“George, what are you—”
But she knew exactly what he was doing. It was silly of her to think that because she was asleep—because they’d had a very nice evening—she’d be safe. When had those things ever kept her safe before? She protested—sort of—in groggy surprise, but he’d just held her tighter. There was no use fighting. She knew George needed this. She just wished he didn’t need it to be so … aggressive.
It hadn’t always been this way. When she and George were dating, he had been a considerate lover. Before him, Sonja had only had a few lovers, and they’d been more like boys than men. Fumbling around, asking what felt good. George, on the other hand, was authoritative. In control. It had been a huge turn-on. And it wasn’t just her sex life that had turned around with George—her whole life became amazing. After living in an apartment on the wrong side of town for most of her adult life, suddenly Sonja lived in a beautiful home on two floors. She didn’t need to check her bank balance before she purchased anything. She drank good wine and had discussions about politics and medical science and the state of health care. And best of all, she did this with George.
A few months after they were married, George went on a business trip to Europe. He went on a lot of trips back then—conferences, meetings, addresses—but this was for two weeks, the longest they’d been apart since their wedding. He’d returned home in the middle of the night. When Sonja heard the bedroom door open, she started to rouse.
“There you are,” she said sleepily, blinking to let her eyes adjust. George was in the corner of the room, looking down at her. At first she couldn’t see his face. But when light from a passing car shone through the window, she noticed he looked a little … different. “George?”
And then, suddenly, he was coming at her. That startled her a little. He pulled back the blanket with one hand and with the other, ripped the underwear from her body in one stinging movement.
“Ouch,” she said. “Wow, aren’t you…”
After that everything happened pretty fast. He took a fistful of her hair and pulled so hard she felt light-headed—the next day, her scalp was swollen; she hadn’t known a scalp could become swollen. Then he lay on top of her with his full weight, stealing her breath. By the time he slid out of his own pants and slammed into her, she was silent and shaking. Her mind batted around thoughts she was unable to process. Was this happening? But this couldn’t be happening. He was her husband.
When he was finished, Sonja was crying heavy fat tears. But George didn’t seem to notice.
“God, I missed you,” he said, and fell asleep.
Sonja lay awake for hours, staring at the ceiling. Everything hurt, and when she went to the bathroom, she was bleeding. It felt acutely like she’d been assaulted but … was it possible? She asked herself what she would say if it had happened to a client. “What he did isn’t okay. It was abusive. If you want to leave, I’ll support you.”
As a social worker, it was clear-cut. As a woman, it was murkier.
The next morning George snuggled against her. “Good morning,” he murmured. He was dozy and gentle and a different person from the one he’d been the night before.
“George,” she said. “About last night…”
There were already so many things wrong with her approach. As a social worker she would have counseled her client to be upright when they had this discussion—a safe distance away, and near an exit in case she needed to make a quick getaway. Sonja was in bed with George. She’d slept the whole night there, wondering if it would be the last night she spent in it, grieving the life she’d had with the man she adored.
Mourning her abuser. Another social-worker fail.
“Thank you,” he said, nuzzling into her neck. “I was thinking about you the whole way home, on the plane, in the cab. I thought I was going to explode.”
Sonja sat upright and stared at him. Put like that, it sounded romantic. Sexy. But it had been neither.
“Sonja,” George said. He sat up too, suddenly on guard. “What is it? Are you okay?”
What is it? Was it possible he didn’t know? He certainly seemed confused, half-awake, blinking to catch up. He was the very image of husbandly concern. She scanned his face, but he appeared to be genuine. Did he really not think anything was wrong?
She felt her conviction waver. If he didn’t think anything was wrong, maybe nothing was? After all, an evening of rough sex after a trip away didn’t necessarily constitute abuse. It probably happened between married couples all the time. The problem was simply that no one in George’s world talked about it! She pictured her old school friends, what they would have said.
“Uh-huh. Jeff always gets so kinky after he’s had a few! He gets it in his head that he wants to try some of that Fifty Shades of Grey stuff!”
“Adam’s the same. I just go along with it … they love it and it gets it over with faster.”
Yes. Sonja could hear them now. It was no big deal, just part of marriage. You had to give if you wanted to take. She was just letting her inner social worker run away with her.
“Everything’s fine,” she said finally, and slowly slid back down into the bed. But a tiny voice inside her asked: Was everything really fine? Or was she being weak-willed, skittish, making the excuses she’d heard other women make a million times before? It’s not so bad. He’ll change. I love him.
Sonja didn’t have an answer. She also didn’t have an answer to the more pressing question that had circled in her head that day, and had every day since.
If you are this weak-willed and skittish with George, what on earth will you be like without him?
TWO
There’s nothing more calming in difficult moments than knowing there’s someone fighting with you.
—MOTHER TERESA
18
Looking back, Alice could almost separate Zoe into two people: Zoe before and Zoe after. The funny thing was that Zoe had been a happy baby. A pudgy, giggly smiler. “Isn’t she lovely,” people would remark when they saw her. And then, invariably, their gaze would linger on Alice. She could practically see the questions lurking in their minds. With her dark hair and nearly black eyes, Zoe looked nothing like her. “Must take after her father,” they’d say (and they’d be right, not that Alice would admit it).