He looked around nervously for his phone, picking up the towel on the chair, looking under the blanket. It had just been there. “This is so strange,” he mumbled. He combed room after room, retracing his steps. He had just texted that he was on his way in 20, now 30 minutes ago. His friend was waiting, the kids were packed and ready, where could it have gone?
The iPhone was usually kept within reach, his safety blanket. It had a white protective case containing his IDs and credit cards. He couldn’t leave without it. He walked back into the kitchen for the third time and pulled his laptop out of his green backpack. He placed it on the kitchen table quickly, opened the screen, and begged his VPN to activate quicker. He saw that the VPN icon went green and immediately opened up his web browser and started the find my iPhone iCloud app. There it was! A green dot on the screen, solid and alive. He clicked on it a couple times to get the dialog box to pop up and then ordered the app to sound an alarm. He waited silently to hear it, expecting the familiar tone to ring through the house. Nothing happened. He clicked it again. Still nothing.
He was so confused now. He wandered away from his open laptop into the foyer and looked absently at the front door. He did not see her coming for him. He heard her voice, angry and shrill and turned toward the sound when she picked up something and threw it at his head. Did it hit? He didn’t know but he dropped to his knees to shield himself.
She was yelling in a way he had never heard her yell before and began first kicking his crotch and legs as he lay there in a fetal position shielding his face. She moved around to his back as she yelled and began kicking his back. His voice was panicked as he asked more to the world in general than to anyone specifically, “what did I do, I don’t understand?” She moved back a few steps and screamed a name at him, a woman’s name, his friends name. He answered, “what are you talking about?” She picked up a candelabra and threw it at his head. He had not covered up quick enough and copped it squarely on his left temple. He yelled from his folded position at her, “I didn’t do anything.” This only incited her more. She moved back and picked up a flower pot and hurled it at him. It bounced off his arm and shattered all around him.
There were so many things now ricocheting and shattering that he dared not look at her. He kept his face covered and continued to plead his case. The more he tried the more enraged she became. She kicked him harder over and over and then said “you need to get out of here now.” He didn’t move from the floor. He yelled, “I didn’t do anything, I swear! Keep kicking me if you want but I would never have done anything!” She kicked him again in the crotch twice and yelled “get out!”
She backed up and he opened up the door and ran out. Now he was alone in the front yard. The kids were both inside. His backpack was inside. He still had no phone or credit cards or ID. She opened the side door and threw his keys at him. He heard her call for his 12-year-old son to come downstairs. When the boy did she told him to go outside and shut the door on them both.
He turned to the boy and said, “go over to the cottage, we can’t leave your brother.” The boy, a quiet one with glasses a bit too big for his face, turned towards the gate without questioning his parent. The man paced a bit in the front yard that was mostly dirt, trying to figure out what to do. She had purposefully locked the front and side doors. Perhaps five minutes passed as he moved around the yard, confused, trying to push through the fog in his head. He had the keys to his vehicle but he couldn’t leave, he knew that. His left temple started to hurt.
He walked around to the side of the house and opened up the unlocked sliding glass door. It was old and heavy and it moved loudly across the track. He knew she would hear it but went inside anyways. He passed her closed bedroom door and could hear his small son inside but kept walking into the kitchen towards his backpack. The laptop still lay open on the table so he closed it, shoved it in the pack, zipped up, and threw the bag over his shoulder.
He took a deep breath and walked back to her door and said, “can we talk?” She answered surprisingly calmly, “I need to get dressed first.” This confused him but he couldn’t figure out why so he went into the living room and sat on a footstool and began to slowly rock as he waited. His eyes closed and the dark was comforting for a second and then sadness flooded in. She called his name from behind her door. He said nothing. She called for him again and still he said nothing. After a few more times of hearing his name float by him, he slowly rose up and walked back to the door.
“Yes,” he said. She responded with command, “go outside and come around to the bathroom window. We can talk through there.” He did as he was told without pause or question, closing the sliding door behind him with the familiar swoosh sound. He walked slowly to the back of the house, thinking to himself, “she’s locking the sliding glass door,” but not feeling especially concerned by the thought.
He felt so heavy. His legs were heavy and his feet shuffled through the dirt. His head was a giant boulder he struggled to keep upright. He arrived at the bathroom window and tilted his eyes up but she was not there. No, matter. He waited with his head turned toward the window, blankly staring without emotion, as if a television show he didn’t really care to see was about to start. Finally, she was there, looking at him, so calm and composed.
She allowed him a minute to explain the offending text message which she reported encompassed some flowers, a cherry pie, vibrators, and overnight visits. Her face broke as she said, “you made me a cherry pie when you proposed to me.” After hearing his response, she replied, “I believe you. I completely believe you, but this had to happen. What you felt was my heart breaking.”
