I thought of my father, who was an absolutely wonderful husband and father. I thought of Curt, so kind and loving, and I was suddenly ashamed for all I’d taken for granted.
“Tina!” The command in Stephanie’s voice drew me. “Tina! Now listen to me. A bad morning at work doesn’t give him the right to unload on you.”
Tina murmured something.
“We’ve talked about this before, Tina. You’re panicking, doing what comes naturally to you. Don’t let yourself do that. You’ve got to choose to do the right thing, not the known thing. It’s your choice. To stay or to go—it’s your choice.” She listened for a minute. “I know it’s scary. Oh, Lord, please give Tina Your strength and Your courage. Help her make wise choices for her children’s sakes. And protect all of them, Father. Protect all of them.”
I listened to Stephanie’s prayer and wondered how many women she’d prayed with through the years, either over the phone or in person. How many women now lived without fear because of Freedom House?
Stephanie hung up and sat quietly for a minute or two with her eyes closed. Then she looked at me.
“One of the things we do for women who want to escape and are willing to take that risk is plan what to take and where to go. Some, like Tina, have been under their husbands’ thumbs so long that we have to begin with things as elementary as getting their purse and the kids. And some like Tina need time to save the taxi fare.”
“Do they live here if they bolt?”
She shook her head. “Once in a while someone stays here if there’s no other option. But I don’t take people in often for two reasons. My family and I live here, and I don’t want to endanger my kids. Also, we’re too public to be a safe house. A true safe house is a closely guarded location.”
“If this isn’t a residential facility, what do you do besides plan escape routes?”
Stephanie stood and walked back to the easy chair across from me. “We’re basically a training ministry. We teach women all about the power and freedom of choice. We teach them they can make good choices or bad choices. It sounds so obvious, this choosing well, when we say it to each other, but it’s a new truth to many women. And of course we teach the women that the greatest power and freedom of all come from choosing to believe in Christ.”
“So how do you teach this? What specific programs do you have?”
“I have a staff, mostly volunteers, who work with me. We teach Bible studies. We have support groups. We counsel. These programs might not sound like much, but they represent hours and hours of work each week.”
I didn’t doubt that for a minute. “May I come to one of the Bible studies?”
She looked at me carefully. “I need to know that you’ll respect the privacy of these women. It’s crucial to protect them. Their lives are literally at risk.”
“Believe me,” I said, hastening to reassure her, “I understand that. I promise to protect them.”
She nodded. “Okay then.”
A knock sounded on the door of the office, and there was Sherrie grinning at us.
“Hey, honey,” Stephanie said. “Is it three already?”
“Just about.” Sherrie came in and sat on the sofa beside me. Her eyes sparkled with life and good humor.
“This is Merry Kramer,” Stephanie said. “She’s a reporter at the News. She’s going to write an article about Freedom House.”
Sherrie looked at me. “Hey, that’s great. Somebody needs to write about Mom and all the good stuff she does.”
The phone rang again, and Stephanie went back to her desk to take the call.
Sherrie leaned toward me. “Can I be in the Freedom House article? I’ve got stuff I want to say, stuff I think kids need to hear.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I’ve lived here for a long time now, and I watch the women.” Her young face was serious, her brow furrowed. “I listen to Mom when she talks to them. I even go to some of the Bible studies. I’ve reached some conclusions that might keep girls from getting into marriages with the wrong guy. Sort of preventative stuff.”
I smiled broadly. “I think I’d like to talk with you. Monday after school at the News?”
“I’ll be there.” She grinned happily.
A high-pitched, desperate voice wept through the phone loudly enough to attract both Sherrie and me.
“Easy, Tina,” Stephanie said calmly. “Tell me the place you’ve chosen to go in times of trouble.”
“Poor Tina.” Sherrie shook her head. “She’s a nice person, but she’s a waffler.”
“A waffler?”
“She can’t decide whether to get out or not. One minute she’s leaving him, the next she’s going back because he loves her.” Sherrie snorted. “He doesn’t love her. He likes to control her.”
Tina’s terrified voice cut across the room again, her apprehension clear even if her words were not.
“How will you get to your parents?” Stephanie said into the phone.
I was now openly listening and thinking like mad. I had Stephanie’s personal story. I had the facts about Freedom House and the services provided. I might even have a sidebar article from Sherrie aimed at kids. But an interview with an abused wife! And right in the middle of a crisis! Wow.
I leaned toward Stephanie. “Can I help Tina? Drive her somewhere?”
Stephanie looked at me thoughtfully. “Just a minute, Tina. I need to check something.”
“I mean it. I’ll be glad to help.”
“She’s not just fodder for an article,” Stephanie said bluntly.
I flushed, caught. “I know that.”
“Promise you won’t write about her without her permission, and promise you’ll flatten her story so she can’t be identified.”
That wasn’t a hard promise to make. I certainly didn’t want Tina to suffer any more harm or hurt. “I promise.”
Stephanie nodded, satisfied. “She needs a ride to Phoenixville. Public transportation isn’t a possibility. And for financial reasons neither’s a cab.”
“Phoenixville’s not that far,” I said. “About a half hour up Route 113.”
“It’ll be very messy emotionally,” Stephanie warned. “And that’s the best possible scenario.”
“That doesn’t bother me.” Anything for story color. “Has her husband come home? Is that why the sudden panic?”
“He called from work and is full of fury. Apparently things have gone badly today, and she and the kids are about to bear the brunt of his frustration if we don’t get her out.”
“Where does she live?”
Stephanie returned to the phone. “Tina, I have someone here who can take you to your mother’s. I want you to tell her how to get to your house.”
I took the phone. “Hi, Tina. I’m Merry. I’ll be glad to drive you where you need to go.”
“I’m scared,” she said, her voice a mere whisper.
“I know. Now tell me how to get to your house.”
She gave me directions hesitantly, pausing several times to yell at a crying child who responded by wailing louder.
“I’ll