. I had dropped God for a cake fantasy. I sighed. “Sorry Lord.” I visualized yet another withdrawal on my heavenly bank register. I am frequently diverted by worldly things when trying to communicate with God. It leaves me feeling insincere, guilty, and certain that I will never live long
enough to become a Prayer Warrior. Prayer Whiner, definitely. Prayer Warrior? Maybe not.

  My favorite disaster movie has a scene with an incoming nuclear bomb. The entire family is scurrying to take cover in the basement—except for the mother, who is climbing the stairs to make the beds. I loved this woman and thought she was the only sane one in the house. Then again, maybe she just shares my propensity for disassociation.

  I stared dully at the phone, mesmerized by the blinking light until Kissme jumped on my lap and called me back from another dimension. What to do? I needed a safe house, but not like the one in Feather Falls. Not even a bomb shelter could protect me from myself.

  So I sat staring at the answering machine while considering my options. How was I going to spend my weekend? I could stay home and put on some country he-done-me-wrong songs, or maybe pull a blanket over my head and get sucked into a black hole. I could be my own best friend and invite myself to a pity party. Or—my personal favorite—I could devour an entire carton of Ben & Jerry's Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough ice cream in one sitting without regret. Then again, I thought wistfully, I could call Travis... probably best not to dwell on that scenario.

  Okay. I could listen to Chance without forgiving him, right? And too, I missed being out on the water. The peace, the freshness, and okay, I guess I missed Chance a little bit too.

  “Okay, Lord. What am I supposed to do? CODA says I can't change Chance. How can I ever trust him again?”

  “You can’t,” came the firm voice I had heard while hanging on the side of a cliff.

  “Then, how can I make him take responsibility?”

  “You can’t,” came another strident word from God.

  “Then how can I ever feel safe again?”

  “Trust Me.” This time the voice was a soft whisper, as soft as a feather on the heart.

  After an hour-long discourse with God, I still couldn’t get the Creator of the Universe to change his mind. I finally conceded that I couldn't change God and I was powerless to control my husband. Whatever Chance decides to do... he will do.

  I was starting to accept that the only thing I have any control over in life, are my own choices. I may not have control over an event, but I have complete control over how I respond. So, I could slide a little farther down that slippery slope of despair, or I could spend a day on the lake.

  I called Chance.

  CHAPTER 20

  Carrie Talbot was a pleasant looking woman, but her charm was lost beneath the swelling on her face and the missing teeth that James Talbot had knocked out. Still recovering from oral surgery, Carrie had the classic black circles under her soft brown eyes, and an upper lip was swollen three times larger than normal. We had spent a lot of time together through her husband’s trial that went forward in spite of her recanting and perjuring herself.

  Unlike sexual assault cases, the prosecutor always has the final word on filing or dismissing domestic violence charges. The intent of this legal authority is to take the burden off the victim. In theory, it prevents the offender from terrorizing the victim into dropping the charges. However, disaster still happens on occasion because abusers think they control everything, including the law.

  Most domestic violence victims don't want their man to go to jail. They just want the violence to stop. More than half of all female victims recant. Some do it out of hope. Some call it love. Some victims just need the car fixed, the rent paid, or help with the kids. Then there are other’s—like Carrie and me—who recant out of fear of retaliation. We know that anyone who has half beaten you to death is entirely capable of finishing the job.

  Carrie looked me in the eye and began, “We were arguing... tripped and fell on the corner of the coffee table...”

  ...except your injuries tell me he smashed you in the face... no sharp corners.

  In spite of her perjuring herself, the jury found James guilty of Penal Code Section 273.5, felony domestic violence, punishable by three years in state prison. But, it was his first (recorded) offense—and his attorney was the best that James’s (drug) money could buy—and his Mama (it’s always the mom) stood up and told everyone what a Godsend James was (a real gem)—and that his children needed him. In truth, his children didn’t want anything to do with him.

  Statistics reveal that his son will grow up to be 1,000 times more likely to be a wife-beater and his daughter will be 67% more likely to be battered than if they had been raised in a nonviolent home.

  Carrie thought she deserved her beating. “I started it,” she said. “I knew he was upset when he got fired from work at the cannery. He always said his boss was a jerk. I shouldn’t have nagged him about the bills.”