A week before he had made a long overdue trip to visit a friend and colleague. His friend had texted him to see if he would be bringing anything with him. Later he re-read the messages to make more sense of his wife’s anger. The text began, “Will you come bearing gifts?” He had responded, what should I bring. I have alcohol and pot but I hear it might be bad for us.” She replied, “Well considering my children will be present I won’t be able to do either, also I’m not drinking or smoking at all right now. Sigh. I’ve become extremely dull. You could bring flowers. I like flowers. I’ve been having them around the apartment.” To which he said, “I could definitely bring flowers. I should try and bake us something too.”
He was flat broke that week so he did the best he could with her request. He scoured his bare pantry and near empty fridge to locate some oatmeal, sugar, and shortening to make a base. He used canned cherries to make a filling after an unproductive trip outside only returned 6 figs from the tree.
The overgrown, purple-ish bush had to do for the flowers. Everything else on the property seemed dead after the dry summer. He cut a few bunches off and tried to make sure there were no bugs. He was late, as usual, so there would be no tying the bunch to make it look any better than it was.
He remembered feeling really adult when he pulled the cherry crumble out of the oven. He had been invited for lunch and he was bringing something he made. When his friend had tried his dish she had even liked it. It had been a good visit. They had sat and talked for hours about partners and their pasts, sex, love, commitment, self-love, kids, family, food, so many good and hard things.
She was the kind of friend that no topic was off limits for so when she asked, “do you have any vibrators?” He easily said, “no, but I really must get some.” “Well you can have these ones,” she said, as she produced a solid small box. He opened it and inside was a high-end, black vibrator. “I’ve been trying to give it away but everyone is weird about used stuff. I’ve cleaned it completely.” He smiled and said, “Cool, I don’t care and these are fucking expensive.”
Too soon time crept by and dinner had been approaching. His trip had taken him an hour and a half drive out there and he knew he had to get back. His friend offered for him to stay but he declined. His older son was waiting for him at home. He hugged her good bye and went on his way. When he got home he saw her message, “You forgot the vibrators! 😔” His response had been, “Damn I was trying hard not to do that. I must come back soon then. Hey thanks for the visit. I always enjoy spending time with you.”
He looked up at his wife of 8 years and began to cry. He said, “do you realize what you have done?” She smiled, “this had to happen because I couldn’t have believed it. I thought I would be crying for 3 months like last time.”
She seemed completely composed and said, “no one will ever love you like I loved you.” Hearing that he fell completely apart. He walked to the front of the house and sat on the crumbling concrete steps. He put his head down and cried as snot mixed with blood dripped onto the concrete.
After a few minutes his wife exited the front door to look at him. She asked, “What are you going to do? He said nothing so she continued, “You can call the police. I won’t tell you not to. But if you do, they will take the kids. I don’t think it would help anyone.” He believed her and said through his tears, “I won’t call. I just want to go but I have no ID, no money.” “I can get your cards back for you but your phone is gone,” she replied. She walked away for a few minutes and returned with his phone case and handed it to him. He opened the back slider and saw that his cards were there, picked himself up and walked away. She called after him, “you might want to check the post office parking lot for your phone.”
His older son was waiting for him in the cottage. He gestured through the glass door for the boy to come and they both got in the van and drove away from their family home.
It was Saturday around noon and the traffic down Sunset was terrible. He began to feel numb again but noticed the heat in the vehicle. He fiddled with the controls for a few minutes but clearly the a/c wasn’t working. “Well,” he said to his son, “at least it waited until summer was over to go out.” He pressed the two buttons on the door to lower the windows and let the cool fall air in. His get-a-way was slow and his brain was still cloudy as he inched the van forward.
“We are going to stop at Starbucks for a few minutes so I can send a few messages, ok? I don’t have a phone so I need to let people know we are ok.”
They entered through the side door and he quickly found an empty table near the restrooms with a convenient power outlet. He plugged in, flipped the screen open, and opened a browser to accept the terms as quickly as possible. His fingers rushed across the keys as he sent a few messages to his college buddy who was expecting him up in South Lake, about 2 hours away. Feeling relieved, he closed the laptop and they were on their way.
The drive up to South Lake was a blur. A not-so-quick stop at In-and-Out during the lunch rush was made out of necessity and the fries were a welcome distraction for a bit. He said to no one in particular, “I feel like the universe just kicked me in the face. What do you do when the universe kicks you in the face?” He heard an nervous laugh emanate from his son in response.
Neither of them spoke as they rolled down the freeway, the road becoming more steep and the lanes reducing into a windy tree slalom. He tried to find a radio station to keep him company and the reception was patchy at best as the old songs added to the surreal feeling of the day. His head and his eye were hurting. The visor mirror revealed a swollen brow to accompany a bloodshot left eye.
He was relieved once more as he pulled into the driveway of his friend’s old triplex and parked under a large pine tree. Driving out of town without the help of the Waze app was not an often occurrence but his memory, to his surprise, was trustworthy. He and his son made their way down the path to the unit and his friend opened the door with a concerned look on her face. “You ok dude?” she asked.
