by Holmes, Gina
“They asked if he meant to push you and I said no.”
“You are liar. I take you to the hospital when he is too drunk, and that box of garbage pushes me and my baby. You lie against my word? Against my honor?”
The sudden pain in my heart was worse than any Trent had ever inflicted. “He didn’t mean to push you. He meant to push me.”
“You are dead to me. Dead!” I heard a beep, followed by silence.
I stood there holding the receiver, stunned and yet relieved it was over. I’d lost a friend, but I had my husband back. I had my baby. So why did I feel like I had a knife lodged in my chest?
“Was that the loudmouth African?” Trent asked.
I nodded, feeling miserable. “She hates me.”
“Let her,” he said coming toward me.
Wrapping my arms around his waist, I let him hold me.
“We don’t need her,” he said. “You’ve got me. I don’t hate you.”
Not today, I thought.
THIRTY-SIX
SUNDAY MORNING, I woke up with you in my arms, surprised to find you’d already helped yourself to breakfast. I actually felt rested for a change. You were already sleeping almost four hours at a time, which was pure heaven.
After changing your wet diaper, I carried you to the kitchen. Trent was awake, dressed, and making coffee. “Good morning, my beautiful wife and strapping young son.”
I offered a groggy smile. “Hey, you’re up early.”
He poured water into the coffeemaker, slid the pot beneath it, and hit the on button. “Early, nothing. You’ve got fifteen minutes to get ready if we’re going to make it to church on time.”
The thought of going back and facing Pastor Harold was less than appealing, but I had the perfect excuse. “I’m not supposed to take Manny into crowds for a few weeks. The doctor said his immune system’s immature and he could catch stuff.”
Trent looked relieved. “Oh. I guess that makes sense. How did our little prince sleep?”
I kissed your warm forehead and you tilted up your chin, as if I was offering you something new to put in your mouth. “I only remember him waking up once to feed. This breastfeeding thing is a lot nicer than having to get up and mix a bottle.”
He fake punched your tiny arm and made a crude remark.
I wished he wouldn’t talk that way, but decided not to say so. I needed to pick my battles, and this one hardly seemed worth it. “How did you sleep?”
“Not too bad, considering I felt like I had to check him every other minute to make sure he was still breathing. I tell you, Penny, I know what people mean now about kids giving them gray hair.”
He really did worry about you as much as I did. Knowing that was more comfort than a thousand promises he would change.
He rubbed his freshly shaven chin. “What’s the plan for today?”
I kissed the top of your little head. “Plan? I just had a baby. I thought I might, you know, feed him, change him, fix us some breakfast.”
He leaned against the counter as the coffeepot sputtered to life. “Why don’t we go somewhere and do something?”
What in the world did he think we were going to do with a brand-new baby? I’d already told him you weren’t supposed to be out in crowds, and it had to be twenty degrees outside. “How about if we go pick up a Christmas tree and decorate it? I’d love to have a real one this year.”
His shoulders drooped forward. “Baby, I just spent three days in jail, and the whole day staying home with you yesterday. I’m going stir crazy.”
Holding you was making my arms ache, so I switched positions, laying you against my chest. “What do you propose?”
“We could go down to Zoe’s, have a couple of beers and some wings for lunch. Wouldn’t that be fun?”
I leaned down and smelled your neck so he couldn’t see me rolling my eyes. “And what will we do with the baby?”
He walked over and put his arms around us, making you the center of our sandwich. “Bring him.”
I looked up. “You want to bring our baby to a bar?”
“It’s not like we’re going to put whiskey in his bottle, Penny. Dag.”
I twisted out of his arms. “I’m not bringing my baby into a bar, and I just got done telling you he’s not supposed to be in crowds.”
“What crowds? That place ain’t exactly going to be teeming with people on a Sunday morning.”
“No means no,” I said.
His face turned to stone. “Fine. Stay here then and be bored. I’m heading out.”
