In the past, I’d often missed Emily’s film references, though I’d always pretended that I understood. But now I totally got this one. Thelma and Louise was one of my all-time favorite films.
“That’s us,” I said. “Here we go. Girl power. Bad girls on the run.”
Emily reached in the car and put it in neutral.
“Like this.” She put one hand under the rear bumper and another flat against the trunk. I joined her and did what she did.
“One, two, three,” she said, and we pushed. “Again!”
“One, two, three,” I said. I was amazed that I could count to three, that’s how giddy I was.
“Concentrate,” said Emily. “Lean into it.”
Grunting and swearing, Emily and I pushed. I tried not to think about how much it felt like giving birth. Because there was a similar feeling of . . . lightness, a familiar rush of pure joy when we finally succeeded.
The car went over the ridge. It flipped over, rolled, flipped again, then burst into flames. We cheered and whooped, like kids.
“Bingo,” Emily said. “We got lucky.”
“Luck had nothing to do with it,” I said. “That was mom power in action.”
Emily and I hugged from sheer exhilaration.
“Look at us,” she said. Our gloves and boots were wet and slick with caked mud. Emily stripped off her gloves and threw them in the back of my car, and I did the same.
The explosion and fire were thrilling. Like fireworks, when you’re a child. We stood on the ridge and watched. I tried not to think about Mr. Prager burning.
I drove Emily back to her car, and we hugged goodbye in the parking lot.
“We’ll be in touch soon,” she said. “I’m sorry for whatever came between us. Nothing like that will ever happen again. I promise.”
“Why should I trust you this time?” I smiled, so she’d know that I wasn’t serious.
Emily wasn’t smiling.
“Because we’re in this together,” she said.
37
Stephanie's Blog
We Can Win This
Hi, moms!
Usually, except in cases of emergency, I’ve tried to keep the tone of this blog as sunny and bright as I can. We moms have enough stress without my adding to it by bringing up things that we would rather not dwell on. But I’ve been thinking about a problem that needs to be addressed because it affects so many moms—so many women—everywhere. And it’s one of those things that must be taken out of the shadows and looked at without secrecy or shame.
It’s the problem of domestic abuse. Every day the statistics get worse—the percentage of women abused by their husbands and boyfriends, the chances that any one of us will find herself the victim when the man who seemed so nice suddenly turns out to be a monster. When the person we thought we could trust turns out to be our enemy.
Sometimes it comes as a shock. Sometimes, looking back, we see the signs we chose to ignore. Looking back on my earlier blog posts, I have to wonder why I was so drawn to that French film about a wife, a mistress—and an abusive husband.
Sometimes we deceive ourselves into thinking that a man who abused a former wife or girlfriend will be an angel with us. Moms! Don’t be fooled! If a man does something once, he’ll do it again. And it’s not always easy to identify the serial abuser. It’s not always the guy with the tattoos and the motorcycle jacket. It’s just as likely the guy in the expensive haircut and the elegant business suit.
That is to say: any man.
Sometimes it starts early, but more often it takes a while—until we’re in so deep that we can no longer remember life without him. Or until we have kids. And we keep thinking that he’ll never do it again. He’s sorry; he loves us . . . We all know the story.
Some men lash out and leave marks, the black eyes and broken noses that send women to the emergency rooms and from there to the kindly social worker and the battered women’s shelter. But the real devils are the ones who hide the traces, who practice constant psychological abuse until the woman is all but destroyed.
It could be happening to anyone. Your coworker. Your best friend. And you have no idea. Sometimes the secret comes out too late. And sometimes just in time. A woman—a mom—may try to escape and be driven to do something extreme before she can get help.
What to do? Make your voices heard. Let our lawmakers know that women need to be protected by law. Volunteer at a shelter. Raise your sons to be men who would never mistreat a woman.
And if it’s happening to your friend?
Do anything she needs. Help her in any way you can.
Okay, moms, enough heavy stuff. I’m starting a chain so you can share your own abuse stories and let me know what you think about this subject.
Love,
Stephanie
38
Emily
I should have wanted them both dead. I don’t know why my rage collected around Sean and not around Stephanie. Maybe because, once again, Stephanie’s naive, dopey malleability meant that she could help me get what I wanted. And Sean seemed like an obstacle blocking my path.
To start, I wanted revenge on Sean. And why was I willing to plot against him with the so-called friend he was sleeping with? Because I knew it would work.
Also I wanted my ring back. Not because I stole it from Sean’s mom or because it had any sentimental associations with him, but because it was the last thing that touched my sister.
Even as I confronted the guy from the insurance company and set up a meeting, I knew exactly how I was going to fit Stephanie into my plans. Stephanie owed it to me for sleeping with my husband. And also . . . she was born to be the fish.
I suppose I felt a little guilty, making the abuse story up. The lying itself didn’t bother me, but I was pretending to have a violent husband, which is a real problem for many women. I felt bad for faking it to get the result I wanted.
But I was obsessed. I couldn’t rest until I’d made Sean pay for betraying me and ruining our plans for the future. For forcing me to kill my sister.
I let Evelyn die because her death would help me and Sean. And now there was no “me and Sean.” There never had been. He was always in it for himself—even while I was letting Evelyn go. There had been me and my sister, and now there was me and my son.
I was in it for me and Nicky. I wanted to raise my son alone—without the “help” and “support” of a man I didn’t love and couldn’t trust.
It would be tricky, making Sean give Nicky up. But I could do it. And Stephanie would help. All I had to do was mention the words abuse and violent, and she would drop Sean in a heartbeat and forgive her long-lost best friend for whatever she imagined I did. All I had to do was make her think that we were figuring this out together, when in fact I’d figured it out long before our tearful reunion in the bar.
I altered some details to make my story more credible. I told her that Sean was under pressure for failing at work, but actually he was doing quite well and had almost gotten back up to speed after working from home for a while following my disappearance. I had practice in controlling information, changing details. Spinning the truth was what I did for a living.
And oh, poor Mr. Prager. He was collateral damage. Wrong place, wrong time, wrong profession. He asked too many questions—too many of the wrong questions. Silencing him and getting Stephanie to help me dispose of the body killed two birds, as it were, with one stone. It solved my Prager problem and regained and ensured Stephanie’s loyalty, once and for all. There is no bond as tight as the bond between partners in crime. Thelma and Louise. Hilarious. Stephanie would die for me if she had to. Fortunately for Stephanie, I don’t expect that will be necessary.
The next thing I did was call Dennis Nylon. I talked my way up the food chain. I got as far as Adelaide, his bitch of a personal assistant.