The sound of her voice startles me, jars me back into the moment, and I realize that she’s been gone for a good while, at least fifteen minutes. “Sorry. I was a million miles away. Guess I’m tired.”
Leslie tips her head to one side, and murmurs sympathetically, “I can imagine you are. Don’t worry about it. We’re almost done here.” She puts the clipboard on her desk and sits down again. “We’ll get you and the children something to eat and see you settled in for the night.”
“You can take us? Tonight?” I can’t quite believe what she’s saying. Maybe I didn’t hear her correctly. “You’ve got a room right now?”
She nods, pleased that I am so pleased, and beams when she tells me the truly amazing news, like she’s handing me a wonderful and unexpected gift. And she is.
“But…I thought…when I heard them talking in the hall…I thought you were full.”
“Well, technically we are, but Mrs. Burgess Wynne absolutely insisted that we find you and the children a bed tonight. She said if we didn’t, then she was taking you home herself, so Donna did a little shifting and asked some of the single women to double up a few days so we could make room for you and the children now.”
“Really? Thank you. I…I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything. I’m so glad we were able to find a place for you. And”—she grinned—“the news gets even better than that. We have an opening in the Stanton Center. Not tonight but soon.”
I look questions at her and she goes on to explain. “The Stanton Center is an apartment building just for women and children who have been victims of domestic violence, the home of our transitional housing program. You can stay there for up to two years while you’re getting back on your feet. Initially it’s free, but we’ll encourage you to find a job as soon as possible and then we’ll charge modest rent, a percentage of your earnings. While you’re there, we can offer you vocational, financial, and psychological counseling, and child care.” She pauses, waiting for me to say something, but it takes me a moment.
“An apartment. A real apartment?” Tears fill my eyes.
She nods. “A real apartment. There’s a community room where we hold meetings for the residents and a playground with a swing set and slide for the children. It’s in a secret location, no sign in front, and has a good security system. Of course, since you’re a widow, you don’t have to worry about that so much, but the other residents have fled violent relationships and we do everything possible to make sure their abusers can’t find them. It’s like a safe house.”
I blink hard, willing back the tears, trying to stay composed, not wanting her to see the effect those words have on me—a safe house. It has been so long since I even dreamed of such a thing.
“So?” she asks cheerily, already certain of my response. “What do you say? Would you like to take the apartment and stay here in New Bern for a while?”
“Yes,” I whisper. “I would. Thank you.”
“Good!” She stands up, indicating that I should follow her. “We can finish the paperwork tomorrow, after you’ve had a chance to settle in a bit.”
Leslie opens the door and leads the way through the three right turns of the corridor that will lead us to the playroom that backs up to her counseling office, talking as she goes. I’m still in shock, able to offer only short responses to her commentary, the script she has been trained to deliver to new residents.
“You’re not required to accept any of the counseling services we offer to residents, but I do urge you to take advantage of them as much as possible—especially the group counseling sessions. Your abuser can’t hurt you anymore, but even so, the effects of domestic violence can stay with you long after the abuse ends. Counseling can help you work through that and I think you’ll appreciate the chance to develop relationships with women who’ve dealt with similar problems.”
“Yes. I’m sure you’re right,” I say, knowing that I’ll never go to even one of those group sessions. I’m not going to get close to those women. I’m not going to get close to anyone. I can’t take that risk.
“Good.” She looks back over her shoulder, pleased that I agree. Leslie is a good person. Part of me wants to tell her the truth, but I can’t, especially not now, with an apartment on the line. An apartment! A real apartment just for us. I still can’t believe it.
“Your timing was lucky. One of our residents, former residents,” she corrects herself, “decided to go back to her husband. That’s why we have an opening in the Stanton Center.” She sighs heavily and shakes her head.
“After all she’d been through, you’d think that’s the last thing she’d do, but it happens a lot more often than you’d suppose. It’s such a hard pattern to break. Well, at least we don’t have to worry about that with you, do we?”
“No.”
This is the truth. I’m not going back. There was a moment, one, when I wavered, but not now. In my mind, I see my daughter’s face, a dark reflection in the rearview mirror, small and serious and too young to know so much. No. We’re not going back.
“Good,” Leslie says again, even more firmly. She likes to speak in affirmations. “I hate to think of our other resident leaving, but I’m glad it’s worked out so well for you. The timing really was fortunate.”
We have arrived at the playroom. She puts her hand on the knob and turns to me before opening the door. “You must be on a lucky streak.”
If I am, it’s a first.
But, then again…A striking, silver-haired woman whose name I can’t even remember insisted that room be made for me and my children. A brown-eyed director I’d never met before shifted her charges to make it happen. And now sweet, nervous, well-meaning Leslie has said there is a place for us. A safe house. Tonight. Now. Just a few miles from here, somewhere in this lovely little town where the kindest people on earth live, there is room for us.
Maybe she is right. Maybe, at last, my luck is changing.
1
Ivy Peterman
Eighteen months later
Fight or flight? Until recently, it’s never been a question. Not for me.
Whenever I feel frightened or threatened, my first instinct has always been flight. I do it pretty regularly.
I was six years old when my father had a heart attack and died. The news sent me running into the woods in the back of our house. I could hear my mother calling for me, her voice raspy with tears and shock and anger, but I wouldn’t budge from my hiding place in the branches of a half-dead oak. Finally, she sent our neighbor, Pete, to find me.
Just after my sixteenth birthday, Mom was killed in a head-on collision and Pete, who was by then my stepfather, also became my legal guardian. He and I had never gotten along, but then again neither had he and Mom, not since about ten minutes after their wedding. After Mom died, Pete started to drink even more than before, so I ran away again. Farther this time, buying a one-way train ticket to the city. So far that Pete would never be able to find me, though now I realize he probably never tried.
And, of course, when I was twenty-four, I ran away from my husband. This time I took my two babies with me.
My escape wasn’t exactly well-planned.
The day began normally enough, with a trip to the department store and a new tube of lipstick, but by that night I was running. I had to. I was afraid, not just for my life but for the lives of my children. All I took were some clothes, a file with some personal papers, the kids’ baby books, some jewelry I later sold, and about $288 in cash, fifty-six of it from the spare change jar we kept on the kitchen counter. That’s all. I had credit cards, but