Chris and I are still close, but he has a live-in girlfriend now and they’re expecting a baby this spring. When I called him Saturday and told him what had happened, he was upset and offered to come stay with me, but I told him to stay with Maddie. She needs him more right now.
I share with the group about my recent experience and that I think Andrew is stalking me. They’re understanding and have good suggestions for how to deal with the police and the courts, but I see their fear, the worry in their faces, and I sit back down feeling even more rattled.
Marcus arrives at the end of our meeting and unloads his equipment from his SUV—floor mats, punching bags, boxing gloves. He’s come a few times over the last year and we all look forward to his classes. He’s the most centered person I’ve ever met. When I’m standing next to him I feel like the world could be on fire and the flames would just pass over him.
One stormy night I was the only one who stuck around for his class. He said, “You must have some story if you’re willing to come out in this weather to learn how to throw punches.”
We sat and talked and I told him about Andrew. After years in a support group, I’d become comfortable sharing my past with the other women, but I was surprised at how easy it was to talk to a man. He was so intuitive, guessing at some of the ways Andrew had controlled and demoralized me—and he was always bang-on. He really understand abusive behavior and how hard it was to break free. I had a feeling he had his own troubled past.
After that we started meeting once in a while on our own. When the weather was nice we practiced outside. I found him intriguing, was surprised at how much I enjoyed our workouts, and briefly wondered if it might grow into something more. He drove me home once after I had a flat tire, and lingered in the foyer while we talked. When I thanked him later with a bottle of wine, I thought he might invite me to enjoy it with him, but he never did, and we settled into a great friendship. Usually we have a coffee after we’re finished. That’s when I learned that he used to be a psychiatrist. He must have been a good one. I’ve probably told him more stories about my life with Andrew than anyone else. And he’s shared about his daughter.
I’d seen photos of Katie at his house. She’d been a beautiful girl, with his straight nose, wide smile, and dark coloring. She’d fallen in love with an older man as soon as she graduated and spent the next couple of years embroiled in a volatile relationship. Marcus suspected her boyfriend abused her, but she denied everything and pulled away from her family. She’d called Marcus the night she died, saying she wanted to come home. He’d been on his way to pick her up when he heard the sirens. Her boyfriend had shot her, then himself. She was only twenty-two.
When his marriage dissolved a year later, he also decided to quit psychiatry—“I felt like a fraud. I couldn’t help my own daughter, how could I help anyone else?” Marcus gave everything to his ex-wife, Kathryn, and spent the next few years traveling. I can’t imagine how hard it was for him to lose his daughter, then his wife. They must have been very much in love at one time—he told me it was his idea to name Katie after Kathryn. But he seems at peace with his pain.
Tonight Marcus goes around the room and works with each woman until they get every move down perfectly, but I’m not myself, my punches are off, and I miss a few blocks.
“You okay?” Marcus says. I nod and he holds up the pads and I throw a few hooks. “Again,” he says. I pause and his eyes meet mine. I’m always amazed at how quickly he senses my moods, good or bad. My daughter is the only other person who can do that.
I thump the pad a few more times until Marcus finally nods his approval and moves on to the next woman. After class I help Marcus take the equipment out.
“So you going to tell me what’s on your mind?” he says.
“Stressful weekend.” I’d called Mrs. Carlson on Sunday and she confirmed nothing was missing from her house. She’s still shook up and is going to stay at her sister’s for a couple of weeks. I’d called the officer myself and she told me she’d only been able to match my prints and Mrs. Carlson’s. She hasn’t been able to locate Andrew yet, but I don’t think she’s looking that hard. I mean, as far as she’s concerned, Andrew hasn’t done anything wrong.
“Andrew broke into my client’s house. He was inside when I was cleaning. He did that thing with my keys—he left them on my purse.”
“Shit.” He stops in the middle of shoving a box into the corner. “You call the police?” It’s started to snow softly, the flakes drifting down in the light from the open door and landing on his black hair and melting into his close-cropped beard. He brushes them off distractedly
“Right away, but they didn’t find any fingerprints.”
He shakes his head. “I had a bad feeling when you started skipping workouts. Guys like your ex-husband don’t just go away. I should’ve said something.”
“This isn’t your fault. I let down my guard.”