Betrayed: Powerful Stories of Kick-Ass Crime Survivors Page 12

  The drive back home was excruciating. Every bump and pothole jarred her arm and sent a jolt of pain up her spine. As they pulled in front of the house, Ronnie got out of the truck and left Beth to find her own way inside.

  When she finally got up the strength to go in, Ronnie grabbed her by her uninjured arm and pulled her to the kitchen.

  The first blood-soaked dishtowel sat on the edge of the sink, the knife with its stained blade still rested on the linoleum floor, and blood from Beth’s wound dried nearby.

  “Clean up your mess,” Ronnie said, followed by a shove into the kitchen.

  “I think I need to take one of those pain pills,” she said.

  “Clean first.”

  “I need one. I’m hurting.”

  “You don’t know what it is to hurt, you worthless bitch. All you do is cause me grief and cost me money. Your mess today cost me two-hundred and fifty bucks.”

  He left her in the kitchen and Beth heard the television switch on. She’d have a few moments of peace, she figured. Beth muscled through the cleaning chores, relying on one good arm for the most part. She found that cleaning up her blood was easier this time.

  When Beth finished, she put the cleaning supplies away and stood at the kitchen door.

  “I’m done. Where did you put my prescription bottle?”

  “You can have one.” Ronnie took the bottle from his pants pocket and shook out a single Oxy. He tossed the pill on the floor in her direction.

  Beth bent and found the pill among the shag carpet fibers. She tossed it in her mouth and swallowed it down dry. She was too tired and the pain made it hard to concentrate. Beth couldn’t deal with a confrontation now. That’s how she got the slice to her arm—challenging him over some trivial issue. One trip to the urgent care clinic today was enough.

  Beth left Ronnie watching some mindless sports channel show and she retreated to the bedroom. The throbbing ache from the knife wound pulsed with each heartbeat. From a shelf in her closet, she took down her music box, sat on the edge of the bed, and placed the box on her lap. She opened the wooden lid and the ballerina spun in little circles while a chime sounded a waltz. Her mother never told her the name of the song, but said that as long as the music played, she’d be okay.

  Tears stained the worn satin lining in the box. Once red, now a mottled pink, the tiny figurine had witnessed loss, incalculable heartache, and endless pain.

  After an hour, Ronnie entered the room. The Oxy must have done its work and sanded off the rough edges, mellowing him. Beth silently predicted what would happen next, almost word for word. Ronnie would apologize and make promises and vow to be a better man. It would hold for a few weeks, usually.

  “Baby, I’m sorry.”

  Beth closed her music box but left it in her lap. She flinched when Ronnie reached over to grab her hand.

  “I’m sorry. I got carried away. What can I do to make it better?”

  She tilted her head, looking through the dark brown hair that had fallen around her face like a curtain. “Promise me you’ll never touch me like that again. Swear it.”

  He nodded, and a somber Ronnie said, “I promise—I promise.”

  Beth knew the pattern. Ronnie would actually appear to make an effort for a week or two. This time was no different. He brought her flowers, picked up after himself and he’d cook—well barbecue, technically. It was predictable. He’d play at being the dutiful husband. And that’s all it was—a play—and every play had an end.

  When it was time for Beth to get the stitches out, Ronnie took her to the urgent care clinic. The appointment was a quick one and when it was time to leave, Ronnie asked, “Hey, can she get a refill on those painkillers?”

  A different doctor saw Beth that trip. She shrugged and said, “You shouldn’t be in too much pain now. Is it still bothering you?”

  “Yeah, it bothers her. Why do you think she’s asking?” Ronnie said.

  “Mrs. Walker? Do you want a refill?”

  “No, I think I’m fine,” Beth said.

  Ronnie’s jaw tightened.

  Beth recognized the physical reaction for what it was—an announcement that this period of calm between them was over. Beth spied a women’s shelter flier on the bulletin board on the way out, and she took one, stuffing it in her back pocket without Ronnie noticing.

