Chapter 1
I was awake at midnight, reading in bed, Ninja purring on my chest and partially blocking my view of the novel I was reading. The book was Pride and Prejudice—delightful stuff, what my dreams were made of, Mr. Darcy and all that. Somebody pounded on my front door.
All the fear that could rack the frame of a female who lives alone did so at that moment. I lay frozen, then summoned my courage and climbed out of bed, grabbed a robe, tiptoed to the living room, and peered out the picture window.
Even with the porch light on, it was dim out there. I couldn’t identify the person on my steps but could tell she was a fellow female, about my age. She was facing the street as if poised to flee.
My heart slowed a little as I figured that, by leveraging my womanly hips and butt, I could wrestle this adversary to the ground if need be. I opened the inner oak door and quickly locked the plexiglass storm door. With the lesser protection between me and the unknown, my heart was beating fast again.
At the click of the lock, the woman turned. I gasped. She had a black eye and a scab on her cheekbone. “Tricia, it’s me,” she said, “Meg Palmer—Meg Rush when we were in high school …”
Memories of Meg, one of the most popular girls in my school, rushed in. She hadn’t been intentionally cruel to me. It’s just that, as chief editor of the school newspaper, and me only a reporter, she hadn’t seemed to register my existence.
“Hi, Meg.” The storm door was still shut against her. Was it lack of manners that I hesitated to open up to someone with cuts and bruises at midnight? No, it was abject fear. If I invited her in, I would be involved in her cuts and bruises, and my life would change. I liked my life the way it was.
But then the story of the good Samaritan came to mind. Meg must be desperate to have turned up at this hour, I thought. I’d been a woman newly widowed, alone and vulnerable in the world, not that long ago. Women had helped me, and now it was my turn.
Besides, as a journalist, I was curious.
At last I said, “Come in” and swung the storm door open wide. “Are you alright? What happened?” I peered behind her. Nobody lurking in the shadows as far as I could see, but I was glad to get her off the street. And worried about our safety.
As she stepped in, she touched her cheek. I closed and locked the oak door behind us.
She was enviably trim, maybe too thin. Her hair was pulled back sleekly into a small bun at the nape of her neck. I noticed a hefty diamond on her left hand, and her purse flashed a dangling designer logo. It was midnight, but she was carefully made up, at least on the good eye.
Except for the black eye, she was as pretty as she had been in high school, but not as confident. It was as if the inner magneto that had generated her charm and strength had lost half its power.
“I slipped and fell.”
I thought to myself, of course you did. But I went along with it for the time being.
“Let me get some ice for your eye.”
“Don’t worry, I iced it when it first happened. But … could I use your bathroom for a minute?”
“Of course. It’s right there.” My house is a small Cape Cod, and it is not hard to find the bathroom. Meg disappeared, and I heard her lock the door. I waited, looking out the picture window. A car glided past, the white beams of its headlights slicing the blackness. Was that her abuser searching for her? My nerves were jumping.
When at last she emerged, her eyes were puffy and red, and the makeup on the unbruised eye was smudged.
I smiled my biggest welcome, a bit belatedly, I know, but this was all so unexpected. And it was midnight.
And I was alone.
“Let me get you some herbal tea. Or something stronger?”
“Thanks, tea would be nice. Listen, I’m sorry to bother you so late.”
“It’s okay, as a reporter I work in the wee hours often. I’m used to it.”
“I was thinking all day about calling on you and didn’t make up my mind until a little while ago. Then I saw your porch light on, so I figured you were up.”
“It’s okay, don’t worry. Come to the kitchen, we can talk there.”
I could imagine the battle she had fought within herself all day, whether to ask for help or not. I knew from experience with domestic violence, and from writing about it for newspapers, that she must be confused to the point of losing all sense of social judgment, knocking on doors at midnight.
Meg followed me to the kitchen, and I was pleased the day’s dishes were done, which wasn’t always the case. I liked things tidy for company, even in the middle of the night.
I just hoped we wouldn’t need to open the microwave.
