August 22, 2003

Thursday started out with warm Felton sunshine peeking through the redwood trees.  

But soon a dark cloud of fear took a hold me of me, and I knew something bad was going to happen that beautiful summer day.  

Before I left for work, we got word that she was loose.  That she "escaped" ~ walked right out of the Sunflower House in downtown Santa Cruz ~ in violation of her probation to finish an alcohol and drug treatment program.

I knew it was just a matter of time ~ minutes ~ hours ~ before our lives crossed again ~ as she always came back ~ to the place where all her troubles began again after a few failed attempts at sobriety.

She was his housemate when I met him.  A single mother and young baby from the midwest.  Out to California to begin a new life ~ after drugs and alcohol had destroyed her life back in Arkansas.

Naturally, I befriended her as I did all of the newcomers from his A.A. and N.A. programs.  Even though I had never touched drugs and alcohol in my 36 1/2 years, these newcomers and old-timers alike were practically the only consistent connection to the outside world I had during my time spent in the Santa Cruz Mountains.

I went to work and came back by 6 p.m.  Still no word from her.  Where is she? I wondered.  Would she come here to hide?  Would she turn herself in?  Would the police come looking for her here?  As they had been called so many times before when she lived here in 2001-2002. 

I went to bed and could not sleep, wondering if she had made her way to San Lorenzo Valley yet.  Or maybe she had finally skipped town all together ~ since technically she was a fugitive again ~ there was a warrant out for her arrest ~ all because she gave up trying to get clean and sober as mandated by the courts.  I wondered what drugs she had found before she found us.

I suddenly sprang up in bed, awakened by the sound of pounding on the heavy green door in the master bedroom.

"Stella! Stella! Stella! Let me in! Let me in!" she demanded.

I recognized the sound of her voice.  I knew it was her.  I recognized the sound of drugs and alcohol in her voice as well. 

I screamed back, "No! No! No! I can't let you in ~ the police are looking for you."

"Let me in! Let me in!," she pleaded again, "Stella, let me in!"

"I won't! I can't! I can't do it!" I shouted back through the heavy door that separated us.

He came at me from behind.  Grabbed me on each side of my head.  And with a force beyond anything I had ever felt before ~ slammed my head into the heavy wood.

Slam! Slam! Slam!

Over and over again.  Instead of the door being slammed in her face, my head was being slammed into the knotty pine.  I spun around and felt the abrupt splash of ice cold water on my face.  

Over and over again.  Water being thrown all over me. 

He's finally going to do it, I thought to myself, he's finally going to kill me.  It's finally happening.  The kind of abuse I always feared would happen.  The life-threatening kind.

I wanted my mother in that moment.  To protect me from this man.  Keep me alive, just this once, Mama, I prayed.  Mama, I love you.  I need you here.  Watch over me, Mama.  Mama!

God, are you there?  Are you with me?  God, please help me, God.  Please help me now.  I have to get away.  I have to find my way out of this room, God.  Can you hear me, God?  God, keep me safe.  Dear Lord, please spare me.

I somehow made my way to the kitchen away from him ~ my head was pounding ~ I could not turn my neck ~ fumbled for the phone in the dining room in the dark ~ Where was he? Why had he not followed me in there? I found the phone ~ the same one he used to do all his motorcycle business ~ I thought of all those calls he made to sell those motorcycles as I dialed those numbers I could never dial before ~ 911 ~ I found myself back in the kitchen  ~ looking out the bay windows ~ he was outside on the driveway as the sheriff drove up ~ I watched at what I had done ~ bringing the sheriffs to our doorstep at 3:30 in the morning ~ what had I done?

I thought, "Oh, My God.  I finally did it.  I finally called 911."

And where was she now?  Nowhere in sight.  Where had she gone?

There were two sheriffs.  One to talk with him.  And one to talk with me.  

A sheriff probably just slightly younger than me.  A boyish face.  Kind eyes.  He examined my head.  Could find not any open cuts.  I told him I could not turn my head.  

"Why are you all wet?" he asked delicately.

"He would not stop throwing water all over me," I answered weakly.  I told him I was not hysterical.  That I was only trying to tell the woman with a warrant out her arrest that she could not hide at our place.  

He talked with me about my wound.  He called it a "closed head injury" ~ asked if I wanted an ambulance.  I told him, "No."

"I have to take your picture, " he informed me, "Water can also be used as a weapon."  He explained that heavy water can be used to block vision and keep someone from escaping the episode of abuse.  He took out the polaroid camera.  And snapped away.

Snap! Snap! Snap!

He let me look at the images.  Of me.  Twenty minutes after having my head bashed into a wall and then being showered with water.  I looked at my eyes in that sorrowful picture.  Full of fear and fatigue.  My hair and clothes matted and damp with water.

No visual bruises.

No, they were hidden beneath my long brown hair.  

How convenient.  Bruises hidden so my secret stayed hidden.

Except from the kind officer who took my picture and let me see it.  

Let me see The Face of Abuse.  

A Harrowing Reminder of What Lie Ahead.

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Dedicated to the Santa Cruz County Sheriff's Office, the 911 dispatcher who took my call and stayed on the line until help arrived, and the kind officer who showed such tenderness and compassion during the darkest moment of my life.  Thank you for saving my life.