The police? No. As much as I hated Derek, I could never send him back to prison. A reasonable person would tell me just to call the police already and to hell with him, but somewhere deep inside of me, the idea of sending him back to that place, where everything in his life was destroyed, was too much for me to bear.
I was at the end of my short list. There was no one else I could call. I wasn't going anywhere tonight.
Derek’s snores reached me from our bedroom, all the way to my spot on the dining room floor. He went to sleep, unbothered, and left me, lying on the dining room floor, unconscious and in a pool of my own blood. No obscenities seemed of high enough caliber for what my husband had done tonight.
I rolled up onto my hands and knees, which seemed no worse for the wear, and crawled into the living room, stopping several times to rest and make sure I hadn't started bleeding again. Then I dragged myself up onto the couch, curled up into a ball, and passed out again.
The next morning, I wasn't sure what woke me, the excruciating pain radiating throughout my entire body or the intensely bright sunlight peeking through the cracks of the blinds. I made it into a sitting position and let the room settle before making any other movements.
I twisted my head to the right and then to the left, feeling the familiar soreness that came with a strong blow to the head. When I tried to stand up, even though I moved at a snail's pace, the room began to spin and my head pounded. I dropped back down onto the couch with a thump and let out a cry of pain as the couch cushions, soft as they were, mashed into my side where I’d hit the table. It wasn't a good sign — that much I knew. It took me three more attempts before I successfully made it to my feet, adopting a half-standing, half-hunched over position.
I checked the bedroom only to find Derek had gone. That was it — he would be gone for three weeks.
No goodbye. No "I'm sorry”. Nothing. Not that I had expected as much.
I wondered what he thought this morning when he looked at himself in the mirror. He must have seen me lying on the couch, dried blood on my face. Did he have any feelings of regret? Was he at all sorry for what he’d done?
In all the books that I’d read about abuse in relationships, there was supposed to be a tremendous amount of guilt on behalf of the abuser. It was almost as though the abuser didn't want to become violent, but he didn't have a choice. Yet, I didn't see that at all with Derek. It was as though he relished the violent behavior, as though it was a release for him.
I showered as quickly as my body allowed, not because I was in a hurry, but because it hurt too much to stand upright for any length of time. My head was still pounding and it felt as though someone had driven a knife between my ribs, tearing them apart. The hot water did little to ease the pain.
It was impossible to lift my arms up even a little bit — certainly not high enough to pull a shirt over my head. I located the only two button-up shirts I had in my closet; chose one and put it on carefully. It took me several tries to get my pants on, though.
When I was dressed, I lay down on the bed, needing to rest for several minutes before I could stand up again. Then I went back to the bathroom and caked as much make-up as was necessary to hide the bruising around my nose and under my eyes. Close up they would be visible, but from a few feet away no one would be the wiser.
Finally, ready to leave for work, I walked into the dining room. The table was back in its spot, the exact place it had been since the day Derek and I moved into this house. A small streak of blood stained the floor; the only bit of evidence of the attack. Other than that, my husband had put everything in the room back as though last night had never happened. I was surprised by the gesture but also deeply saddened. Perhaps he did feel some guilt — but not enough to do anything else other than right the furniture.
"If only it were that easy for me...to pretend as though last night didn't ever happen," I whispered to the empty room.
I drank a quick cup of coffee, willing my head to clear, and slowly made my way out the door to work.
I didn't find Landon standing outside Turning Point waiting for me. Instead, he was inside, arranging a bouquet of red roses on the counter. Two cups of coffee sat next to a heaping plate of muffins. He heard me walk in and turned around with a sweet smile. I held onto the door handle for strength as I took in the scene before me.
"Do you like them?" He pointed at the flowers. "I've never bought a woman flowers before, but I heard that roses were a good choice."
He was incredible.
"They're beautiful, Landon. What's the occasion?"
"You."
"Me?" I asked, surprised by his answer. "I'm not an occasion."