The rest of the day his awareness floated in and out, vacillating between a repeat of the morning events and his concentrated effort to focus on the conversation with his friend. He felt lucky to have such a friend to come to with his son. A friend who would not ask too many questions or say anything negative either way and would make an honest attempt to pull him out of his head. He needed that as he processed and tried to plan for the coming days. The three of them walked down by the lake for ice cream and as they walked he took in the tri-color waters against the trees and he reminded himself that he would be ok.
Snowfall
Snow fell all afternoon and they had gone for a walk in it. The beauty of fresh snow isn’t something he could ever ignore. As it cascaded down and covered his black jacket he felt a bit lighter for a bit. They passed a red Chevy truck parked on the side of the road with both windows down and snow collecting just inside the doors. He felt a bit sorry for the owner who was nowhere in sight.
For the last two nights’ sleep had been a rare commodity. The restless tossing in bed revealed sore spots that reminded him of a loss he couldn’t quite wrap his mind around. It wasn’t anger that kept him awake, if it was he would’ve understood that. He had pinpointed a sense of longing for the person he knew he could never hold again. Earlier, he tried to explain to his friend that he felt like a drug addict in withdrawal — wanting his wife now just to hold him and tell him everything would be ok. “I know I have to do this cold turkey, it’s the only way.”
He sat up in bed. Feelings of helplessness were fought off with reason, but just barely. In a few hours he would need to make the drive back to Sacramento and start a new life and he knew there was no use fighting that fact. His beard was growing out and he had no razor. Both he and his boy were out of clothes, but he dare not contact her or return to retrieve anything because he could not trust himself. He would have to wait until he was stronger and today was not that day. “Today,” he told himself, “I will get my son to school, I will find us a place, I will go to the meeting with the teacher, I will get us some supplies, and I will work. That is enough. I am enough.” He took a deep breath and laid back down.
The middle
He noticed the beauty of the trees along the 2-lane road and how they were complemented by the music from the classical radio station. “10 , 11, 12, 13” he said to himself, counting to refocus his mind. His son was quiet in the backseat, occasionally inquiring about the time to arrival. The young one was far too serious to ask, “are we there yet?” Instead he would say, “How soon will we be there?” Cold McDonalds coffee kept the man company until his thoughts drifted away from the numbers to his wife. She had always said she would not be alone for long and he knew that to be her truth. It pained him to wonder if her boyfriend had already taken his place in the home, if his small son woke and climbed in bed between his wife and another man in the middle of the night. “It’s inevitable,” he thought. “She won’t let herself be lonely. Best get used to it.”
He, on the other hand, felt closed off from the thought of intimacy. Her accusations had paired so well with her strikes and he now wondered if he should ever let anyone in again. The pain of loss overshadowed whatever had been gained over the last nine years.
That morning he had awoke to learn that she had responded to his friend’s request on his behalf to get some things from the house. He had expected something resembling an apology, but instead read a 4am text full of accusations and demands. She seemed to have removed her actions from the previous day, wiped them clean from her mental slate. It was that text that confirmed what he only thought he was sure of before, that he could never go back.
After his son was off to school he set out to replace his phone and check back in with the world. The wait was long but he eventually exited the store with a new phone number and a bit of hope. According to the phone, he had an hour to sort out some clothes for the two of them before the meeting with the school principal. He felt like a SIM with an ever emptying happiness meter that required constant met goals. Phone check. Clothes check. Meeting check. All of this to keep it his meter just above empty.
“You deserve better than this,” he told himself. A friend had said so and now he repeated the phrase in the hope that he would believe it. Shaving cream, razors, soap, shampoo check. A police officer met him at Starbucks and took a report on a small pad of paper with illegible writing. He took a photo of the black eye and then left the man with a pamphlet about domestic abuse and resources like WEAVE.
A doctor had called to order him to the ER to get his head injury checked out. After an hour and a half in the waiting room, he entered the exam room and a young, eager doctor shook his hand and said, “let me guess, you went to a really good party and were having way too good a time when…” He interrupted the doc and said, “my wife did this.” “Oh,” stammered the doc. “I’ve been in break-ups before but not like that. That’s hard.” A mild concussion, four days to several weeks and good as new, and another pamphlet for good measure. “Fucking pamphlets,” the man thought.
The motel was loud but his son finally fell asleep around 10:30pm. It seemed like a clean place at least. One more day down. He sat in front of his laptop and read the chat window between him and his younger brother, “I love her Jay. She’s fucking crazy and I’m never going to hold her again.” His brother had responded, “I’ve thought the same thing. Life goes on.” The man felt as if he had been hit in the chest by his brother’s words for a second time. His response back to his brother had been, “It does, I know. I just wasn’t prepared to say goodbye. I wish I had known.” To that, his wise brother had answered, “Life rarely gives us that luxury.”