  Ronnie burst out of the clinic entrance and slammed the driver’s door on his truck. He made Beth wait outside in the sun. Finally, he reached over and unlocked the door. Beth climbed in the cab and closed her door.

  “They said they’d bill us. You left before I checked out. Did you split because I said I didn’t need any pain pills?”

  “They owe them to us,” Ronnie said.

  “Us?”

  “We can save them for when we need them, or, you know, we could sell them for a buck or two.”

  “When we need them, Ronnie? You barely let me have any when I needed them last time.”

  Ronnie started the engine and gripped the wheel tight.

  “Shut up, Beth.” Ronnie shot a backhand to her cheek.

  “Ow! Jesus, Ronnie. What’s wrong with you?”

  “I said shut up. What’s wrong with me? You’re what’s wrong.”

  They made it back home without another outburst, but Beth knew there was more to come. Instead of following Ronnie in the house, Beth turned and walked up the block, away from the truck and him.

  Ronnie turned when he noticed she wasn’t behind him.

  “Get back here.”

  “I’m done with you. Anything we had is gone,” Beth said from the sidewalk.

  “What are you gonna do? Where do you think you can go off to? Nobody’d want you. Don’t come crawling back and expect me to welcome your ass back.”

  Beth turned and put her back to him until she heard the door slam. She walked without purpose; her only concern was putting distance between her and Ronnie. She paused at a park and took a spot on a bench and sobbed. She’d hit the end of the line with her marriage. She knew that one truth, Ronnie could not—or more accurately—would not change.

  A different kind of cry made her lift her head. The sound of children playing in the park. Squeals of joy, of unremitting happiness, struck a sharp chord in her soul. All the things she’d wished for and never had, a real family, children, and someone who loved her, made the tears well up. The justifications that Ronnie told her over and over—”You don’t deserve a family. What kind of mother would you be?” rang in her head.

  A police car crept down the park access road and stopped near the bench where Beth sat, head cradled in her hands.

  An officer got out of the car and approached the bench. “What’s going on here?”

  “Nothing.” Beth sat back and wiped her eyes with the back of her sweatshirt sleeve.

  The officer eyed Beth and then asked, “You have a child here?”

  “No, no, I don’t.”

  “Why are you here in the park, alone?”

  “I like it here. It makes me happy. There’s nothing illegal about it.”

  “Are you okay? You need to call someone?”

  “I don’t have a phone and I don’t have anyone to call.” The whole truth was Ronnie refused to allow her to have a cell phone of her own. He said it was a waste of money. His reasoning was clear to her now. Ronnie cut her off and isolated her from the outside world.

  “Need me to call someone?” the cop asked.

  “No.”

  The officer noticed the fresh red mark on Beth’s face, and before he could ask, Beth said, “It’s nothing.”

  “If someone’s bothering you...”

  It was the opening she needed. It all came pouring out. She told the officer the secrets she’d kept pent up for years. The abuse, the hospital visits, and the broken promises.

  The officer sat her in the passenger seat of his patrol car and drove her home. When he told her he needed to confront her husband about the complaint, she nearly bolted from the car as it cruised down the st
reet. She needed to trust in someone—in something.

  The patrol car pulled up the driveway and Ronnie met the officer the door. Beth was told to wait in the car. She watched as the officer explained with his hands and pointed at Beth in the car. Ronnie nodded and acted civil, pretending to be the model citizen. The officer looked at Beth and waved her over.

  She got out of the car and walked to the door, careful to stay behind the officer.

  “Thank God she’s okay,” Ronnie said.

  “Why would she say you’ve been abusing her?” the officer asked.

  Ronnie leaned toward the officer. “My wife has a problem.”

  “I’ve what?” Beth blurted out.

  “Just wait, now. Let me hear what he has to say.” The officer held an arm out to hold back an imaginary charge from the woman.

  “Beth has a drug problem. She’s addicted to pain pills. I beg her to get help, but she won’t listen. She wanders off like this and God only knows what she does to get her fix. It’s awful, officer.”

  “What?” Beth said.

  The officer told her to be quiet.