I glanced up at the wall clock hanging beside the back door. “It’s ten o’clock on a Sunday morning. You’re going to go drinking now?”
He threw his hand up and stomped to the bedroom. With you in my arms, I followed. I patted your back as I watched him get dressed. He opened one of his dresser drawers and pulled out a sweatshirt, then held it to his nose. Apparently he didn’t find any offensive odors because he slid it over his head.
“Trent, please don’t go drinking. You know what happens.”
He snatched his jeans off the floor. The belt was still looped through the pants from the last time he had worn them. The buckle clinked as he slid his foot through a leg hole. “I told you that ain’t going to happen no more.”
“Yeah, you’ve told me that how many times over the years? And yet here’s another contradiction.” I held out my bruised wrist.
A burp escaped your mouth. I looked down to see a dribble of regurgitated milk on my sleeve. It was a sight I was already quite used to. “You don’t know what you’re doing when you’re drunk.” I pulled up your bib and wiped your mouth with it.
Trent pulled his pants up the rest of the way and buttoned them. “Don’t get yourself all worked up. I’m only going to have a few.”
“That’s what you say every time. You never have just a few. You don’t know how to have just a few.”
He sat on the bed and began working his foot into a boot. As he tied it, he looked up at me. “Things are going to be different this time. You need to trust me. It can’t work if you won’t believe it will.”
I thought of all the times over the years I had heard those same promises from him. I’m sorry. It’ll never happen again. This time will be different. I swear. I promise. Trust me. And each time, I had. What had that ever gotten me? Bruised bones and a broken spirit.
“I want to,” I said. My gaze fell on the top of my dresser, where the statue Callie Mae had given me had been. It wasn’t there. I surveyed the rest of the room, but didn’t see it.
He worked his foot into the second boot. “What are you looking for?”
“My statue. It was right there.”
He sucked at his teeth, looking guilty.
“What did you do?” I asked, feeling sick to my stomach.
He slid on his other boot. “Baby, I’m sorry.”
“Sorry for what?”
He grimaced. “I threw it out.”
I could feel the blood drain from my face. “You did what?”
“She made me so mad the other night. I couldn’t stand looking at that thing.”
That statue meant so much to Callie Mae. It was a tie to her daughter. Maybe the last tie. And it had come to represent something to me, too. Something I was so close to understanding.
The mattress squealed as he stood. “I wasn’t in my right mind. I thought you were leaving me. It should still be in the garbage. Just go get it out.”
I felt myself breathe again as I laid you in your crib. I hurried to the kitchen, yanked the garbage can out from under the sink, and began riffling through coffee grounds, balled-up napkins, and a sight that made my insides knot—shards of stained glass. Finally my hand touched something hard, and something sliced into my flesh. I pulled my fingers back. Droplets of red beaded over a small gash. I grabbed a napkin off the counter and wrapped it around my index finger, doubling it up when red seeped through the first layer of white. With my good hand, I reached and pulled out the statue.
The w
oman was in one piece, but her wings were destroyed. Only one jagged section of stained glass remained, dangling by a wire.
When I glanced up, Trent was standing over me looking contrite. “Baby, I’m sorry. I’ll buy you a new one.”
I shoved the can back under the sink and slammed the door before standing. I held the statue out to him to show what he had done as blood soaked through the napkin and dribbled down my finger. “Not everything is replaceable. She bought this for her daughter right before she was murdered.”
He took a step toward me, then stopped, looking unsure. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I’ll fix it.”
“Duct tape and superglue aren’t going to fix this.” Without wings, she would never fly now.
I thought of Sara and how this statue was meant to somehow save her, but never got the chance to, and I began to cry. Trent tried to touch me, but I jerked away from him. He scowled. “Get it together. I mean it. If me not putting my hands on you is going to turn you into a shrew . . . I ain’t going to take this.”