Breaking Habits
The kid was late, but could you really blame him? Some drunk asshole was shouting into his phone at 2am on a Monday night right outside the window. A long shower, when you didn’t want to be up in the first place, must have been required. The man had forgotten the boy needed a packed lunch. He found yesterday’s sack still contained the peanut butter sandwich — he wasn’t proud but he left it in there and threw in half a bag of cookies and some chips and said to no one in particular, “things can only get better, right?” The hotel was all booked up so they would both need to gather up all their worldly possessions and vacate.
Ten minutes late for school across town with a granola bar in his belly and a sack of old food, the boy did not complain. The man made it to work on time and activated what charisma he could muster to keep the attention of the class on the information and not on his black eye. It was a win, he felt good at something.
A friend had advised, “for fucks sake you should probably take a couple days off. Pretending like nothing is happening, that everything is OK, really does not serve you. You can take a couple days off! This is exactly the appropriate time to do that.” He knew he wouldn’t take her advice. To do that, he would have to tell someone something. He could not do that. That look of pity was just not what he needed right now.
His soon to be ex-wife was flipping out about the money. She had a friend contact him and he sent $300 more into the joint account to help cover the car lease. Immediately he realized he did it without question, more habit than anything, and committed to himself that it would be the last request he’d fill.
Walking in public down any path he usually followed made him anxious. He wondered if she would corner him somewhere or be waiting outside his classroom or van and have another go. How many months or years would she take to move beyond anger and hurt? He guessed he’d best watch his back for a long time. What a strange pivot for love to take, he thought.
Scorched Earth
No one should have to feed their kid lunchables, he thought, and he hoped the 3 pizza pack with a crunch bar wouldn’t be interpreted as a giant fuck you to his son’s exacting teacher. Exacting was most definitely a euphemism for several other words that he was too afraid to put in its place. Since you are likely feeling judgey, I should let you know that he also fed the boy two Hostess chocolate cupcakes, a day of the dead skull cookie from Starbucks, and at least half a pizza from Little Caesar’s (no money was received for this stellar product placement).
They were both quite sick of this standard of eating after 5 days. He was also missing the gym but too exhausted after the long days spent checking off his new life to-do list. Apartment app. Check. Laundromat. Check. Call Weave. Check. Go to counseling. Check. He also managed to get the boy to school on time, buy some respectable snack items to put in the boy’s school lunch, a sweatshirt for the boy’s chili October mornings, and some pajama pants because he felt like a bad parent when the boy insisted on sleeping in the school khakis and long sleeved shirt last night.
By the end of each day he was spent and could not bring himself to do anything other than journal. Tonight though, his older son wanted to Skype and discuss what the man planned to do. He found himself admitting for the second time that day that he loved his wife. His psychologist had asked, “what is it about her?” “Oh,” he said with eyes alight, “she’s brilliant, the most brilliant person I’ve met, and so hilarious when she’s in a good mood, so charming!” The psychologist asked in a clinical fashion, “Are you attracted to her?” He found himself saying, “yes, very much, when she is being that person.” She countered, “and how often is she THAT person?” This question dulled his sparkle. “Rarely, I suppose. Rarely.”
Tomorrow he planned to file the restraining order. Weave helped point him in the right direction. According to their website, 15% of domestic violence victims are indeed men. He wasn’t a unicorn after all.
GrownUp
After an hour on hold he finally got through on the local WEAVE hotline. A woman’s voice came on the line. She delicately asked him a few questions about his situation. When he heard her voice he felt a rush of gratitude fill him, not for anything in particular yet, he just felt grateful that something like this line existed. Relief flowed through his veins with the thought that he and others like him were not alone. He felt terribly blessed that he was able to say “no” to many of her questions. No, he didn’t need shelter, the Motel 6 would do. No, he didn’t want counseling quite yet, his counselor would do. She asked about his income and his education and he felt fortunate that he could see to many of his and his children’s needs. For the first time, his situation felt temporary and he saw a bit more light somewhere not too far off. It was a short conversation but he learned where to go to start the legal process. As he hung up he thought to himself, “now this is a cause I should be supporting when I get my life back.”
It might have been instant replay number 27 when he first realized he had laid there and taken it. He could have gotten up and run out after 1 or 2, maybe 3 kicks tops. Clearly fight or flight should have been activated and he had decided not to fight. What on earth happened to flight then? How do you take over 30 plus kicks to the body and projectiles crashing all about you and not get the hell out of there? He told the psychologist that he thought maybe he was more invested in pleading his case, “like, I figured if I stayed she would see that I was innocent.” She looked at him with skepticism and said, “you have a history of abuse, what was it that your step-dad used to do?” He looked down and said, “mostly nerve holds. He was in the border patrol and he knew all these ways he could hold you down and cause pain without leaving marks.” “And what did you do then,” she asked. “I laid there until he was done.” She paused for a second and said, “what about your ex-girlfriend?” He looked down again. “It was at the end that she attacked me when I was asleep on the couch. I laid there covering up until she was done.” They both took a breath and the psychologist said what they were both thinking, “this may be the way you have learned to cope with this behavior, stay still until it’s over. Children are powerless against adults. They are too small to fight against it. But are you still a child?”