"You are to me."
He stepped toward me, his arms opened to embrace me, but I held up my hand to stop him. I closed the door behind me and leaned on it for support, afraid I was going to topple over at any moment.
"I'm not feeling well, Landon."
Instantly, concern replaced his look of happiness. This exact moment, this change in him, was exactly why I had not picked up the phone and called him last night.
"What's wrong, Belle? What happened?"
The flu excuse was not going to work a second time, especially now that he knew about Derek. Landon was suddenly standing much too close. I recognized the moment his eyes snagged on my new injuries.
“Belle… what happened to your face?” When I didn't answer him right away, he reached out to pull me in the door. He was only concerned about me. I knew that. But as he reached out, he grabbed my side. I screamed and collapsed on the floor.
Landon dropped down next to me. He smoothed the hair out of my face as I rocked back and forth, sobbing and gasping for air. I leaned on the door, feeling the cool wood against my face.
"What's wrong?" He asked with panic resonating in his voice. "What did he do to you?"
I wasn't able to get a coherent word out, only moan and cry. Short of breath and shaking, tears spilled down my cheeks.
Then this young man, who I’d accused of never being able to handle such grown-up drama, scooped me up in his arms and carried me out of the store. He placed me gently in the passenger seat of his pickup truck, fastening my seat belt in place as though I was a child. He ran back to lock up the store, came back around to the driver's side, and climbed in behind the steering wheel. The engine roared to life.
"Where are you taking me?" I asked breathlessly, only able to get small gulps of air in at one time.
"The hospital."
"Landon, what if they recognize me?"
"Seaside is big enough. You need to see a doctor. I won't take ‘no’ for an answer."
I nodded. "Okay." I was tired of fighting and I knew that he was right.
"Why didn't you call me?" he accused.
"I...couldn't."
We sped away from the curb and he reached out for my hand across the cab. I collapsed against the seat and looked out the window, forcing my breathing to slow and desperately willing last night to have never happened.
"Did he find out about us?" His face was frozen in a worried expression.
"No." I shook my head. "He doesn't know anything."
"Are you sure?"
"If he did...I'd be dead."
Landon gripped my hand tighter. He blew through two stop signs and broke the speed limit all the way there. Yet, he took extra care going around corners and curves. Slowed down so that I wouldn't be hurt further by being jostled around in his truck. On the straight stretches, though, Landon drove so fast that objects on the side of the road blurred.
The Providence Seaside Hospital emergency room was all but deserted this early in the morning. Landon tried to get me into one of the wheelchairs at the main entrance, but I refused, insisting I could walk.
"Can I help you?" The nurse greeted us just a little too brightly, almost as though she was welcoming something to do.
"She needs to see a doctor," Landon shot out. "Right now." I placed my hand on his ch
est in an attempt to calm him down. He didn't need to go around attacking nurses on my account.
The nurse turned to me. "What’s the problem, miss?"
"My hus...someone...I fell and hurt my ribs," I settled on finally. When it seemed as though this information was insignificant and non-emergency worthy, I added, "And they hurt really bad."
"Any shortness of breath? Or pain when you breathe?"
"Yes, both."
The nurse nodded, observed me holding onto my side for dear life, and then scrutinized Landon. When she turned her attention back to me, she looked me up and down. It was unnerving. Her cheerful disposition vanished in an instant, becoming surly and distrusting.
"What happened to your neck?" she asked.
"What?"
"You have bright red marks on your neck. It looks like a handprint. Like you were choked or something." She looked at Landon again, distrust replaced by condemnation.
I looked to Landon for confirmation as he glanced down at my neck. He brought his eyes back to mine and nodded once. My hands went immediately to my throat as I remembered Derek choking me. He left marks?
"Can I just see a doctor?" I insisted.
"Right this way." The nurse turned and motioned for us to follow her. We walked in silence through large double doors and down a hallway lined with examination rooms.
