“If Savannah was really abused like she claimed during the trial,” the slightly high, nasally voice says, “then why didn’t she leave her husband? I can tell you if Frank laid a hand on me, I would walk out and not give him another chance.”
“No kidding,” the other woman responds, her voice smooth like whipped cream—minus the sugar. “Who doesn’t have a husband who gets angry from time to time. But if it gets bad, you just leave. You don’t stick around ’cause he said he’s sorry.”
“Do you think she killed her husband?”
“It’s hard to know for sure. Stewart believes she had an accomplice. I don’t think she was that smart. It was dumb luck if you ask me.”
Nasally Voice scoffs. “She probably got some nice insurance money from it.”
“I read California paid her a million dollars.” A bitter tone curdles the second woman’s voice.
A million?I frown. Is that what the article said or what she remembers the amount to be, her memory inflating the real value fourfold?
Nasally Voice responds, but I don’t catch what she says, the words too soft to be heard from where I’m standing.
“Guess that’s how she could afford to buy that old house and renovate it.” The other woman doesn’t even bother to keep the volume of her voice low. “I can’t believe Anne Carstairs didn’t know Savannah or Jessica or whatever she goes by had just been released from prison. What kind of person rents out their house without doing a criminal check on the applicant?”
“She was probably just happy to have someone rent the run-down old place.”
I dig my fingernails into my palms to keep from responding. If not for Anne’s kindness and generosity, I wouldn’t have had a place to stay after I was released from prison. I wouldn’t have had a safe haven while I figured out the next part of my life.
And in trying to repay Anne for her kindness, I’ve become indebted to her and her great-aunt again. Transcribing the journals for Anne has given me hope.
Be strong.
The Jessica who first moved to Maple Ridge would have slunk out the store door and never returned. But I’m not that woman anymore. If Angelique could survive against the SOE agent who became a Nazi collaborator, I can survive the ill-informed Maple Ridge residents.
I select a craft kit from the shelf. It’s for growing a small fairy garden and is perfect for Amelia’s age. I bet if Johann’s sister, Anja, had been a kid today, she would have loved it.
The women’s voices move away, and it sounds like they’re returning to the till.
I head that way, carrying the kit, and remove my hat. I’m not looking to hide my identity for what I’m about to do.
“Hi.” I put the box on the counter so they know I’m a paying customer. “I heard what you were saying about abused women.” My voice comes out annoyingly cracked, the volume barely louder than a whisper. I try to clear my throat, but my rapidly thumping heart is wedged in there. “How you think they can easily walk away from their abusive husbands or boyfriends like I can walk out of this store.”
Be brave.
My palms grow clammy, and I release a quick breath. “With some men, it might be possible to leave them. But with many others, the abuse starts out slow, hardly recognizable at first as abuse. It’s not until later, when all the pieces of the puzzle slot together, that the woman understands she’s been in an abusive relationship all this time but didn’t realize it.”
The two women stare at me, their cheeks pinking. I make the most of their mute state and power on, determined to get in my say before they come to their senses. Before they argue their misguided beliefs about abused women that society commonly clings to.
“Some men might realize they have an issue and are willing to get counseling. They love their wife and don’t want to lose their family,” I continue. “But many are more like my late husband. The man doesn’t love his wife. His wife is a possession, and he’ll do anything to keep from losing her. Even if it means killing her. He’ll stalk her and track her down if she does try to go.”
A memory creeps in of flashing red-and-blue lights from a cruiser parked behind my car. Amelia was asleep in her car seat, unaware of my attempt to escape her father. “There is no one-size-fits-all with abusive partners. Nor is there a one-size-fits-all with leaving them. And even if the woman escapes him, she’s left with a shitload of emotional scars the world doesn’t see.”
Be a voice.
I try to swallow the pain that scalds my throat with each word. “The woman has to start her life over and figure out who she is because the abuser stole her self-esteem, her self-worth, her identity. He left her always questioning herself. Blaming herself. Doubting herself. And if she has children, she has to do all of that while facing the challenges of being a single mother.”
I push the kit closer to the woman behind the counter, the fire in me burning brighter, hotter. “Survivors of abuse don’t deserve to be misjudged. They don’t deserve the common belief they can just walk away if they are being abused. They don’t deserve being condemned for falling for the wrong man, a man who is skilled at manipulation. Survivors of abuse want compassion and understanding. They don’t deserve the blame society puts on them for the situation they found themselves in.”
Damn, it felt good to get all of that off my chest. To spew out the lava of words I’ve held back for too long.
The women stare at me, their faces flushed. But their stunned silence only lasts a fraction of a heartbeat. The woman behind the counter narrows her eyes, her gaze falling to the scar by my mouth. “That might be so…” She snatches up the garden kit and puts it under the counter. “But I don’t sell to dangerous offenders.”
My stomach tightens, and a winter freeze smothers my fire and fight. “I’m not a dangerous offender.” The strength behind my voice stumbles and falters. “I’ve never physically hurt anyone, and I have no intention of starting.”
The redness of the woman’s face deepens, and her jaw muscle jumps. “That’s what you say, but it doesn’t mean anything. Now, leave unless you want me to call the police.”