Drama magnet
He was back at the courthouse 10 minutes early just in case they passed the documents out earlier than expected. The clerk called the waiting, anxious people up one at a time by first name. When his time came, the clerk feminized his name. “Well that’s awkward,” he thought. He half-heartedly started to correct her and then decided he couldn’t be bothered as he collected his packet and darted out towards the elevator. “Sheriff upstairs,” shouted the clerk at his back.
This order would need to get served by the Sheriff, but when he arrived at the third floor Sheriff’s office he found it empty. A fellow restraining order filer burst through the door one minute behind him and looked concerned at the empty service windows. He felt sorry for the guy and took a few minutes to explain the process. Unfortunately, this was not his first rodeo–a neighbor had assaulted him a few months prior so he knew this drill. The idea that this was his second restraining order troubled him and made him feel guilty — like a drama magnet who perhaps deserved this turn of events.
He took a few moments to page through the order and noticed the judge denied most of his requests. The only one granted limited his wife’s ability to outright stalk and harass him. She didn’t need to stay away. “What would she have had to do for them to take this seriously?” he thought. It didn’t matter right now he decided, finished up, and hurried down the stairs and out the sliding glass doors into the sunny afternoon. He had a long way to go, eight hours at least of driving. No use dwelling on anything right now, he thought.
Mexican Coke
The long drive down the golden state was made mostly in the dark. His son had picked out a Rick Riordan novel for the drive and the voice of the narrator filled the van as well as every empty space in his mind. He wished he could have quiet to sort through his emotions, but he knew his son needed some kind of joy right about now. He settled into the seat, sipped is coffee, and let the story overtake him. A brother and sister, young teens, are pitted against an impossible enemy. How nice and neat, he thought. He still wasn’t sure if his wife was his enemy even after the epic beat down, though he figured she would definitely see herself as that shortly. Any chance of going back would soon be gone — the sheriff would arrest her or serve the temporary order within the coming week and she was not a forgiver.
The wedding was lovely and painful. He both wished the young couple happiness and lamented his own loss, missing his wife moment by moment. He also took note of how hard his family worked to give make this a lovely wedding. His mother was up all night baking for the reception. His sister set-up and did the photography. His brother made countless trips for the sake of food and drink, so many trips that he even missed the ceremony. Nine years ago the man had been very in love with his young bride. Money was tight but they both worked so hard to put on a small but traditional wedding. He had baked and she had decorated their own cake. The reception dinner was an intimate affair with Mexican food and Mexican Coke in their little apartment. Only his grandparents had come to stand with him as his family.
He wondered, how do you miss someone who had no problem kicking the shit out of you? It had been a full week since he left. His head still ached but his eye was healing up. If anything, his jaw had gotten the worst of it — he hadn’t been able to open his mouth any decent width without pain. He was tired. Being on the road was exhausting for a homebody like him. He needed his bed and his tea. The couches he’d been sleeping on were comfortable enough, however various well intentioned relatives liked to have long talks with him about the events. He was so sick of talking about it all now. He couldn’t talk about it without feeling pathetic. He was the dummy that stayed with someone long after things had gone pear-shaped, the one who had to get a concussion before he could see what everyone else saw.
And my heart will
The little mischievous boy had messy dirty blond hair. He came running down the steps and smiled at the man before running over to the man’s wife and saying, “Mama, stop yelling.” The police escort needed his help. The woman had been yelling at the two officers as well and one of them finally said in frustration, “fine, he’s a bad person, but being a bad person is not against the law.”
The man had put a tub of legos into the minivan, only to have his wife tip it over onto the ground. The driveway was now filled with gravel and a lego legacy it might never escape. The man had come for his clothes and son’s toys but he didn’t expect to find his stuff moved out of the main house already and her boyfriend’s car to be in his spot. It was a bit quick even for her, he thought, and then hated himself for caring at all.
During the 30-minute event most of the woman’s insults centered around homophobic slurs and the man felt extremely uncomfortable with the officers hearing all of it. He wondered if he had internalized homophobia and made a mental note to add that to his counseling to-do list. One more thing, he thought.
The asking
He burned. It was the early evening, fully 10 hours later when the anger finally coursed through his veins. The rain was coming down steadily all afternoon. It was chilly and the air was fresh for the first time in months. The warm, chunky, leftover vegetable soup had made it easy for him to enjoy the day and he had been distracted by his chore list. But now the bills were sorted, dinner was eaten, laundry was tumbling, his son was playing, and he had little to do but feel what he should have felt when he was sitting next to her in court.