“Please, sit down.” I gestured toward the small maple table by the window. Meg was my first visitor since my concussion a few months ago. My work as a reporter had brought me into contact with some rough folks in Borough Hall, and after that incident I had resolved to steer clear of violent people.
But here was violence again, one of its victims sitting at my kitchen table. What if her abuser was out looking for her? I breathed a tiny prayer for protection for both of us.
The kettle chirped, so I made a pot of mint tea and brought two mugs to the table.
“Honey or sugar?”
Meg declined both and sat hunched over the scented steam. Her fingers trembled as she wrapped them around her mug.
I desperately wanted to hear why she was knocking on my door in the middle of the night but thought that a gentle chat, using the most relaxed interviewing technique I knew—to ask about the distant past—would get the conversation started. It was non-threatening and would help create rapport. Then Meg would surely get around to telling me what was on her mind.
“I haven’t seen you in ages,” I said. “What have you been up to? Start with what you did after high school.”
“I went to University of Chicago.” She pulled her mug toward her. “I studied creative writing.”
“Lucky you! I write too. I’m a reporter now, did you know? I use my maiden name.”
“Yes, I looked you up yesterday in the phone book after I saw your byline in the Central Jersey Sentinel. ‘Dateline: PASSAIC, NJ, June 1, 1992 – By Tricia Maguire.’ It was impressive.”
I plopped backward in my chair, pleased. “Oh really? Which story was that?”
“About the Andover Tract becoming Green Acres land. I live on Laurel Way.”
With that, Meg was letting me know that she lived in a house worth at least two million dollars. His and hers walk-in closets, libraries, and three- or four-car garages were bare necessities in these homes. In short, her entry hall was bigger than my living room.
Wow, Meg had done something right to end up on Laurel Way. And now something was going wrong. “Did you get married?” Single people didn’t live in palaces like that, or if they did, they ghosted around in vast spaces alone.
She nodded. “Dennis is an investment banker.”
So he was at the top of the food chain, and by association, so was she. I twisted sideways in my seat, envying her. Some people were born to rule, and Meg seemed to be one of them. I, on the other hand, was one of those who seemed to be doomed to working feverishly and never getting recognized or rewarded.
“Dennis and I enjoy a lot of things together. We go to Europe every year. We were in Venice last spring.” She fingered the rock on her left hand.
I felt another stab of envy. Of all the places in the world I wanted to go, that was number one, but I never had the money. The house always needed a new furnace or some other thing I considered vital. Come to think of it, buying those new living room curtains might sink Venice faster for me than the Adriatic ever would.
“Dennis is very good to me.” Yes, I thought, and sometimes he’s a nasty son of a gun. “We’re going to Paris soon. We leave in two weeks.”
“That’s nice,” I said, trying to be supportive rather than envious of her means.
“I’m very comfortable, the way I live. I don’t have to work, so I volunteer. When I feel up to it.”
She was reviewing her life, probably more for her benefit than mine. At this rate of confession, we would be up all night while she told me about extravagant Christmas presents from Dennis: the furs, the cars, the jewels, ad nauseum. I couldn’t help it, I wanted to get down to the nitty gritty. But again, exhibiting patience was the priority.
“Dennis is on the board of directors of the Museum of Modern Art. In New York City.”
I felt my eyebrows arch on my forehead. He had to be a very talented and well-connected man to have a position like that.
“Wonderful,” I said.
“He’s a trustee at our church,” she said, and I cringed. An abuser in church. Yay.
“We really have an American-dream kind of life,” she said in a dull voice.
“Terrific.”
But then Meg’s eyes filled with tears. They ran down both cheeks and created a shiny purple path under her bruised eye.
“He’s getting impatient with me.” She grabbed a napkin from the holder on the table, folded it, and twisted it around her index finger. The tip turned purplish. She went silent.
Admitting to cracks in the beautiful picture she had been verbally painting would add to the agony that had driven her here tonight.