She showed us into a triage room that had a long row of beds along one side, separated by curtains — flimsy, non-soundproof curtains. Apparently, I wasn't sick or hurt enough to warrant a private room, though as far as I could tell they were all sitting empty.
Nurses and doctors gathered around a desk area, drinking coffee and talking, oblivious to our tragedy. They must see injuries like mine all of the time. The group all but ignored Landon and me as we made our way past them, still following our nurse like two lost sheep.
"Slow morning, huh?" I asked her.
She only nodded and showed me to a bed at one end of the room. Then she pulled the curtain around the bed as I sat down on it, giving us privacy.
"When did this happen?" She asked as she took my temperature and measured my blood pressure.
"Last night around seven."
"Dizziness?"
"Yes."
"Vomiting?"
"No."
"Well, that's something, right?" She wrote a long note on my chart, then looked up at me and stated, "The doctor will be right in." She gave me a kind smile, her first since we walked in, and patted my hand. Then she turned, looking down her nose at Landon with disgust and added curtly, "Are you sure you don't want to wait in the waiting room?"
"No." Landon shook his head. "I'm staying with her."
The nurse turned on her heel and stomped out of the curtained room.
Landon, sat down on the doctor's stool, oblivious to the nurse's reaction to him, wheeled over to my side, and took my hand.
"She thinks you did this to me," I informed him.
"I don't care," he shrugged. "As long as you get help, I don't care what anyone thinks."
I searched for something to say, anything to break the tension between us, but when he looked at me, something was missing from his expression. It was almost as if he wanted to be somewhere far away from here — anywhere.
That made two of us.
We sat in silence, his thumb rubbing against the palm of my hand repeatedly. I thought about the previous day; how he hadn't been able to stay away from me, keep his hands off me. Now, he just looked scared. I knew he wanted to run away from all of this. I never wanted him to see this side of my life. It was going to tarnish us, what we had. Everything had changed in our relationship, in the space of an hour.
The doctor came in a few minutes later. He didn't look much older than I did, but despite his age, had a kind and compassionate smile that put me at ease. He looked at both of us as he stated, "Hello, I'm Doctor Lewis."
"Hello," Landon and I responded in unison.
Landon moved out of the doctor's way. Standing behind me now, I could no longer see his expression. If he was trying to hide his horror from me, I was grateful. For just a few minutes at least, neither of us could see the other's face.
"Alright, Mrs. Walters," Doctor Lewis said, replacing Landon on the stool in front of me. "Why don't you tell me what happened?"
"I fell into a table and hit my ribs."
"Tell him the truth, Belle," Landon spoke up behind me.
I turned to him and spoke through my teeth, "I am telling him the truth." I turned back to Doctor Lewis and repeated, "I fell into a table and hit my ribs."
Landon must have opened his mouth to contradict me, but the doctor held up his hand to silence him. Everyone in the room knew that I was lying and there was no reason to argue about it.
"When did this happen?" Doctor Lewis asked me, a skeptical tone in his voice.
"At about seven last night." He rolled forward on the stool and pressed his fingers into my side. I cried out in pain again.
"Pretty tender, huh?"
I winced, unable to speak.
"Any other ribs hurt?"
"No," I answered, finding my voice.
"Do you mind if I take a look?"
I shook my head and helped the doctor open the buttons on my shirt. I heard Landon suck in a quick breath, as the material fell from my shoulders and the bruises came into full view. These marks looked much worse than the last ones he saw. The doctor poked and prodded at the rest of my ribs but they were all intact.
"Well, I don't think they’re broken," Doctor Lewis said, helping me pull my shirt back on. "Maybe separated or just bruised. However, I would like to order x-rays to be on the safe side. Are there any other injuries I need to know about?"
I gestured to my throat.
He looked at the marks on my neck and held my chin in his hand as he examined them more closely.
