I Stayed
A woman comes to terms why she stayed with her abuser.
Note: This story contains descriptions of emotional abuse.
No, it’s not. Can’t be. But it is. Even at a distance, even after a year, I recognize his stoop-shouldered, loping stride slicing across the parking lot. It is him. Heading for the exact restaurant where I’m sitting at a window table waiting for my friend Lucy.
My stomach cartwheels. I sit back and lower my head, hoping the curtains of my hair will hide my face. Maybe he hasn’t seen me. I hear the door open behind me. Footsteps shuffle to a stop. I squeeze my eyes shut, hold my breath. My legs wobble. I wait for the fist to close around my wrist, the finger to jab my face, the vomit of insults and warped accusations.
The feet move. Away from me.
I exhale but keep my eyes closed and concentrate on my breathing. One one-thousand, two one-thousand… The chair in front of me scrapes. Fear spears me. He’s circled back in one of his “gotcha” maneuvers. My eyelids snap open.
It’s Lucy. Thank god.
“Danny just walked in,” I say in a taut voice.
Alarm springs on her face. “Oh Cath, no wonder you look pale.”
“We should go,” I say. I want to leave, but I’m frozen in my chair. Maybe Danny…
