I looked at him, and a chill went through my body. It was like my blood was turning thick, into ice. My fingers tingled. I knew I needed to leave.
A window opened.
And I jumped.
REED WAS AT day care, and I ran around the apartment, quickly grabbing as much as I could grab. Caleb followed me, screaming, “You are provoking me to abuse you.” I got to the car, locked the doors, and drove off. I stopped at a gas station, and I followed the plan that Kelly M. had made for me. I called Rebecca, who was renting the house in Morgantown that Caleb and I owned. It wasn’t an easy call to make.
I stood at that gas station, pumped gas, and talked to Rebecca on the phone. I asked her if Reed and I could stay with her for a while. The wind rushed between my ear and the phone, and after I hung up, I let the wind rush around me for a while before picking Reed up from day care.
We went to McDonald’s for dinner, and I told Reed that we weren’t going to be staying with Daddy for a while. He seemed unsurprised. We went back to Rebecca’s and she set us up on the floor of the guest room. That night I curled up with Reed, and he asked me why we had to stay away from his daddy. I told him that it was because we couldn’t get along, and we all needed some space to calm down. And then he told me, “I didn’t like it when you and Daddy fought, because when you fought, you only had time for each other. You didn’t have time for me.” I hugged him and promised to always have time for him in the future.
The next day was Thursday, Thanksgiving Day. Caleb took Reed to his family’s annual Thanksgiving dinner. While they ate turkey and dressing around the oak table I had eaten at so many times before, I returned to the apartment with Rebecca and threw as many things as I could fit into laundry baskets, then stuffed them into the back seat of my car. I packed Reed’s Legos, enough blankets for us to sleep on the floor, and my work clothes, but I left behind anything sentimental. Our wedding photo was on a table, the glass broken. I had thrown it on the ground.
After packing, Rebecca and I ate at a Chinese buffet attached to a casino because it was the only place open in three counties.
ON FRIDAY, I hobbled around in denial for a few days until I had lunch with a friend. The first thing she said to me was, “You can apply for PhD programs now.” The second thing she said to me was, “You need to get your foot examined.”
I was embarrassed at the urgent care center. I told the nurse, “It’s okay. He’s already been arrested. I don’t need anything. I’m safe,” but he didn’t seem to believe me. The nurse put me in a wheelchair even though I insisted I could walk, and the doctor touched and turned my foot with such care that, out of some sort of misguided impulse, I almost blurted out “Mom!” But I was thirty-four years old, and the distance between my mother and me was punctuated by so many mountains that she couldn’t have saved me.
Liz had said to me, “You are taking everything he says, and playing it on repeat over and over again. You have to stop the tape.”
But I couldn’t stop the tape. Over and over I heard:
You are a fucking cunt. You are a fucking cunt. You are a fucking cunt. You are a fucking cunt. You are a fucking cunt. You are a fucking cunt. You are a fucking cunt.
And then his voice had become my voice:
I am a fucking cunt.
At the urgent care, the doctor said, “This will take a long time to heal. It will change color over time. It will look like a sunset.” As I drove to Rebecca’s, I heard the words over and over:
It will look like a sunset. It will look like a sunset. It will look like a sunset. It will look like a sunset. It will look like a sunset. It will look like a sunset. It will look like a sunset.
I knew that, this time, I had to be not just leaving him—but gone.
19
An Incomplete List of Reasons He Was Violent
AFTER I LEFT Caleb, I started reading books, blogs, and websites. At night, in the darkness, when I lay awake in bed, one word rolled through my head on repeat. Why?
Maybe it was because of his family. His father hadn’t abused his mother, but there were all of those supposed “skeletons” in the family. The stories I’d heard that were too shameful for me to even tell here. Maybe that was what had caused Caleb’s violence.
