by Joy Fielding
She heard the front door close. Victor was inside the house.
Her only hope was to run toward the front of the cottage as Victor was walking toward the rear.
Not realizing she had such strength, Donna pitched the struggling boy under her other arm and started to run.
“Daddy!” he screamed. “Mrs. Wilson!”
Mrs. Wilson heard her name, recognized the intensity with which it had been shouted, and looked toward the sound. She saw Donna, a child under each arm, just as Victor walked into the kitchen. Victor turned toward the window. Everything froze—a photograph suspended and enlarged. In the split second that followed, Victor’s eyes locked with Donna’s, once two matching shades of blue, now jarring, unforgiving oceans of hate.
Donna raced down the side path, feeling Victor running in a parallel line inside the house. Adam kicked frantically at her legs; Sharon offered no resistance. She could see the gate just feet ahead of her, could hear Victor’s frantic footsteps as he pushed open the front door and jumped down the few steps, his arms reaching out to grab her as she ran past. She felt his hands brush against her shoulders, his fingers straining to catch onto the back of her blouse, and then losing their grip as his feet shot out from under him, the yellow beach ball escaping from under the weight of his body as he fell, sprawled out against the grass. Donna reached the gate, pushing it open just as Victor recovered and got to his feet.
Adam screamed loudly the second they reached the street. But if anyone took notice, Donna was too preoccupied to care; if any passing cars were pulling over, they would have to line up behind Victor. Nobody was going to stop her. Her only thought was getting to her car—she had just seconds now. She heard the front gate slam; she knew Victor was right behind her.
The car seemed further down the road than she remembered parking it. Her body was starting to tire, starting to ache. No, not yet, she told herself, readjusting her son, reaching the car, opening the door, throwing her children inside, first her daughter, then her son, hurling herself in after them, slamming the door, locking it just as Victor reached for the handle.
Again their eyes locked, seared, and parted. Donna had seen enough of his hatred. She started the car, feeling Victor’s fists pounding against the windshield, feeling Adam’s fists pounding about her face.
“Adam, please, honey—”
“You’re not my mommy! You’re not my mommy!” Victor moved his body directly in front of Donna’s car, daring her to move.
Don’t tempt me, Donna mouthed. The car idled, waiting to go. Donna stared straight ahead into Victor’s face. She could see his resolve, knew the stubborn mind she was dealing with. He would die right there in front of his children before he would move even one step out of the way. Carefully, deliberately, imperceptibly, yet with great speed, she checked her rearview mirror. There was no one there. Moving her eyes back to Victor, she struggled free of Adam’s hands, and using her right arm to shield and protect the small bodies beside her, threw the car into reverse, pushed down hard on the accelerator and raced backward toward Thirteenth Avenue.
She allowed herself only an instant of self-congratulation, knowing Victor would be quick to recover. By the time she was able to stop the car and change directions, heading west onto the wide scenic oceanside road, Victor had jumped into his own brown car—somewhere between a sedan and a more sporty model—and was only one car behind her. She wound the car furiously along the beach highway, the cross streets receding with ever increasing rapidity—Tenth Avenue, Ninth, Eighth, Seventh. A sign ahead directed her to Pebble Beach and the Famous 17-Mile Drive. Not now, she thought. She had no time for seventeen miles of scenery, however spectacular. Ocean Avenue suddenly appeared. The familiar name gave her a rush of needed confidence. She made an abrupt right turn and headed east toward the main highway. What then? she thought frantically.
The blue car between her car and Victor’s had long ago gone its separate way, and Victor was quickly narrowing the space between himself and Donna. She pressed down harder on the accelerator. Victor reciprocated. Throughout it all, Donna continued to wrestle with her son, the sounds of his fear and anger serving almost as a sort of surrogate radio, the a cappella rantings of the latest in punk rock. She pressed down harder on the gas pedal, making another swift, unplanned turn at the next corner. She heard the squeal of tires behind her, knew Victor was still directly on her tail. She caught a quick glance at the terrified faces of nearby pedestrians, saw their bodies arch and stiffen as she approached, withdrawing as far from the street as they could.
The noise level inside the car was reaching deafening proportions. Donna’s head was pounding. Where are the cops in this town? she wondered frantically. Isn’t anyone going to stop this insanity? She saw herself spending the rest of her eternity in a rented white Buick, her son pounding his fists against her brain, her daughter absorbed in the quickly passing scenery, being chased in an endless maze through the streets of picturesque Carmel. As far as hell went, she decided, it beat an eternity of doing the dishes!
This strange thought brought with it its own calm. I’m going to be all right, Donna said to herself, recognizing, in the seeming absurdity of such thoughts, traces of her former self, the pieces of the jumbo puzzle that made up Donna Cressy assembled in their entirety for the first time in many years.
“Things are going to be okay, kids,” she said aloud. “We’re going to be okay. Everything’s going to be fine.”
Suddenly, they heard a bang, felt the car lurch and bounce. Again, Donna frantically spun her head around. “Jesus Christ,” she swore, seeing Victor moving closer for yet another premeditated rear-end collision. “Are you crazy?” she shouted. “Your kids are in here!”
