No, she did not die; although there were times when she wished death would come. She left the area. Moved away. Vamoosed. Not because it was what she wanted to do, but because it was what she had to do. You see, she is/was the wife of an abuser. Oh, he was slick with it. He was always so oily nice that it was hard for me to believe he was an abuser. He seemed to take such good care of her. Always concerned about her, always thinking of her best interest. Smiling in all the right places. Holding onto her. But when you looked at her, she was afraid and a tiny bit sad. Her eyes were always watching. Always wary. Always shifting. Always careful. Her speech was always stilted. Never hopeful. Never funny. Just always a bit sad.
I remember the first time I met her. We had lived on our block for about eight years when the neighbors across the street decided to sell their house and move away. I was really sad, but everyone does what they need to do. The house sat vacant for about three months. Then one evening my husband and I were sitting on our patio enjoying the coolness and quiet of the evening when there was a knock on the front door. My husband went to open it, and there stood this six-foot, red haired woman with tears on her face and a towel around her hand. My husband rushed her inside and into the bathroom. I went into the bathroom to see what was wrong, and she looked at me and said she had cut her hand in the kitchen. I looked at it and told her I thought she would have to have stitches. She said no that she would put a butterfly bandage on it and it would be fine. Another knock on the door, and there stood this hulking, bald man with a cigar in his hand, who asked if his wife was in our house. We both said sure, come on in. He declined but said to tell her to come home now! When he said that, she rushed to come out of the bathroom and go home. I asked her where home was, and she told me they bought the house across the street. I was glad because now this nice house would have a family in it.
The next day I went over to find out how she was doing and was met at the door by her husband. He said she was fine but sleeping. Not thinking anything, I left and went back across the street to my own house. Later that afternoon, I saw her getting the newspaper and asked how she was. She seemed to be limping a little and I asked if she was alright. When she turned around to look at me, she had a black eye and several scratches on her arms. Then she looked toward her house and he was watching us out of the blinds! I will never forget the look she gave me. It was one of sheer terror. I asked her what happened and she said she walked into the bathroom door (common lie for victims of domestic violence!). Now I was sure that something was not right. I asked her directly if her husband did that to her. She said no, but there were tears in her eyes when she said it. She said she didn’t want to get him in trouble. Get HIM in trouble, I asked? What about you? She said she would be fine and hurried up to get back inside.
For about two years each time I saw her after she had been beaten, I argued with her about getting away from him. I cried with her and for her. I swore that if it happened again, I would go to the police myself. I never did. She swore she loved him and he loved her. She insisted that she had done something to make him angry, even though she could never figure out what that "something" was. She never really told me all of the abuse that had been visited on her, but anyone with eyes could see that she was a regular target. I cried, screamed, threatened, cajoled and finally begged her to get away from him. She said he was doing better now. He only hit her a couple of times "this week." I talked with my husband who wanted to go over and beat some sense into her husband’s head. I told him not to, first because her husband was mean and would not think twice about hurting anyone who "poked their nose into his business" and second because I didn’t want my husband involved like that. They lived on our block for about seven years, then they moved. She called me and told me that he needed to be closer to his job in the city in case of calls at night. By the way, he was a police officer.
There were times when she ran to my house in the middle of the night with scratches, cigarette burns, a broken arm (three times), broken fingers, teeth knocked out, ears bleeding, nose broken (twice), and finally, he ran over her foot with the SUV. Each and every time I called the police and nothing was done. And still she would not leave. Believe me, I am not shy and I would have spoken my mind to him on several occasions, but she begged me not to. I knew, too, that if I did say anything to him, it might make it worse for her. So I kept quiet. I have worked with victims of domestic violence, so I understood that she was trying to protect him. She did not want to "mess up his career." So she did not complain. They had no children (thank God!) and he was the only one who heard her cries for help, and he only answered with his fists. Finally, when she came to my house, I thought with the desire for change, I picked up the phone, called the shelter, had her all ready to go, and at the last minute she backed out. She said the police all know where the shelter is, so why bother. I promised her they would help her. Nevertheless, she never took my advice. She always thought he would stop of his own accord. He never did!
Then two days ago, she surprisingly came to my house to tell me goodbye. She said she finally had enough. Her arm was again in a cast and she had two black eyes. She seemed very calm and knew what she was going to do. She had a bus ticket and said that she did not want to tell me where she was going in the event he called and wanted to know where she was. We talked about her dreams for herself, which include not being beaten, her desire to be treated with respect and dignity, and the fact that she only wants to be free of him. I had not been involved with her for about a year because he would not allow her to use the phone, to have a cell phone, to visit friends, or to even have friends. She and I spoke only when she could get out of the house to use the phone at the drug store. I did not even have her home phone number. She had no way of contacting anyone unless she could get out of the house. And that was not often. He was either always with her or she was in the house. I feel bad today because I could not make it better for her. I could not help her. She went to another city and told me that she would call when she arrived. I have not heard from her yet, but I do now that he did not follow her. Yet.
You see, she is not stupid. She is an educated woman, a nurse, but she thought she was in love with this guy. I tried to understand that but I could not wrap my brain around it. I don’t know. Perhaps you have an idea about it and can help me out. Was I too close to see? I don't think so! Did I give her too much rope and allow her to continue getting beat upon? I tried to be a good friend to her. Was I?