Maybe it was because of Joanne. Maybe it was because of the way that Joanne seemed to punish Caleb when he didn’t meet her standards. Maybe it was because of the way that Joanne treated Caleb like the hero. Maybe it was because Joanne seemed secretive. Maybe it was because Joanne did not seem secretive to protect herself, but to protect others. Maybe it was because Joanne cared too much about the ways in which the family was perceived. Maybe it was because I felt that Joanne used her love as a method of control. Maybe that was what had caused Caleb’s violence.
Maybe it was because of Caleb’s church. Maybe it was because the church was oppressive and guilt-based. Maybe it was because the preacher had scared Caleb when he was a child, had held snakes, and told the congregation that they were going to burn in hell. Maybe it had something to do with the story Caleb told me about the crush he had on that preacher’s daughter, and that when the preacher noticed, he looked Caleb in the eye and told Caleb that he was not worthy of the preacher’s daughter. Maybe that was what had caused Caleb’s violence.
Maybe it was because of all the girls who rejected Caleb in high school. Caleb was already almost completely bald, and though he tried, he couldn’t get a girlfriend. Maybe it was because of that one girl who had treated him like shit and he wanted to fuck her. That one girl who he did fuck when he was already with me. Maybe that was what had caused Caleb’s violence.
Maybe it was because of Caleb’s friends—the one who asked me if the carpet matched the drapes. The one who threw his fork at me and told me that it was my job to clean it up. The one who held on to his girlfriend’s car while she was trying to drive away from him. Maybe it was because Caleb’s friends didn’t respect women, so why should he? Maybe that was what had caused Caleb’s violence.
Maybe it was because of all the construction jobs that Caleb had held—the ways in which the men performed. Maybe it was because of the guy who used to come up behind Caleb and fake-hump him. Maybe it was because Caleb had learned how to act like a man as a way of warding off the abuses of men like that. Maybe that was what had caused Caleb’s violence.
Maybe it was because Caleb was hotheaded. Because he had been in too many fights to count. Maybe it was because Caleb had beat up a kid in middle school, and years later, Caleb’s dad still bragged about how proud he was of Caleb for that. Maybe it was because Caleb had started a bar fight that had ended with his own head being cracked open. Maybe it was because Caleb and Cory had once gotten in a fistfight on a snowbank by the side of the road near Idaho City and almost tumbled off of a cliff. Maybe that was what had caused Caleb’s violence.
Maybe it was because Caleb was disappointed in his career—in his inability to get published, in his failure to become a successful writer, in his lack of a tenure-track job. Maybe that was what had caused Caleb’s violence.
Maybe it was because Caleb was disappointed by my career’s success. Maybe that was what had caused Caleb’s violence.
Maybe it was because of me. Maybe it was because I was inadequate, unworthy of his love. Maybe it was because I, too, was hotheaded. Maybe it was because of the time I fought back—that time that he held me down and spit in my face. Maybe it was because I never fully gave in. Maybe it was because I kept trying to stand up for myself. Maybe it was because I, too, had changed during the marriage—had grown depressed, weepy, and angry. Maybe it was because I loved him in a desperate way, in a way that believed that we could return to the way that things had been in the beginning. Maybe it was because I had stopped believing that was possible. Maybe I was what had caused Caleb’s violence.
Still, after all of my searching for answers, all I ever came up with was this: Maybe it was time for me to stop wondering what had caused Caleb’s violence and start focusing on my own
healing.
20
I Just Don’t Know What to Believe
A MONTH AFTER I left Caleb, Reed and I boarded an airplane by ourselves for the first time. He carried his own little backpack, but I carried everything else.
We had a layover in Minneapolis where we sat next to each other on the cold airport floor, my arm around Reed’s shoulders, his body curled into my chest. There were families everywhere—fathers everywhere—and I was aware of the absence of my wedding ring on my hand. I was aware that, a year ago, I would have curled into Caleb’s chest on the floor. I was aware that, a year ago, Caleb would have been the one who carried everything. I remembered Reed as a toddler crying, “Carry me. Carry me.” I remembered how easy it had felt to carry him then.