She must have finally decided to trust me because she looked up at me with sea-green eyes and the words all tumbled out.
“I don’t have much energy, the house is a mess, and I can’t get pregnant.” Her shoulders shook with a sob. “He’s so disappointed.”
Since Meg was my age, she too was facing her biological clock.
“He’s hitting you,” I said, desperate to keep any inflection of judgment out of my voice. I didn’t want to lose her.
She stiffened at those words. Then she slumped, and she nodded.
“He’s away on business or I couldn’t have come.” She dropped the tightened napkin, grabbed yet another one, and twisted that one tight. “I fought with myself all day—all evening—whether to come here.”
And ask for help, I finished her sentence silently.
“How long has this been happening?”
She winced. Her shoulders lifted closer to her ears, and her lips tightened. She stared at the table, or maybe at nothing, then met my gaze.
“About two years ago he got a big promotion. I went into the city to meet him and celebrate. He had a lot to drink, and when we got home, he saw the clutter I’d left all over the house and got so angry. He punched me in the arm. It didn’t show.”
“But men should never hit women. It’s a fundamental law of civilization.”
“I know.” She stirred her tea slowly, the spoon clanking against the sides of the earthenware mug. “And since then I just haven’t felt like doing much. I get up late, put the television on. I thought at this point in life I would have kids, but the house seems so empty. I just can’t … pull myself together.”
“Could be depression, Meg. The sleep, the lethargy—those are common symptoms. There’s help for you. Why don’t you see a doctor?”
She shook her head. “I don’t have the money to visit a doctor. Dennis gives me grocery money, but that’s it.”
“What? Are you serious?” My anger at Dennis had been growing with each revelation and now was hard to conceal. “The controlling son of a—.”
“—Well, I see a someone regularly—for fertility. Dennis just writes a check. I don’t know what he would do if I saw another doctor without asking him first.”
I was appalled. Since my husband Tommy’s death, I’d been making my own decisions, pursuing my own friendships, building a career, and seeing whatever doctor I pleased. It was sad, how abuse had diminished Meg to a dependent little girl. All in the name of what? Dennis Palmer’s need to control? For all her status and big house and travel, I wouldn’t trade places with her.
“Meg, what you’re up against, you can’t handle by yourself.”
Fresh tears ran down the purple path. “I know. I guess that’s why I’m here. When I saw your byline and read your article, I thought to myself, Tricia’s a reporter. She knows the area, the services available for people like me. I didn’t know who else to turn to. My mother’s dead, my sister and I aren’t speaking, and my girlfriends—well, somehow I’ve lost touch with all but one, and she’s well off and happy. I’ve hidden … Dennis … from her. She doesn’t know.”
But I could bet that the friend suspected and wasn’t sure how to help.
I felt badly for Meg’s isolation and figured that at her level of income and society, to admit to an abuse problem was to lose face and status. I felt sorry for her.
“Listen, I’m not an expert, but there’s expert help for you. There’s a battered women’s shelter in the Somerset Hills. They have psychologists and resources. There’s a number in the phone book. Will you call them? They can get you into a shelter. Maybe not tonight, but if they can’t take you right away, you can stay here until they can.”
Wait. What did I just say? Did I really want to get that involved and have an abusive husband trying to break in on us? Speaking of which …
“Meg, your life is in danger. You know that, don’t you? You’re caught in a deadly situation. Domestic violence always escalates.”
I leaned back stiffly in my chair, tension at having no special training or skills for this situation making me ache.
Meg gave me a shy, sidelong glance. “Dennis works so hard, he faces so much competition for advancement, younger people want his job, his boss demands so much.”
“All that’s probably true, but it doesn’t give him the right to punch you. You need to make a decision. It could save your life.”
“I know we have problems. But I love him …”
I took a sip of my tea and thought of Tommy, of how lucky I’d been that he hadn’t been a violent drunk—well, except for that time he smashed my car window with a pickaxe. I wasn’t in the car at the time, but the abuse had rocked me. He died not long after. I was sorry but also relieved that at least he had not sunk to the point of stalking me in my own home, terrorizing me with his fists.