  On cue, Ronnie handed the officer an empty prescription bottle in Beth’s name.

  “This was filled a week ago,” the officer said.

  “I know. She’s got a problem.”

  “That a lie! I didn’t get those pills.”

  “I wish she’d get help,” Ronnie said.

  The officer’s attitude flipped and Beth could tell he’d been suckered into Ronnie’s pill junkie tale. He put his notebook away and turned to Beth. “If I see you hanging around the park looking to score dope again, I’m taking you in.”

  “Thank you for understanding, Officer,” Ronnie said.

  The officer returned to his patrol car and backed out of the drive. While Beth watched him leave, Ronnie had come up beside her and clamped an arm around her waist. From a distance, it looked like a casual embrace. What others couldn’t see were Ronnie’s fingers digging into the soft flesh under her ribs.

  “What the hell were you trying to pull, bringing the cops to my house?” Ronnie said with a fake smile plastered on his face.

  “I thought—”

  Ronnie turned her and pushed her back inside.

  “You can’t have a thought. You’re useless and you pull some shit like that again—I’m gonna end you. You’re more trouble than you’re worth.”

  Ronnie shoved her away from him.

  Beth escaped to the bedroom and perched on the bed. She took up the music box again and the chipped ballerina reminded her that she was the broken one. Unlovable. She turned the key and the chimes froze. The music stopped. She wound it again and nothing. The precious reminder of her childhood was ruined—just like her. Then her mother’s prophecy echoed in her mind. “As long as the music plays, everything will be okay.”

  From the other side of the bedroom door, Ronnie yelled, “I’m going out with the boys. Don’t fuck nothin’ up. And clean this mess while I’m gone.”

  Beth opened the bedroom door after she heard his truck start. She knew Ronnie was off drinking and whoring around. When he got home, she’d have to walk on eggshells and anything she said would trigger a violent response.

  She went to the window and made sure his truck was gone. A sense of relief washed over her when there was no sign of him. In that moment, she knew she needed to leave—to break the cycle.

  Beth hurried to the bedroom and packed what she could carry, her clothes, a few personal possessions, and her music box. The duffle bag was heavy and awkward to lug, but she hefted it to the front door. Beth paused, set the bag down, and went to the kitchen. She opened every single bottle of Ronnie’s beer and poured them down the sink. The sight of a dozen glass bottles heaped in the sink made Beth feel giddy. She’d never stood up to him before and it felt good.

  Beth carried the duffle across town to the address on the flier she’d taken from the urgent care clinic. It promised a shelter and a safe place for women like her. She walked in the front door and dropped her duffel in the waiting room. There wasn’t anyone at the small desk, so Beth ventured down the hall.

  “Hi, can I help you?” A woman in her sixties tugged an apron over her head and brushed a strand of gray hair from her face. She greeted Beth with a smile, one that seemed genuine and warm.

  “I’m not... I’ve got no place to… I can’t go back,” Beth stuttered.

  The woman noticed the duffel bag at her feet and the crumpled shelter flier in Beth’s hand.

  “You need a place to stay, hon?”

  Beth nodded.

  The woman gestured to the hallway. “Let me get you something to eat and we can talk. My name’s Cynthia.”

  Beth followed Cynthia into a kitchen where a pair of women were cleaning up after the last meal. Both eyed the new arrival with a spark of fear initially, then their expression softened when they recognized one of their own.

  Over coffee and a homemade cookie, Beth asked, “How many women live here?”

  “We have a license for ten women and ten children. And we’re always full.”

  “Oh.”

  “I keep a waiting list all the time,” Cynthia said.

  “How long would I have to be on the list until I could get a chance at getting in?” Beth gripped the coffee cup hard to stop the tremor in her hands.

  “There’s no way to tell. This is a temporary place until something more permanent comes along—with friends or family or what have you.”

  “Is there another place I can go? I really can’t go back.”

  “Check with me in the morning. I can see what happens with one of my residents. She might be leaving. But I have other women—women with children—on the list already. They get first crack at the open beds. As far as the other shelters, all three of them are full up. I’m sorry, Beth.”