When our flight was getting ready to board, the flight attendant called me to the front. “He is so cute,” she said, nodding at Reed. “I’ve moved you up to first class.” I wondered if my sadness had been visible. On the plane, the same flight attendant gave us a beverage and a packaged raspberry muffin. I had told Reed that first class was fancy. I was trying to be cheery about the fact that we would be spending our first Christmas without his father.
I unwrapped Reed’s muffin and handed it to him. He took a bite and then closed his eyes and proclaimed loudly, “Mmm, this is the best muffin.” He looked at me. “Isn’t this the best muffin, Mommy? I don’t think I’ve ever had a better muffin. First class has the best muffins.”
I smiled and pushed his thick bangs away before leaning over to kiss his forehead. The flight attendant came back and surreptitiously set down three more muffins in front of Reed. He glowed, and I put them into my purse.
When we landed in Missoula, Montana, the woman who had been sitting behind us tapped Reed on the shoulder. “You were such a good boy,” she said. “I collected all of the muffins that people weren’t going to eat just for you.” She handed him four more muffins, which I barely managed to fit in my purse. As we left the plane, Reed said, “Mommy, I was a good boy.” He looked up at me, big blue eyes and red hair that reflected my own.
“Baby, you are always a good boy,” I said.
When we saw my parents waiting in the arrivals area, we hugged, and I said, “Do you want some muffins?”
WE DROVE THREE hours, through the snow and over the Continental Divide, to make it to Salmon for Christmas. I don’t remember what we talked about. I remember that the light refracting off the snow, and the blue skies that I had been yearning for, made my eyes hurt. I remember closing my eyes against all the pain.
THAT CHRISTMAS, I went to church with my parents. That Christmas, people asked me where Caleb was. That Christmas, I realized that my parents had not told anyone that I had left my husband. That Christmas, I made eye contact with everyone who asked and said calmly, “We have separated,” while my mother winced and my father looked away.
That Christmas, while my father avoided me, my mother hovered. I spoke on the phone with a lawyer at West Virginia Legal Aid who, with a referral from the domestic violence shelter, would represent me for free if I could prove that my income was low enough and that the abuse was bad enough. She told me to bring any evidence of the abuse that I had, and I printed out e-mails from Caleb where he had admitted to hitting me. I used my parents’ photo printer to print out photos of the bruises, of my swollen foot, of the damage done to the house, and I felt compelled to show it all to them.
My mother said to me, “Are you sure that this is what you want to do? Aren’t you moving a little quickly?”
My father hadn’t made eye contact with me in days.
WHEN REED AND I flew back to Morgantown, I arrived back at the house that Caleb and I owned. Rebecca had kindly moved out for me, so Reed and I no longer had to sleep on the floor. Caleb was living with his parents, and took Reed for a few days, so I set to unpacking. I was efficient—had nothing else to do, no friends or family nearby—so I unpacked the house within a day or two.
I wanted to make the bedroom that I had shared with Caleb my own, so I painted the floor black.
THEN I MET with the lawyer, Christine, a quiet, beautiful woman about my age. The first thing that she said was, “I have to ask this. Do you really want to leave him? I get clients here who are not ready to leave, and I need to know that you’re ready.”
I wasn’t ready, but I knew that I was going to do it anyway, so I nodded. She looked at the evidence I had presented, and I felt foolish. “The abuse was probably not bad enough,” I said. “And I’m probably not poor enough.”
She looked at my tax statements. “You only made eighteen thousand last year,” she said. “Our requirement is that you must have made under twenty-one thousand per year, so you meet the income guidelines.” She got up and left the room to discuss the case with someone else, then came back and sat in front of me. “We have decided to take your case,” she said.
I sat there quietly. All I could think was, I didn’t imagine it. The abuse was real.
I WENT HOME and called Megan and Kelly M., who were both relieved that I was taking this step, and then I called my mother. She was hesitant but supportive.
I didn’t talk to my father because we simply didn’t talk anymore. Until we did.