Meg’s spoon clinked within her mug, again and again, as I waited. Finally I spoke up. “Let’s call the help line.” It was a wee bit pushy of me, but then again, Meg’s life was at stake.
She showed no sign of having heard me. She just stared into her tea.
I could imagine the battle raging within her. Trading a king-size bed in a palace for a cot in a women’s shelter was a giant step down. Going from being the wife of an investment banker to being a divorced woman alone was a long fall from grace.
But her potential as a human being—her very life—was at stake. She could hardly thrive while she cringed in fear of her husband beating her. I hoped she would find some spark, some defiance, some God-given courage to strike out on her own.
I waited a full, excruciating minute, which was not easy. Then I broke the silence.
“Meg, I’m going to call the help line. Just for information’s sake.” She looked up at me, wary. I reached for the phone book and flipped open the cover. The number was among the crisis hotlines on the first page. I dialed. Meg looked down at her tea, or maybe at nothing at all.
“Somerset Hills Women’s Help Line,” said a woman’s alto voice. “Is this an emergency?”
I was relieved to connect with help in this difficult situation.
“I need some information,” I said. “I have a friend who’s thinking of getting out of an abusive relationship. She’s very scared and not sure what to do. I wondered, do you have any beds at the shelter tonight?”
“I can put you in touch with them. If they don’t have room, we’ll put you in another one. We never turn anyone away.”
“Thanks. Can you hold a moment? I’d like to put my friend on the line.”
“Yes, but just for a minute.” I covered the mouthpiece with my hand.
“They have room for you.”
Still Meg stared, this time down the hallway. Her earth-shattering decision, to take the first steps toward splitting up her marriage, was taking time. I couldn’t tie up the line for some other woman calling for help.
“Sorry, we’ll have to call you back.” I hung up, feeling heavily responsible for Meg. How was I going to rest easy until she had escaped her abuser?
I took the liberty of grasping her thin hand. Her knuckles were mountains under my thumb.
“Listen, it will only get worse. You know that, don’t you?” She bit her lip and nodded miserably into her mug. I dreaded what she would go home to. I felt such urgency for Meg to get free.
“Save yourself! Get out while you still have some ability to plan, so you can survive.”
Meg fumbled with her car keys, which clanked on the table, working on my nerves that were already stretched to a painful degree in frustration with her.
I waited, tense, worried about her life.
Finally she focused her tear-filled gaze on me. She looked at me for the longest time. Then something flickered in her eyes—she had made a decision.
She pulled her hand away.
“I can’t.”
“Yes, you can!”
She sighed and stood up, swaying a bit, placing one hand on the table for support. She was exhausted as well as bruised.
“I really can’t.”
I felt frustrated with her, but I had to accept her decision. It was the worst she could have made. There was only one other thing I could do to help.
“If you have no objection, I’ll pray for you.”
“Okay,” she replied. “I don’t believe in God, but … I guess a prayer won’t hurt.”
“I didn’t believe in him either, until I was desperate, and he was there.” I reflected that the Gift of Desperation, the G.O.D., about Tommy was the best gift I’d ever gotten. Like some longtimers in the Twelve Steps, I could now thank God for my problem/addict/addiction, because it had led me to my Higher Power.
She shrugged. “Well, sorry I bothered you tonight. Thanks for answering the door. I think I’ll go home now.” She took her mug to the sink, her shoulders sagging.
As gently as possible, feeling that I had to treat Meg gingerly, I said, “If you change your mind about going to the shelter, call me. Or call the domestic violence hotline. It’s on the first page of the phone book.”
She didn’t answer but walked slowly toward the door. I opened it for her, feeling that I had let her down. She stepped into the night.
“Call me any time,” I said. “Can I call you?”
She whirled on the porch, her eyes wide with terror. “No!” she barked. “Don’t ever!” She went down the steps and turned at the bottom to tell me fiercely, “I’ll call you.”
And she was gone.
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