She sat down first in the courtroom and he paused and then took the seat beside her, knowing that she would prefer to have someone, anyone, there by her side, and even he would do. Even though she had brutally attacked him 13 days prior he was still trying to make her comfortable. Small claims court is not as soul crushing as you might guess. The judges are all sit-ins, temporary folks who are lawyers volunteering their time. The two judges he had seen so far tried to make things calm and more or less nice — well, as nice as they can be when one party wants to take a bunch of money from another party. Today’s judge asked the audience of plaintiffs and defendants to “breath and try and relax.” The man was always one for following directions without question so he did just that. His wife sat there not breathing, as if the act of refusal would somehow let the neighbors who were suing them again, know that she was not playing. While the rest of the audience sat in quiet anticipation, she artfully filled the moments hammering away at her agenda in whispers. “I should get half of your retirement as well,” she said a few times while he protested quietly. “I deserve it! I took care of your kids for all of those years.” She added, “Why do you want Oscar 50%? You have always said you were almost done. Leave me with my son. You can get him on weekends sometimes.” To her credit, she apologized for her actions before explaining that she and her doctor had decided it was a breakdown and therefore she was not responsible and any judge would take her side in a custody and divorce hearing. She added, “you already have the whole police knife incident and the arrest so you’re not going to come out of this looking sweet.” Over and over she hammered him until he shut down for self-preservation. She kept going, asking for money, asking for the house, pointing out what she would say to the judge to get her way–at one point he spat out, “I am not your friend!” and he meant it. The worst part for him was her twisting of events. She was determined to get her way so she would say whatever she needed to say and do whatever she needed to do to bring her way into reality. She did not care about him now. He wondered if she ever had. Oddly, he did not regret sitting next to her. It was still his job to make her comfortable, whatever the price.
It was night now. He burned a candle to add something comforting to the air around him. He sat on a crumpled sheet on his new bedroom floor and leaned his back against the wall. A bed would likely be weeks off but that was fine, he thought. Piles of clothes had been carefully sorted around the room. He glanced at his sock mountain and the small grey box that sat in its shadow. He had slyly retrieved this particular box from the upstairs bedroom of what was now just his wife’s residence. Well, he thought with a bit of a wounded feeling, probably his wife’s’ boyfriend’s too by the look of things yesterday. This box was a win. It held a bit of her attack on it and he needed evidence to protect himself.
His brain was going in a circle again. He was imagining the divorce hearing and what they both would present. In his head, he was sitting at a table reading a statement to the judge. Too emotional to risk an off the cuff exchange, he plodded through his statement and built his courage as he went, “Your honor, if this was reversed. If I had taken my wife’s phone and read through her messages, and then became so enraged that I hit my wife in the head with a heavy object. If I then started to kick her. Over and over. If she cried, “please stop! — what did I do?, ” and I became more enraged and kicked her harder. If I moved around her body and kicked every soft area I could find. If I picked up more heavy objects and threw them at her head. If I followed her outside and punched her in the face. What would you say to me? If I said to you, it wasn’t my fault. Anyone would respond like that if they read those things. What would you say? Because I think most people would say I should be in jail. Maybe they would say I was an abuser and I needed help. I can’t think of anyone who would say I should get full custody of a child and a free ride for 4 years.”
Triage
He stared at the building, “this couldn’t be it, could it,” he thought, but he knew it was. His courage was faltering a bit and he realized this, but didn’t know why. A woman was standing in the parking lot. She noticed his apprehension and looked his way. “Can I help you?” she asked. He sucked up his nervousness and said, “Is this where WEAVE is?” “Yes,” she said. “I’m here for triage,” he said with a bit of unsteadiness and hope in his voice. She smiled in a way that helped him feel less out of place. “Go down this hallway, make a right and go all the way down to the stairs. It’s on the second floor.” “Thanks,” he said, and he headed through the double doors.
The hallway carpet was stained twenty years ago. The whole building had that dilapidated, 80s look to it and to him it smelled a bit like the downtown alleys. “That’s harsh,” he thought. “Maybe it doesn’t smell like that. Maybe I’m being too judgy.” He passed a door with a push button combo lock. Music thumped through it and he wondered what sort of rave could be going on in this retired office building. Wishing he could go in and see, he hurried passed it and on up the stairs to the Weave office. Signage was a bit nonexistent but he found his way eventually. The WEAVE reception area was behind a heavy wooden door. A glass window kept the staff safe. He stood at it for a few minutes before a middle-aged, Latina woman noticed him standing there. She was kind, like the first woman, and he was allowed inside the actual waiting room which could only be opened from the other side of the glass window.