Victor brought his car crashing into the back of the Buick yet another time. This jolt sent both children flying forward against her arm which shot instantly out to shield them. Another such jolt and she might not be able to hold them back—they could go flying right through the window. Both Adam and Sharon were now starting to cry. Adam, for the first time, stopped fighting with his mother and looked toward the rear of the car at his father.
Donna’s voice was frantic and loud.
“Can you get your seat belts on, kids?” she yelled.
Sharon was crying. “I’m scared,” she whined.
“I know, honey. But please, do you know how to buckle your seat belt?”
“I don’t know how,” the child sobbed.
Donna looked at her daughter, silently measuring the space between them. There was no way she could lean over Adam, adjust the child securely in place, and continue driving this car. Her only hope was her son. She looked over at his frozen face. He sat on his knees, staring wildly out of the rear window at the face of his father. “Adam,” she said with as much soft urgency as her voice could impart, “please, honey, can you help us? Put your sister’s safety belt on and yours too. Please.”
She watched Adam’s eyes enlarge with terror; Victor was about to ram the car again. Donna pressed harder on the accelerator, got temporarily out of his reach, and looked back at her son.
“No, Daddy, no!” he started screaming. “Stop it! Stop it!”
“Adam, please,” Donna yelled over his screams. “Sit down. Help us. Please. Help us!”
Suddenly the boy turned around in his seat, reaching over and pulling on his sister’s seat belt and then adjusting his own. Donna swallowed hard, feeling the perspiration on her face and underarms, quickly turning another corner—where was she? She’d lost all sense of direction—and continuing on up the street. The children were whimpering with fear, their hands, she noticed, now tightly interlocked.
After a few more frantic turns, she found herself back on U.S. Highway 1, although nothing looked familiar. Where were the cops? She had the court order right in her purse. If only someone would stop them. Please stop us, she cried against the steering wheel, before he kills us.
She felt another bang, but this time the crash came not from the rear but fr
om her side of the car. He was gaining on her, pulling up beside her, ramming the side of his car against the side of hers.
“Oh God!”
Adam became increasingly hysterical. “Stop it, Daddy!” he was screaming. “Please, Daddy, stop it!”
Donna hung onto the wheel as if her hands had been welded to it. What was the matter with Victor? How could he do this to his own children? How could he put them through this?
She looked out her side window at Victor’s car, saw his face, recognized he was aware of nothing at this moment but his hatred for her.
“Daddy, stop!” Adam yelled again as Victor once more brought his side of the car against the white Buick.
Donna lost control of the wheel for several seconds and careened off the pavement for a number of yards before being able to right the automobile back onto the highway. The children reacted hysterically.
“Stop!” Adam screamed, starting now to sob like his sister. “Please stop! Mommy! Mommy! Please stop!”
Donna turned abruptly to the word, staring deeply into the tear-soaked faces of her children.
“Oh my God, my babies!” she cried. “What am I doing to you?”
She slowed the car as quickly as she could, directing it over to the side of the highway, and then stopped, pulling the children tightly into her arms. Within seconds, Victor had pulled over and stopped just slightly down the road, and was now racing angrily over to where the three sat huddled and crying together.
TWENTY-FOUR
Donna’s face was sore and bruised, scratched bloody by her son’s nails, punched red by his sturdy fists; her legs were stiff and bore many small brown blotches, evidence of the force of her son’s well-placed kicks; her arms ached; she could barely move her fingers; her stomach was in worse knots than she could ever remember, and her throat was hoarse from screaming.
“You okay?” he asked her.
Donna stared over at Mel. “Never better,” she smiled.
Mel got up from his seat against the wall and walked over to where Donna sat in the center of the large room. “I’ll say this for you, lady,” he began, “for someone who hasn’t driven a car in four years, you do all right. Might even make it to Indianapolis—providing, of course, they don’t take away your driver’s license.”
“You think they will?”
“Well, they’ll have to find it first, I guess.”
Donna ran her hand through her hair. “What a mess! I don’t believe it! But who thought, you know, I haven’t driven in so long, why would I bother renewing my license?”
“Exactly.”
She brought her hand across her forehead, looking up at Mel. “You think they’ll charge me?”
Mel shook his head. “For what? Driving without a license? Driving a stolen car? Going eighty miles an hour in a twenty-five-mile-an-hour zone? Creating a public nuisance? Reckless driving? Why would they charge you for anything as silly as that?” He knelt down beside her and smiled.
“Thanks a lot.”
“Not to mention kidnapping—”
“I showed them my court order!”
“I think they were more interested in the papers you were lacking.”
“Oh, so what if my name wasn’t on the rental papers!”
“You tell ’em, kiddo.”
“Oh, Mel.”
“I love you.”
For the first time since Mel had been ushered into the large police room by two equally large policemen, they embraced.
“I was so afraid you wouldn’t be there,” she said leaning against him. “I thought, you know, they’ll give me this one phone call and he won’t be there.”
