Eric sat in the living room, drinking. He refilled his scotch three times while I worked in the kitchen. Each time he checked my progress, but didn’t say a word. I became frustrated and clumsy, worried that he was unhappy, and nervous about him drinking on an empty stomach. But I couldn’t make the food cook faster.
It was after eight when we sat down to eat. For several minutes, we ate while an ominous silence stretched between us. I’d known I was in trouble.
“So, who the hell is he?” Eric didn’t look up from his plate of roast beef.
I didn’t know what he was talking about, which was dangerous.
“Pardon,” I said, as I put my fork down with a clink. “Who?”
“That’s what I want to know. Who the fuck is he?”
“You must be mistaken.” I stood up, trying to look casual. I needed to leave. There was an edge to his voice. It wasn’t often this bad, but all the signs were there. My heart beat like a drum against my ribs.
“Just admit you’re screwing around.” He knocked back the rest of his drink. Looking at his plate, it was clear he hadn’t eaten more than a few bites.
I didn’t want to turn my back on him, but when the oven timer went off, I had to get to the kitchen. “You’re mistaken. We can talk after I take out the pie.” I slipped past him, my mouth dry and my palms sweating.
I struggled to breathe normally when his chair scraped backward. He followed me into the kitchen. His face was flushed and his footsteps heavy. He stood behind me, wrapped his arms around my middle, and nuzzled the back of my neck. I felt claustrophobic. I didn’t want him to touch me, but I couldn’t protest. This could go either way. Either he’d turn on a dime and say how much he loved me, or I’d get hurt.
I tried not to show my tension, but I was scared. His unpredictability was terrifying.
I didn’t understand. I struggled to keep the welling tears from releasing. Before he’d shown this side, nobody had ever treated me better than Eric, not even Brandon. Eric bought me little presents and called me his Baby Doll. I hated the name, but he said it as an endearment, meaning well. He liked to spend time with me and was jealous if I stayed out too long. He liked to keep me close.
But he had another, darker side that surfaced from time to time. At those times, he used his belt, called me horrible names, and invented slights. He forced me to earn his forgiveness. He claimed he was helping me. His touch made my skin crawl. He treated me like I was the one who’d done something wrong, even if I had bruises or he blackened my eye. One thing he obsessed about was that I was cheating.
By this time in our relationship, the only men I saw were at work or at the grocery store. I stopped talking to Jeff, never spoke about male colleagues, had no friends, and limited my contact with my family, so he wouldn’t be jealous of the time and attention I gave them. I tried not to give fuel to his anger.
“I need to get the pie. Careful of the oven.” I attempted a smile, though it wasn’t convincing. He shot me a look I couldn’t interpret, and I repressed a shudder. I removed the pie. Its sweet fruity smell filled the townhouse, and its crust was a perfect gold. I was proud of it, my first homemade pie. It looked amazing despite the crooked lattice. I set it on the counter to cool, the cherry filling molten and bubbling through the spaces on top. I couldn’t wait for it to cool so we could try it. It smelled delicious.
“We can’t eat that tonight,” Eric said. “You can’t keep track of time. You’re not just a slut, but a worthless piece of shit. There’s no way you ever get anything right. I should have known you’d screw this up.”
He shattered my mood and my smile disappeared. I bit the inside of my cheek and tried not to cry. Breathing became difficult and my heart raced.
He took the oven mitts from my sweaty hands.
I didn’t know what he was thinking and hadn’t anticipated his next move. That was the worst. He could have done anything.
I stepped back and watched, aghast, as he picked up the pie and smashed it against the wall. It landed facedown and the glass pie plate broke. I should have run. Instead, I stood rooted to the floor, frozen. They say in survival mode, responses are fight, flight, fawn, or freeze. The last was my specialty.
“You should have baked it last night. Pie needs to cool, you imbecile.”
The first blow was to my face. The second to my ribs, my breath stolen with its sharp pain. Others followed.
“I’m going to have to teach you a lesson.”
I tried to get away, but I couldn’t. The fear overwhelmed me. I limped for days, called in sick with the flu. Other than my trip to the hospital, I didn’t let anyone see the bruises. I told the doctor that I’d fallen down the stairs.
When I went back to work ten days later, I joined a karate class. I was older than most of the other women at thirty-one, but determined to succeed. During my lunch break, I worked two days a week to make up time for my class. I sent my karate Gi to a laundry service each week and hid it the rest of the time at the office. Eric didn’t know. If he found out, I wasn’t sure I would survive his ire.
On the night of the accident, eighteen months after the pie incident, Eric tried to backhand my face, his patented first strike. I sidestepped, blocked the blow, and countered without thinking. It was what I’d worked toward, what I’d trained for, but when my fist connected and smashed his nose, I felt horrible. Despite my commitment to karate, I never wanted to hurt anyone. Was he the bully that night, or was I?
I was driving him to the hospital when a drunk driver smashed into our car. It had been dark and rainy that April night. Neither the paramedics at the scene of the accident nor the doctors in the emergency room discovered Eric’s prior injury. On impact, the airbags had deployed and hit his face. The collision with the truck had killed him and everyone assumed that was the source of his injuries. I’d told no one the complete story, not even Dr. Maeve. We were in that car at that moment because I’d broken his nose. That was the moment of my nightmares.
I’d blamed myself for a long time. I should have been stronger and walked away the first time he’d hit me, but by then, I was isolated and alone. I didn’t know where I’d go or who I could ask for help.
When I finished my practice, I repositioned the coffee table—my nerves calmed.
It was Wednesday when I next saw Christopher, this time in a professional capacity. As the museum’s conservator, he dealt with different departments regarding artifact preservation in the environments where they were housed for storage and display.