He ate breakfast, even cleaned up his own dishes and swept up the pieces of stained glass littering the floor, before leaning down to kiss my lips on his way out. With you in my arms, I turned my head, giving him my cheek and the coldest shoulder I could muster.
I sat there holding you at the kitchen table for what seemed like hours, staring at a wall yellowed from years of Trent’s cigarette smoking, trying to make sense of my life and yours. The numbness I felt did wonders to help me look at things more logically than I’d been able to up until then. If he was going to keep drinking, he was going to hit me again. That was the cold, hard truth. I didn’t think he would stoop to hurting you, drunk or not. But I had to admit that I couldn’t know for sure, and I was no longer willing to play Russian roulette with our lives.
The old me argued with the new, reminding me he had changed since his accident. Not nearly enough, but it was a start. Maybe his love for you would compel him to get help. Then images of you as a toddler, hiding in your bedroom with wide eyes as you listened to him berating and beating me, flashed through my mind. What would growing up like that do to you? I didn’t want to find out.
I fixed some toast and poured myself a cup of coffee, neither of which I touched. All I could think about was the statue’s broken wings that could never be mended and Trent, stumbling through that front door drunk.
The biggest case of buyer’s remorse came over me then. I shouldn’t have left Callie Mae’s house. Coming home had been a huge mistake.
I thought of my mama then and how good it was to have her back in my life. Her and Daddy would take us in, I was sure of it. But it didn’t feel fair to Trent or you to take you out of state. If the shoe was on the other foot, I know it would kill me. And the thought of living under my father’s roof again was even less appealing than staying with Trent.
If only God would come down from heaven and show me what to do. If I could only get a glimpse of the future you would have if I stayed, and compare it to what your life would be like if I left, knowing what to do would be easy.
I thought of the statue’s broken wings—and of Sara—and realized that was as close to a glimpse of the future as I was going to get.
Why hadn’t I stipulated that Trent had to stop drinking before I would come home? I set you in your swing, strapped you in, and cranked the handle until it wouldn’t turn any farther. “Rock-a-bye, Baby” played as I got on my knees and pressed my forehead to the rug. I prayed until your swing stopped swaying and the music died. Although a clear answer didn’t present itself, I was left with the thought that it was now or never.
The last thing I wanted was for you to have a broken home, but no matter which choice I made, I knew we were all going to end up broken in one way or another. Unless, of course, your father got help. That was the one solution that would keep us whole. That was it. That was the answer I’d prayed for.
Could I convince him to quit drinking and see someone about his anger? It had never worked in the past, but maybe he’d be willing if he knew he really would lose us otherwise. Maybe.
I left you in the living room and walked to the bedroom. I reached under the bed and grabbed the Bible Callie had given me on her first visit. Needing God to speak to me, now more than ever, I opened it at random and read, “For those who are married, I have a command that comes not from me, but from the Lord. A wife must not leave her husband. But if she does leave him, let her remain single or else be reconciled to him. And the husband must not leave his wife.”
What were the chances I would open to that, of all verses? My heart sank. Was this really God’s answer to me, or just dumb luck? I guess I’d wanted to hear that I was free to remarry, not just separate from Trent. But separation was its own mercy.
I thought of Callie Mae asking me what I would say to my daughter if she told me her husband was beating her. Would I tell her to stay with him? The answer had been clear when she had put it that way. God didn’t create anyone to be another person’s punching bag. And didn’t God love me more than I loved my own son? He wouldn’t want this for me. But then it was his own Son he allowed to die on the cross. He didn’t spare him that, so why should I be spared?
Tears spilled down my face as a knock came at the front door. I wiped my eyes and pulled back the curtain. Callie Mae stood there with her hand resting on her purse and her gaze darting nervously around the yard.
I opened the door and practically fell into her arms. My shoulders heaved as I fought to catch my breath. She held me like a mother would, rubbing my back and telling me everything was going to be okay. There, in her arms, I could almost believe it.