“Where else would I go?”
“I had the room key!”
“They had others.”
“Were you surprised when I took off like that?”
“Surprised is an interesting choice of words.”
She smiled. “Did you explain everything to them?”
“I tried.”
“So did I. Do you think they understood?”
“They tried.”
She looked sharply into his face. “Did you see the kids?”
“I looked in at them. They look okay. Tired. They’re with the housekeeper, a Mrs. Wilson.”
“And Victor?”
“I didn’t see him.”
Donna moved restlessly around the room. “I wish they’d come back in here and tell us what’s going on.” She paused, thinking back to just two hours ago. “You know, they came out of nowhere. One minute there was only Victor and me; the next minute I think the entire Carmel police force was beside us.” She walked back over to Mel. “And now they all disappear again. What time is it?”
“Almost eight.”
“I’ve been sitting here for an hour. The kids should be in bed by now.”
Mel rumpled her hair. “You did it!” he said proudly. Donna smiled.
The door opened and the room suddenly filled with police, four men in total, two in uniform, two in plainclothes.
“Sorry things took so long,” the man in charge said, taking what was obviously his regular position behind the desk. “It’s just an inconvenient time to check things out, especially with the time difference between here and Florida. Not many people up this late working—” He stopped. “Everything checks,” he said finally. “You can go get your kids. Take them home.”
Donna burst into tears; Mel’s arms went immediately around her, hugging her close in silent celebration. “You’re not going to charge me?” she asked, wiping her eyes.
“And have every newspaper in the country label me the new Simon Legree? Lady,” he continued, disarmingly, “if I tried to press charges against you, I’d be the one the courts would throw in jail. Not to mention, my wife would probably murder me as I slept. Go on, take your kids and get out of here. Don’t look a gift horse—wherever.”
Donna and Mel began walking toward the door. Donna stopped. “What about Victor?” she asked tentatively.
“Him, we can charge,” the man said.
“Can I see him?” Donna asked, surprising even herself.
“If you want.”
Donna nodded. One of the uniformed officers led her through the door and out into the corridor. Mel indicated silently that he would wait for her where he was. The officer led Donna down the hallway a few feet to the next room.
The room was much smaller than the one Donna had been held in. Victor was standing by the far window, looking out onto the street. He turned immediately when the door opened. Donna could see he had been crying.
“Come to gloat?” he asked.
Donna lowered her head. What had she hoped to accomplish by seeing him? What had she sought? His assurances that he would leave her alone? Not come after her and the children? It was pointless to ask him. Pointless to have come. She turned to leave.
“Donna—”
She stopped, looking back in his direction. His voice was ineffably sad.
“Would you please tell the kids—tell them how sorry I am that I frightened them the way I did.” She nodded. “I really love my kids, you know.”
Donna remembered a time much earlier in all their lives when he had said the same thing. When she spoke, her voice was calm, in command. “I guess you have to decide what’s more important to you—your love for the children or your hatred for me.” She paused. “I’m taking them home now.”
Victor lowered his head; Donna turned and walked out of the room.
Both children were curled up against the folds of Mrs. Wilson’s skirt, fighting sleep, when Donna and Mel walked into the room. Adam sat up immediately upon their entrance, backing into the curve of the housekeeper’s arm.
“If you want,” the woman said quietly, “I can pack their things and bring the suitcase around to your motel tonight.”
“Thank you,” Donna said. “I’d appreciate that. We’ll be leaving first thing in the morning.”
They all spoke in whispers, as if afraid to disturb the sudden pea
ce.
Donna walked over and picked up her half-sleeping daughter. The child stirred momentarily awake, her eyes smiling in recognition, her hand reaching forward and stroking her mother’s cheek. Then she let her head lower to Donna’s shoulder, and her eyes closed in instant slumber.
Donna looked down at her son. “Adam?” He hung back, still clinging to Mrs. Wilson. Donna moved to Mel and transferred the sleeping youngster from her shoulder to his, then she walked back to Adam, and knelt down in front of him.
“Once upon a time,” she began, not sure exactly what she was going to say, “there was a little boy named Roger and a little girl named Bethanny, and they went to the zoo to see the giraffes. And they took some peanuts with them. But the sign said—” She stopped, feeling her throat catch.
Adam was staring at her wide-eyed and breathless.
“The sign said ‘Do Not Feed The Animals,’” he uttered softly and then stopped.
“Oh, Adam, I love you so much. Please come home with me!”
Suddenly, he was in her arms, his hands tightly around her neck, the sobs openly pouring from his body.
“Oh, my baby. My beautiful little boy. How I love you!”
She stood up slowly, carefully, Adam’s legs wrapping themselves around her lower torso, clinging to her as tightly as he knew how. At first she thought his mutterings were just sounds; soon the sound became more distinct. A word. Over and over. Mommy.
Donna and Mel walked with the two children in their arms to the doorway. Donna turned to Mel and smiled through her tears. “Let’s go home,” she said.
Copyright © 1981 Joy Fielding Inc.
Anchor Canada edition published 2010
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