The waiting room had a few comfortable couches which looked very much like they were once fine furniture in some McMansion ten to fifteen years ago. The carpet, like the hallway, was stained, but he could tell someone had tried quite hard to make the space feel homey and comfortable with pillows and art that had also perhaps been donated after a patron had redecorated. He sat on the old sofa and wondered how he had let things come to this.
“If I had just left sooner,” he thought, “we wouldn’t be in this situation.” He felt sorry for her and guilty that he would be telling their personal story to yet another stranger. Just that morning upon waking he had read an email she had sent. It read:
“I honestly do not know why you have all of a sudden become so cruel and bitter. You have left me absolutely destitute and I would never have guessed you could do this to your worst enemy.
Obviously after I got your restraining order I have responded with my own side of the story also claiming domestic violence. I intend to come to the court prepared to support this claim with evidence. I have also filed my own restraining order and have been awarded full legal and physical custody of Oscar until the hearing in November. You should receive service for that soon, the sheriff’s office closes at 3 and as you know the temporary rulings don’t come out until 3:45. I have handed it to a third party instead.
CPS were called after the police heard me tell you I had no money to feed our son. They have ordered that I do not allow you back into the home. They are trying to contact you. I also had to apply for food stamps to ensure I could provide for our son. Since I have applied for food stamps and I am not a citizen Immigration services have been called.
The take home message is. You are clearly angry, but you haven’t yet filed for divorce. However, all this has landed in the courts and raised the attention of agencies that have no qualms removing both children from either one of our care.”
He was terribly angry within seconds of reading her message. He said out loud to himself, “How dare she? What kind of monster does this?” But he knew just what kind. One of his making. She was this person after nine years as his partner and he felt jointly responsible for that, like a parent of a dysfunctional 30-year-old with a failure to launch. His friend has pointed out to him that he seemed to have a constant scheme to fix the relationship. She looked at him straight and said, “it’s always, if we have a baby or if we buy a house or if she can have a boyfriend. It’s always something that if you do it, it will get better.” He realized then it had never had a shot at getting better. He’d only wasted both of their 30’s trying to make her happy and there was no better time to cut both of their losses.
It was not her e-mail that set him on a path to WEAVE. He had been speaking to them via the help line since the incident, but had been on the fence about going in. The ‘W’ does stand for women after all, he thought. All of the brochures likewise confirmed with their imagery that women are victims of domestic violence. They seemed to say, men can take a punch and walk away, move on.
He wasn’t moving on though. It had been nearly 3 weeks and he was still looking over his shoulder, expecting an attack to come. The thought of another person hugging him or coming near him put him on edge. He was stuck in a loop, questioning over and over again his ability to select sane friends and lovers. Even more troubling to him, he was feeling defensive of her. When friends or family said anything negative he tensed up. He found himself making excuses for her and he hated seeing the disdain in their eyes when he did this. He knew he couldn’t go back and he needed to heal so here he was, at WEAVE, hoping to do that and maybe find people who would understand how hard this was. That he couldn’t hate her. That he was heartbroken and this was a betrayal but it was also a loss.
He sat in the waiting room and felt a rush of anger course through his body. He calmed himself with his usual bag of tricks. Breathing deeply and focusing on his breath like the VA had taught him, imagery of his aura and chakras, calling on God and angels, calling his power back to him, all of these things helped him stop anger looping for a bit.
His trigger had been due to a mental replay of a video he had made the night before. He had put it off making it for two weeks, but his checklist could not wait. The restraining order hearing was coming up soon and he needed his proof.
The computer was connected to a mouse and a monitor on the floor. His new, tiny apartment was still without proper furniture. While sitting cross-legged he had done 4 hours of careful editing of footage from his old homes front security cameras. As he expected, he found footage of her last strike, a hard punch to his left eye. He watched himself fall back over and over again. He looked so sad and dazed on the monitor. “That guy looks so confused or bewildered,” he thought. The man did not expect to see that the files also contained footage of his wife moving her boyfriend into their home the night of the incident. The car pulled up and backed into his carport just after 11pm. The following mornings footage showed his wife cheerily helping her boyfriend unload a full car of belongings. Every weeknight, like clockwork, the car would return, just like a husband coming home from work. On the weekends it would stay all day. The man wondered if he had been set up to leave. This was a painful thought for him.
The tortoise
Earlier that day his brother texted, “Remember not to do anything damming or stupid during legal proceedings fyi. Everything till end of court decision will be up for observation. You’re a risky little shit sometimes so keep your head down.” “I can’t argue with that,” he thought. “What kind of antics might qualify,” he asked himself. For one, he knew he never should have told her he had video. She changed her story as soon as he gloated that bit of intel. Suddenly she was admitting to the attack, but with a twist. Instead of denying everything, she now was a victim. She felt threatened. She told the court he had followed her around the house, not letting her escape, backing her into a corner. She had to defend herself from his routine physical and emotional abuse. It was a believable story, but she hadn’t carefully finished its construction. His lawyer had little trouble pulling at the lose bits in her web. Even the judge said, “you didn’t try and close your door?”