  Carrie had many reasons for blaming herself, but none of them justified a beating. James Talbot was clearly a dangerous man.

  Domestic violence makes up twenty-one percent of all crime in California, with thirty percent of female homicides committed by their intimate partner. An in-depth study was done to assess whether certain contributing factors might increase domestic violence in the U.S. The survey wanted to know if men living in the north beat women more often than men who lived in southern states, or if low-income males battered women more frequently than their wealthy counterparts. It also examined different racial and cultural differences. It was an exhaustive study, and in the end, there was only one common denominator. Men who beat women were consistently found to be “some of the nicest people you could ever hope to meet.” Charisma was the one common denominator. These guys could sell cookies to Girl Scouts.

  “Carrie, there was nothing you could have done to prevent this,” I said, referring to the latest beating. If you didn’t need rent money, it would have been the kids fighting, or the TV too loud, or burning dinner.” Her eyes widened as if I were a psychic reading her private life.

  Blaming herself was easier than blaming James. She could always change her behavior and self-blame seemed a safer option than accusing him.

  James was almost twenty years older than Carrie when they met, but Carrie didn’t care. James was the sweetest man she had ever met, and besides, “he wanted to make a baby” with her. Carrie knew this was real love; and as much as it upset James—and he did get angry—she insisted on saving her virginity for the wedding night. So, they kept the mandatory appointment with a counselor, proclaiming undying love for one another, and then appeared before a superior court judge. Her mother, slightly sloshed, also appeared to give parental consent for her minor child to marry “this excellent man.”

  After a quick marriage before the County Clerk, they went back to James’s house where she was promptly raped, beaten, and thrown naked out the front door with James locking the door behind her. Terrified and shivering, she had desperately banged on the door begging to be let in.

  Late that night, Carrie grabbed a t-shirt from the rag-bag next to James’s show car, put it on and ran three blocks to her girlfriend’s house. The girlfriend had a party going on. “Yeah, come on in.” There was plenty of pot and beer for everyone.

  There was also a sweet boy, Hector Sanchez, who was more than happy to comfort her—all night long. Hector left in the morning, agreeing to meet Carrie around noon at Bedrock Park, located along the river below the dam. Carrie had borrowed her girlfriend’s clothes, unaware that as she did do, James was walking up the steps to the sheriff’s office with a .38 Special tucked in the back of his Levis. James tried to report Carrie as a runaway minor but was told that he couldn’t since they were married. He could, however, file a missing person's report, but they would not investigate it until the person has been missing for forty-eight to seventy-two hours.

  James went back to his car and started cruising around Oroville until he spotted Carrie walking into the park. It was Easter Sunday and there was Hector, all smiles, sitting on top of the bleachers—until he saw James striding through the crowd of happy picnickers with a gun in his hand. Hector dove for cover, but not before a fatal shot hit him in the chest.

  Carrie sent divorce pa
pers that were hand-delivered by the prison C.O. on Third Watch, but no one told her that James had promptly set the papers on fire and clogged the toilet by flushing the remains.

  From then on, every Easter James sent Carrie a handmade greeting card with a sketch of the park; including the bleachers where Hector had died and an ominous trash dumpster off to one side. They were lovely cards depicting birds singing in the trees, butterflies and flowers, the river sparkling—and always, a rainbow that stretched from the bleachers to the dumpster. His therapist loved the cards and thought they showed an improvement in James’s character, but Carrie was terrified.

  James was out of prison in less than three years due to an error in jury instructions and went home to live with his wife.

  They created two children over the next five years, offspring of conjugal visits during his return trips to prison for domestic violence and possession of methamphetamine. His PO also found firearms, which are illegal for parolees and anyone convicted of domestic violence. James regularly committed both crimes, choosing the fast-track revolving prison door over compliance.

  Carrie grew increasingly terrified of leaving him. She reasoned that being a punching bag was better than being a corpse. James had always found her: when she had moved to her aunt’s home Indiana, when she moved to Las Vegas and got a job, and even when she moved with a coworker to Alabama. James always found her and always collected his property, which was how he viewed his family. Each time he hauled them home to Durham, a little farming community just south of Chico.