Seven Changes
seven f
Changes
I heard a friendly knock on my apartment door. Thinking it was a neighbor, I opened the door. Tom barged in. His face was red and distorted. Alcohol seeped from his pores.
“I’ll teach you to leave me, bitch. I’m takin’ the kids.”
He slapped me across the mouth. I was certain he dislodged a few of my teeth.
“No, Tom, please. Leave us alone,” I pleaded.
He nearly pulled my arm from its socket and sent me flying into the bedroom door. I curled into a fetal position to avoid more injury and noticed Tommy cowering behind the door, tears streaming down his cheeks. I motioned for him to hide. Tom saw me, then saw my son.
“Tommy, get out here. You’re comin’ with me,” Tom said in a quieter voice.
“Tommy, stay with Mommy!”
Tom grabbed my bruised arm and dragged me into the kitchen. He tried kicking me in the stomach. My only defense was to return to a fetal position. I opened my mouth to protest. No words emerged. My body froze.
I lay helpless as he bundled my children, along with their toys and belongings, and left me on the floor. I don’t know how long I lay there. Time and memory ceased to exist.
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Sometime later, a neighbor saw my front door open and called to me. She must have heard me whimper and came into the kitchen.
“Ava! What happened?”
I couldn’t speak.
I heard her call the police. Everything went dark.
The next thing I knew I was in an ambulance. A man in a white coat was speaking to me.
“We’re taking you to Sweetwater Clinic,” he said, referring to the nearest psychiatric facility.
I’m not crazy. Help me , I wanted to say but my jaw refused to move.
The doctors and staff at Sweetwater treated me with kindness and allowed me to rest and heal. I met with a psychiatrist, who implied my husband was the one who needed help, not me.
While at Sweetwater, I called Rose.
“Ava, you need to go to Stamford and get your kids.”
“How can I? He’ll kill me.”
“Think of your kids,” she said.
Rose was right. Once I was well enough, I went back to my apartment. Tom had emptied the place and shoved my clothing into a corner. I didn’t have much to pack.
Tom was clean and sober when I arrived in Stamford.
“Let’s make this work, hon,” he said.
“Sure, Tom. I’m sorry.” I didn’t mean it for a second.
Tommy and baby Lee were overjoyed to see me.
“I’ll get you out of here,” I whispered, as I tucked them into bed.
Our life was stable for five days. Tom came home after work, ate dinner, and watched TV with the family. On day six, Tom stumbled in after ten o’clock, holding a half-empty bottle of scotch.
“Whaas for dinna?”
I gave him a dried-out plate of meatloaf and instant potatoes. It did no good to reheat the food. He’d hate whatever I put in front of him.
“This ain’t dinna.” He threw the plate at me, missing by a foot. “You’re never gonna change, are ya?”
Tom stood, holding onto the table for support. He saw a carving knife on the counter, picked it up, and came after me.
“This’ll teach ya!” he screamed.
I slipped on the mashed potatoes as I ran into the living room. Tom wasn’t so lucky. I heard him land in the debris that had been his dinner.
Tom lay on the floor, still clutching the knife. I hoped he’d passed out. Instead, he stood and shook the knife at me. “You’ll pay for this.”
I watched him hobble to the front door, grab his jacket and keys, and leave. I bolted the door and called the police. They promised to post a patrol car outside the house until I could get to safety.
The next day, I packed my kids and as much as I could carry and drove back to New Jersey. Rose took us in until I arranged to move back into my old apartment. After five hellish years, I finally found enough strength to file a restraining order and began divorce proceedings, citing mental and physical cruelty. Tom never violated the restraining order and didn’t contest the divorce. My attorney arranged for child support but no alimony.
I found a job as a medical assistant, left my babies with a neighbor while I worked, and entered the next phase of my adult life.