  Beth put the coffee cup down. “I—I understand.” She stood from the table, and with as much dignity as she had left, she thanked Cynthia for her time. She fought back the tears even though Beth swore she’d used them all up. These were bitter tears of desperation, not borne of sadness, or hurt. These tears came from fear of the unknown and they were all she had left.

  On the sidewalk outside of the shelter, Beth hefted the duffle bag and started down the block when a voice called out from behind her.

  One of the two women who had been cleaning up the dishes, jogged over to her.

  “You’re Beth, right?”

  Beth nodded in response.

  “Listen, we’ve all been where you’re at right now. It’s tough—but you’re tough. You survived.” The woman held out something in her hand. “Cynthia wanted you to have this.”

  Beth took it. “What it is?”

  “It’s a hotel voucher. Cynthia had one left over. It’s for two night’s stay up at the Budget Inn over on Mission.”

  Beth turned the voucher in her hand and saw another woman’s name written on the front.

  “This isn’t from Cynthia, is it?” Beth tried to hand it back.

  “What does it matter?” The woman pushed Beth’s hand away. “Listen, I know the manager. I used to work there. Tell him Emily said it’s okay.”

  Beth tucked the voucher in her pocket. “Thank you.”

  “Talk to Bobby the manager, you hear? He might be able to take you on doing some housekeeping and stuff if you want.”

  “I will. Thank you.”

  Beth knew where the motel was. She’d passed it a dozen times, so she had no trouble finding the place as the daylight started to dim. The desk attendant said Bobby would be working in the morning, and he didn’t question the voucher for a second.

  She unlocked the door and stepped into the low-budget room. Sparse and worn with carpeting that held a broken-down path from the door to the bathroom, the room would give most travelers a reason to leave, but to Beth, it represented a safe haven.

  Beth planned to take a shower and nap for a while, but she rested on the bed and fell fast asleep. For the first ti
me in months, Beth didn’t have to worry about Ronnie coming home drunk, her next beating, or waking up dead.

  For two days, Beth stayed in the room and called the shelter early each morning. Cynthia finally told her there was nothing for her and referred her to an outpatient program for a support group. Which meant she needed to find a place to live—back home with Ronnie, or a new start somewhere else. Back with Ronnie was a death sentence. She had to get away from him forever, but to do that, she needed money and Ronnie had been careful to not let Beth handle their finances.

  Beth made the trip across town, blending in with the city’s migrant homeless population. That’s what she was, really—homeless, with no money, no food and nowhere she could call home. The brief motel stay gave her a glimpse of what a life without Ronnie could hold.

  By the time she’d reached the street where she and Ronnie lived, she knew there were two choices: put up with his bullshit while she tried to squirrel away enough money to escape or take what she could find and leave now. The first option was the easiest. She’d done it before and part of her wanted to just go and get it over with. But she wasn’t sure she’d survive another go with Ronnie. The second option posed less physical risk and could give her a quick path to freedom. It was two days after payday, which meant if Ronnie hadn’t pissed it all away already, she could find enough cash to get a fresh start.

  From behind an overgrown patch of weeds three houses down, Beth waited until it was time for Ronnie to go to work. It was a Monday, so he was always a little hung over and late. True to form, Ronnie stumbled out of the front door a half hour late for his shift at the plant. She waited until his truck pulled out of the drive and Beth hurried down the street.

  Beth dashed across the road and tried to get in, but the front door was locked. Beth fished her key out of the duffle, but it didn’t work. She went around to the back door and looked in the planter for the fake rock that hid an extra house key for those times when Ronnie left his keys at the bar. The phony rock was empty—there was no key. It dawned on her that Ronnie had changed the locks. The bright brass finish on the deadbolt confirmed it for her. He’d locked Beth out and thrown her away.

  She pulled one of the loose bricks from the back patio and smashed the window glass in the rear door. She reached in and unlocked the deadbolt. Her first instinct was to clean up the broken and shattered glass because if Ronnie saw that mess, he’d be pissed—and that only led to bad things.