The court audience gasped when the video was played. She had leaped off the porch step and fully extended into his face with a missile of a right. The man went sprawling backwards into the mostly dead front lawn. He landed on his back with his limbs in the air like a stupefied tortoise. Dazed and running on instinct, he immediately made an attempt to switch to a more dignified position and got to his feet but made no aggressive move in her direction.
“You admitted to kicking him,” stated the lawyer. “How did he get on the ground the first time?” The wife indignantly spat, “He threw himself down, just like he did on the video that time!” The man sat there with his head tilted down ten degrees. He imagined throwing himself down like a soccer player trying to nail someone with a red card.
Forty-five minutes of accusations had challenged the judge’s patience with the wife but there would not be time to disprove all of her claims. The lawyer turned to the man and recommended a long trial. This would be an all-day event that would provide more time for the truth to emerge. It was a calculated risk and a pricey one with the hourly legal fees. This was a serious game his wife was playing and he knew her to be a tenacious player. She would make adjustments before the long trial. So much was at stake.
56
It was another long day in court for all. A California family law judge must be the most patient human being on the planet, he thought. Most of the people in attendance that day had acted like amnesiacs. “What do you want me to do,” the patient judge repeatedly asked. At first the man felt impatient and wished he could answer the question for the confused petitioner. He thought, “I mean fuck, just say anything! Yes, you want a 5 year restraining order. What the fuck, just answer!” After they had gone through a few of the cases the man finally settled in, realizing that his turn may be a way off, and he began to listen bemused to the legal circus performance. “Ma’am, so why are you here today,” asked the judge. Her interpreter spoke to her in Spanish and then translated back the reply, “A few months ago I went to the doctor. They performed many tests. My aunt was with me. I had not been feeling well. The test came back positive for hepatitis C. I was devastated. I did not know how I got it. I went home and told my husband. He was very angry. He said I must have cheated on him. I did not cheat on him.” The judge paused, waiting for the woman to continue to speak through the translator but nothing followed. “Why are you hear,” prompted the judge. The woman spoke to the translator and the translator relayed another seemingly unrelated answer to the judge. This went on for 45 minutes. Fuck me, thought the man. He looked over at the bailiff and then the judge and wondered how they did this day in and day out. Saints, he thought. Fucking saints.
The man felt sorry for his two friends who had graciously accompanied him today. He did not expect this would take so long and he hated inconveniencing people. “Usually the folks who lawyer-up go first,” he had told them. They had indeed been called up first but his wife claimed she did not receive the last document filed. The judge kindly gave her a copy and the time to read it. The man wished this was more of a tough love kind of judge like “yeah right you didn’t receive it!” This delay pushed them to the back of the docket and he resented her for it. One more thing for his angry list.
The afternoon was fading when they finally had their turn. The lawyer did the talking for the man and he was relieved to not have to repeat himself. His wife was again on her own. She stated that she felt the last judge did not allow her the time to explain her side. To his left, the man saw the bailiff roll his eyes. The judge was new but the bailiff had been in on her first 45-minute performance the week prior. “I know,” thought the man at the bailiff. The bailiff was his favorite court personality thus far. The man thought, this whole thing is kind of worth it just to see that bailiff’s emotives. He looked at the bailiff’s name tag and made a mental note to remember it. About 20 minutes into this second performance the man noticed that the judge liked to ask questions that had nothing to do with this specific case. Questions like, “where did you go to college?” The man figured it was to determine if the individual was lying about other things. The judge seemed to look at the bailiff often when the petitioner or respondent finished answering a question. The man noticed the judge and the bailiff seemed to have a secret language between them and the man longed to know it too. This secret language must keep them sane, he thought. Partners, lovers, often have a secret language. He was alone now, he realized, but it was ok. His friends may not be melded to him, but they were here for him, and that was enough.
When the judge started to calculate spousal support the man shuddered only slightly. He knew what that meant. The judgement was a temporary one, but 56% of the man’s income would be going to the person who had violated his body and his trust. That was no small pill to swallow, even temporarily. He was still the only one paying their joint debts and he had to pay the utilities for both residences, leaving nothing for necessities or anything that his son might need. The man would spend the next few weeks attempting to sort out his finances and stretch out every remaining dollar to ensure they had the food and gas to make it through the month. It was a bitter pill and he managed it only through sheer will to do good and be good. Each time hatred swelled in his throat he dismissed it by calling on thankful memories. “Thank you for releasing me. Thank you for my bed. Thank you for my health and my sons health. Thank you for my job. Thank you for my family. Thank you for my friends. Thank you for my TV. Thank you for my laptop. Thank you for the band. Thank you for my car. Thank you for that hot bailiff.” He figured God liked humor.