"They don't hurt," I said, self-consciously covering the marks with my hand.
"Okay," Doctor Lewis responded. "Anything else?"
"I hit my head when I fell...pretty hard."
"Oh my God," Landon whispered from behind me, horrified by what he was seeing and hearing.
"Are you in pain?"
"It hurts, yes."
He pulled out his pen light from the pocket of his white coat and shined it in my eyes. "Any dizziness or blurred vision?"
"Both actually...mostly dizziness."
“Mrs. Walters, I'm going to run a few tests and we'll go from there. Okay?"
Doctor Lewis ordered x-rays and a CAT scan. Each time they wheeled me out of the room, Landon watched me carefully but said absolutely nothing. I remember when I first met him, wanting to get a quick glimpse inside of his mind. Now, I was suddenly afraid of what I might see.
An hour and a half later, I was dozing on the emergency room bed when Doctor Lewis came back to see me. Landon helped me sit up to get the news, good or bad.
"Here's the deal: no broken ribs. That's the good news. However, you do have a mild concussion. I think you're going to be just fine but just to be on the safe side, I don't want you alone for the next few days."
"What does that mean?" I asked, fearing his answer.
"Well, it means that either you have someone stay with you or I'm going to have to admit you to the hospital, at least overnight, so that we can keep an eye on you."
"I'll make sure she’s taken care of," Landon interjected, before I could argue. He stepped around to the front of the bed and looked down at me as he spoke. "Belle doesn't need to be in the hospital. I'll take her home."
"Landon, wait." I stopped him. "Doctor Lewis, are you sure that's really necessary?"
"Head injuries are nothing to mess around with. It's home with him or with me, here in the hospital."
"Okay," I reluctantly agreed and looked back at Landon. "I'll go home."
"One more thing." Doctor Lewis handed me several papers. "Your x-rays showed several older injuries consistent with this kind of abuse. That's for a local battered women's shelter,"
he said, pointing to a pamphlet and card. "You know… if you ever decide you need help."
I motioned to Landon. "He didn't do this to me. I'm just clumsy—"
The doctor held up a hand to stop me. "Mrs. Walters, I see clumsy in here three or four times a week." I swallowed thickly. Now another person, a complete stranger, knew my secret. "Besides, I know your husband. I graduated a couple of years before you did, but I played football with him." He put his hand on my shoulder, trying to comfort me. "None of this is your fault. Derek has had issues for years."
"Please don't say anything to anyone," I begged him, tears filling my eyes.
"I can't — doctor-patient confidentiality. Nevertheless, I do suggest you get help. You got lucky this time."
"Thanks."
"Take care of yourself, Belle. I'll go get your discharge information."
Thirty minutes later, we were in the pickup truck on our way back to Cannon Beach, my ribs taped up and a bag of prescriptions on my lap. The doctor gave Landon instructions to wake me up every hour and told him what kinds of things to look for, if my head injury took a turn for the worse. If things did go downhill, or he was at all concerned, he had orders to bring me right back to the ER.
"You don't have to stay with me," I said as we made our way down the windy coastal highway towards home.
"I promised the doctor I would make sure you were alright."
I looked down at the hospital bracelet that was still looped around my wrist. I twirled it on my arm while I thought about Landon and the mess I’d gotten myself into. He wasn't holding my hand this time. Both of his hands gripped the steering wheel, as though he was hanging on for dear life. His skin, stretched so tightly across his knuckles that it was cutting off the circulation, looked white. The color matched his face, now drawn and serious.
I didn't have the courage to ask to ask him what he was thinking and he didn't offer any explanation. Besides, I had a pretty good idea of what was going through his mind. I’d been living with all of this for seven years. I could only imagine what it must have been like for an outsider.
We stopped by Turning Point on the way home. Landon made me wait in the truck while he ran in and put out the ‘closed’ sign. I watched him through the window as he used the store's phone. His cell phone rested on the dashboard.
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