The Mother's Promise(26)

“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).

Alice’s mother had passed away while Alice was in her third trimester of pregnancy, leaving Alice grieving and alone. Her father managed to pick himself up and get on with his life, more or less. Paul continued drinking. Alice was the only one who seemed to be having trouble getting out of bed in the morning. Why? Wasn’t she the one who had the most to live for? Alice had never been the prayerful type, but one night, when Zoe was five months old, she got down on her knees and asked for help.

The next day, Alice’s father told Alice that her great-grandmother needed a live-in helper in her home in Atherton. Atherton was twenty-five miles out of San Francisco, and was a lovely family area. Alice looked at it as an opportunity for a fresh start. And it was. Her great-grandmother, Joan, adored Zoe, and while she wasn’t much help physically, her sage advice was a great comfort. (“Forget what the book says,” she’d say. “You’re her mother. You want to pick her up, you pick her up.”) Alice probably wasn’t a typical mother during those years. While other moms were joining “Mommy and Me,” “Charlie’s Music Time,” and signing up for swimming lessons, Alice was driving Joan to her appointments, grocery shopping, and looking after Zoe. But they were happy. This was their life.