I WAS HOME alone one evening, and Reed was in bed. I was cleaning my kitchen and talking to my father on the phone because he had answered while my mother was away, and I hadn’t wanted to be rude and hang up. I was telling him details of the divorce, of my life. By then, because my friends had responded so supportively, I was pretty frank about the abuse. Still, my father was quiet. I stopped and said, “Dad, do you even believe me?”
“Kelly,” he said, “I just don’t know what to believe. It seems like you’ve always been a person who everything was going great for until it wasn’t. Remember when you just up and moved to Portland? And then you just up and left Portland? Remember when you lived with your friend Kelly? And it was all fantastic, but then you suddenly had to move?”
WHEN MY FATHER told me that he “just didn’t know what to believe,” I felt the same ice in my hands that I felt when I left Caleb. “Dad, that Portland stuff happened fifteen years ago, and Kelly M. is still my best friend.” He was silent. I don’t think that he had even realized that the Kelly who was my best friend, who had introduced me to Caleb, who was one of my bridesmaids, was the same Kelly I had roomed with.
That was how little he knew about my life.
WHEN MY FATHER told me that he “just didn’t know what to believe,” I started sobbing. Wailing, in fact. I hung up on my father and called Megan.
“Honey,” she said, “I can’t understand a word you’re saying. I’m going to need you to calm down enough for me to understand you, okay?”
And I calmed down enough to say, “My father just doesn’t know what to believe.”
WHEN MY FATHER told me that he “just didn’t know what to believe,” the truth was that I didn’t know what to believe either. I knew that I was leaving Caleb by then, but I still loved him.
I wanted to say to my father, “Do you know how hard it is to leave someone you love?”
WHEN MY FATHER told me that he “just didn’t know what to believe,” there were days when I still wished that Caleb would beg me to take him back, promise to change, actually change.
Sometimes, when I was cooking dinner by myself, I could feel the way he would lay his head on my shoulder while I stirred a pot, the way he would turn me around and kiss me, tell me how much he loved my cooking, how beautiful I was, how lucky he was.
When my father told me that he “just didn’t know what to believe,” I fantasized about ways that Caleb and I could reunite. Still, I knew that, even if he never hit me again, my body would always remember that fist on my back.
WHEN MY FATHER told me that he “just didn’t know what to believe,” Megan took over for me. Her own mother’s death had brought her closer to my parents, so my parents loved her. She was also a counselor, and she first e-mailed my parents articles and s
tatistics, but when she didn’t get a satisfactory response, Megan, the most nonconfrontational person I knew, picked up the phone, called my parents, and said, “You are going to lose your daughter if you can’t support her in this.”
WHEN MY FATHER told me that he “just didn’t know what to believe,” my mother called me. She said, “Your father wants to talk to you.”
My father apologized, and he wept. My mother later told me that was the only time during their marriage that she had seen him cry. “He didn’t even cry when his own mother died,” she said.
I cried, too, but there was this new hardness in me that couldn’t fully let my father, who had been my hero, back in. I thought of the man I had admired so much when I was growing up—the man who had worked so hard to protect the forests. I thought of how brave I had always considered him to be, and I thought, Why weren’t you brave for me?
WHEN MY FATHER told me that he “just didn’t know what to believe,” I was an adjunct instructor teaching four classes, and I was still working in the dorm. When I signed on to teach four classes, my MFA thesis adviser had said, “Why would you take that many classes? You’ll never be able to write.”
I hedged. “I just think that I need to take as many classes as I can,” I said. “In case things don’t work out in the dorm.”
He looked at me curiously. “Why wouldn’t things work out?” he asked.
I ignored his question.
AFTER CALEB WAS arrested, the assistant provost came to visit us in the apartment. She told us that the university had a zero-tolerance policy on violence. It didn’t take me long to realize that I was a part of that zero-tolerance policy, that she saw me as a participant rather than a victim. We were evicted, and she said that we would both be suspended with pay until the end of our terms.
But then she called me into her office. She said that, although Caleb would continue to get his pay, she couldn’t really see any reason why I should continue to be paid.
Goodbye, Sweet Girl Page 17