After a minute, I pulled back, and tried to smile through tears. “He’s out drinking,” I managed.
“Come with me, Penny. Get Manny, and let’s get out of here.”
“I have a better idea,” I said.
THIRTY-SEVEN
CALLIE MAE didn’t think it would do much good, but by refusing to leave my side, she was participating just the same. I’d never been part of an intervention before, other than the pseudo one Fatimah and Callie Mae had for me, but I had seen enough of them on TV to understand the concept.
I finally got through to Pastor Harold after the morning service, and he thought the intervention was a great idea. He even offered to pay for two weeks of rehab, if Trent agreed, compliments of New Beginnings.
The offer was more than I’d hoped for, but it didn’t stop there. Callie Mae told me I could have my job back and offered to babysit you during the day until your father came home from treatment. Now all we had to do was convince Trent he needed help.
As I, Callie Mae, Pastor Harold, and his wife, Lela, sat in the living room making small talk, praying, and drinking cup after cup of decaf, the anticipation of waiting for your father to come home and wondering how he would react grew. We had been waiting over an hour already, and I had no idea when he would come rolling through the door, or in what condition. He’d gotten such an early start I figured it couldn’t be too much longer, but then I never really knew with him. There had been plenty of nights he never bothered coming home at all.
“Just so we’re clear,” Callie Mae said to me, “if he refuses treatment, you’re coming with me tonight?”
When I hesitated, she pressed her fingertips to her temple. “For crying out loud. Nothing’s ever going to change unless you change it. The problem’s you as much as him.”
I looked over at Lela, who nodded. “She’s right, Mrs. Taylor. People will only treat you the way you allow them to.”
Although I knew she was right, there was something about the way she said it that rubbed me the wrong way. I doubted either of them knew a single thing about being an abused wife. “I don’t let him hit me. He just does. When I try to stop him, it only makes him swing harder.”
Callie Mae leaned forward. “I’ll tell you one thing, sure as the ground beneath my feet—he wouldn’t be hitting me.”
I set my coffee cup down on the
end table and tucked my hair behind my ear. “You don’t know either, Callie. You don’t know what it’s like. Just thank God you had a husband who loved you without backing up his words with his fists.”
“Love has nothing to do with it,” she said. “He might have hit me once, but mark my words, the first time would be the last.”
I didn’t argue with her. There was no sense in it. I was ashamed I’d taken so much for so long, but no one in that room had ever walked a mile in my shoes, or even an inch for that matter. What did they know of loving someone so much they lost themselves along the way? They had never seen the sorrow written all over Trent’s face when he sobered up and saw what he’d done. They didn’t know the first thing about people who were so broken by their own childhood that they had an uncontrollable need to break those around them.
Of course, now I know that she was exactly right. The problem really was me. No emotionally healthy woman would have put up with it, and no emotionally healthy girl would have married a stranger just because he said she should.
Lela wrapped her hands around her cup. “If he’s beating you the way you say, then you’re putting not only yourself but your son in danger.”
“This isn’t a call for divorce,” Pastor Harold broke in, “but separation is sometimes necessary. You’re doing the right thing. He needs help, and we’ll do our best to get him to see that.”
“He won’t change.” Callie Mae stared at the front door, almost defying it to open. “But if this is what you need to feel you’ve done everything in your power to make it work, then by all means, let’s exhaust every avenue.”
“You don’t know that he won’t change,” Pastor Harold said coolly. “Thankfully, God doesn’t take that mind-set with us or we would all be hell-bound. Trent is just a lost sheep. We need to—”
Callie Mae cut him off. “Have you ever lived in fear of your life, Nathan?”
He just blinked at her.
“I didn’t think so.”
“I’ve borne my crosses,” the pastor said with a sigh. “Unfortunately, this one is Penny’s. We have to trust God has a plan. That he’ll use all things, even this, for her good.”