He asked how my clinical rotation was going. I was working in geriatrics that month. I said that the old men flirted with me.
“Dirty old guys,” he said.
“Nah. They’re nice. Just bored.”
“What about the doctors?” he asked.
“They’re okay. One of them actually asks questions instead of telling us what to do all the time. He’s nice.”
“Nice?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you like him?”
“Like, do I like him? No. He’s—too—he’s too tall.”
I picked tall because I had to pick something. I was going to say bald. I was going to say hairy. I was going to say a bunch of things when I stuttered but I said tall.
Chet is five foot ten. Nothing wrong with that. I had no idea that his frat brothers called him “Half Pint.” I had no idea that tall was the worst word I could have used.
Except it wasn’t. Remember that. It wasn’t because I said the word tall.
“He’s too tall?”
“Yeah. Can we talk about something else? I love you. I hate when you think I like doctors. It’s weird.”
This was not the thing to say after just saying the word tall.
Chet put his hands on the edge of the table and pushed it. He was trying to push his chair out. That’s what I thought. But instead he pushed the table right into my ribs. Broke one. I doubled over. The candles fell over and went out. The plates smashed into each other. My glass of water spilled onto my lap. I stayed doubled over because the pain was intense. I think I was crying.
When he came over to me, I thought he was going to say, “Oh my God! I’m sorry! Are you hurt?” I couldn’t breathe. My rib was broken. I’d heard it snap. He was going to be concerned. He loved me.
But that’s not what he did.
He slapped the side of my head as it was down near my knees. His fraternity ring got caught in my hair. He pulled the hair out. He slapped me again—right on the top of my head. Then when I looked up, his fist was closed and he slapped me across the face with it and I was crying already from the pain of my rib and he didn’t get a good hit. He pulled his arm back to try again.
I didn’t know what to do.
I didn’t expect him to be hitting me.
I didn’t know that I shouldn’t say tall. I didn’t know what I’d done.
He was screaming. I can’t trust you to leave this fucking house! You want a doctor? I’ll get you a fucking doctor! See how this fucking works!
This was not Chet. That’s what I kept telling myself. This was not Chet.
I didn’t understand. What had I said? What had I done? I’d made roast beef. I’d lit candles. I’d candied carrots just like he liked them.
As I sat, doubled over, I lost count of how many times he slapped my head. I don’t remember him landing one on my face, but later the mirror reflected a woman with a faint bruise.
Who was she?
What had she done?
? ? ?
I didn’t go to school for two days after that night.
I could cover the bruise on the side of my face easy enough, but I couldn’t do the work I had to do with the pain. I’d taken as much Advil as I could. I’d wrapped my chest as tight as I could. I walked around the apartment standing up as straight as I could. I wanted to look normal. That was what I did. That is not what I recommend anyone do, but it’s what I did. I walked around and tried to stand up tall.
Chet had already apologized. He said he was stressed out over an exam.
He didn’t say it right then when the roast beef was on the floor. He said it the next day. That night, after he’d hit me enough times, he just went out. Stayed out all night.
That was the routine. That became the routine because I let it become the routine. I am the glue.
When I went back to my rotation, the tall doctor noticed I couldn’t do my work without wincing and he asked me what was going on. How was I supposed to tell him? Him? He was nice and cute and concerned and the longer I waited before answering his question, the more he knew without me having to tell him.
I can spot a battered woman at twenty paces now.
They’re always the ones not saying anything about how they got that bruise or how come they can’t reach above their head or why they can’t walk without limping.
I was nineteen years old.
How was I supposed to tell anyone what happened?
I couldn’t move back in with my parents. I couldn’t even tell my best friend what happened. I just brought Chet to Thanksgiving and Christmas that year and showed him off like a prize dog or something. I don’t know why. I don’t know why I didn’t leave before it happened again.
He said he was just stressed out. He hadn’t done it again since.
But he still asked me questions about the doctors.
That only stopped once Sarah was born. Six months after we buried Gram Sarah. I hated him by then. What he’d done to me and Bruce was unforgivable. I’d kicked him out twenty times. He never left.
And now, we’re here.
It’s like putting a movie on pause for twenty-six years.