Blink

BLINK

“Mary Louise! You clumsy cow!” 

I’d just bumped the table, and my mother’s wine had sloshed over the side of her over-filled glass. She’d glared at me. I was seven. “Go into the kitchen, right now, and get a dishcloth and clean this mess up!”  

It didn’t matter that I had just fed my baby brother Hector while Mommy “relaxed” after a hard day of watching crappy television, drinking wine. Or that I had bumped the table while chasing Hector who had a full diaper.  

“Hurry up, Mary Louise! This mess isn’t going to clean itself!”

I walked back into the living room, looked at my mother, picked up her wine glass and dumped it all over the white couch—the same white couch that we were not allowed to sit on because we were grimy.

She screamed at me, jumping up, grabbing at my arm, but I kicked her in the shin, and ducked away, running for the front door.

BLINK.

“—isn’t gong to clean itself.”

I went into the living room, apologized, and cleaned up the spilled wine.  

I still spent the rest of the day locked in the closet while Hector cried, and my mom drank more wine.

*****

It’s been like that all my life. My brain switches from victim to victor. It tells me to fight back. To not become the outcome of someone else’s rage.

But I ignore it. I always ignore it. 

*****

“Mary Loser!”

It was fifth grade and Jake Mercer had his gaze focussed on me. We were poor, and that was enough.  

“Hey Mary Loser, where’d you get your dress? The garbage?” Or “What’s for lunch today? Road kill?”

He’d come up to me in the hall, and grabbed my lunch bag and took my sandwich out, and held it up for everyone to see.

“What’s this? Squirrel?”

“It’s peanut butter and jam,” I said. “Give it back.” I held out my hand.

“No way. It’s squirrel. You found it dead on the road.” He laughed. Everybody laughed.

I took two steps towards him, grabbed him by the wrist, and smashed my sandwich in his face. Then I grabbed his lunch, walked away and ate it.  

BLINK.  

“—you found it on the road dead!” He’d thrown it on the floor, and stomped on it. It was the only thing I had for lunch. I’d gone hungry.  

When I gotten home, I’d tried to sneak another piece of bread. My mother caught me, and put me in the closet with no dinner. She only let me out the next morning.

*****

Am I the only one who dreams of fighting back?

*****

I looked at the man screaming at me. Literally screaming—face red, fists clenched, body poised to attack.  

I took a deep breath—a cleansing breath, the way I do in yoga. “I’m sorry sir, but we don’t have a table open right this minute. There should be an available table in about forty-five minutes.” I tried to smile. I really did.

“Do you know who I am!” he railed. He smashed his fist on my hostess stand. I jumped. People in the dining room were beginning to look over, murmuring.

I didn’t answer him. How could I? I needed this job.

“Do you? Do you know who I am?”

I just shook my head.

“I know the owner, and I will have your job, you incompetent bitch!” I wiped his spittle from my face.

Okay, that was it. I was done. “I am the owner of this restaurant, and I do not know you. And if I did, I would drop you like this—” I snapped my fingers. I walked around the hostess stand and got right up in his face and screamed back at him. “You. Need.  To. Leave. Right. NOW!” I put both my hands on his chest and pushed him. He stumbled backwards, tripping over his own feet, and went down hard. I walked over to him, and gave him a good swift kick in the ribs. He groaned, and held his side. The people in his party looked from me to him, horrified, and scarpered right out of my restaurant, not waiting for the man on the floor. I watched as he slowly made his way to his hands and knees, then to his feet.

“And, if I ever see you here again, I won’t be as nice,” I said, my hands on my hips.

The man got to his feet, turned away, and limped out of the restaurant.

BLINK.

“—incompetent bitch!”

I wiped his spittle from my face. My manager stepped in front of me. “Now, sir, what can we do for you tonight …”

I’d lost that job, anyway, because it seems that not having a table was my fault. I’d had to work at a fast food restaurant to save money for university. It seemed so unfair.  

*****

Why couldn’t I fight back? Was I that much of a coward?

Yes.  

*****

I only ended up doing two years of a four year degree, but those two years were wonderful. There were no people barking at me, already pissed off before they even met me. People listened to what I had to say. I had friends.

Then I met Chase. 

Does it ever work out with someone named Chase?

*****

We’d only been together a few months, before Chase asked me to marry him. Which of course meant that I had to quit school. I don’t know why I agreed. I didn’t love him. And I’m damn sure he didn’t love me. But we married. At city hall. No fancy wedding for Mary Louise. No, just a justice of the peace and a clerk as our witness. 

It started almost immediately—the ink wasn’t even dry on the marriage license. The yelling, the shoving, the punching. Eventually, it progressed to more—much, much more.  

*****

“What the hell is the matter with you Mary Louise! I said that I wanted dinner at six o’clock—not six-ten, not six-thirty.”  

I’d just rushed in, out of breath. “I’m sorry,” I said automatically. “I was stuck on the subway for an hour and a half. There was a breakdown.”

“I don’t give a shit!” he screamed at me. “I said six o’clock!” 

I looked at him, incredulous. “How am I supposed to cook dinner when I’m stuck in a subway tunnel?” I took off my coat and hung it up.

He’d come up to me, grabbed my hair, and dragged me into the kitchen, shoving me so far forward that my cheek was flat on the burner. He pressed it down hard, and leaned in. “I could turn this on. Then you’d listen to me.”  

 My heart hammered. I was so frightened. He’d pulled my head up, then slammed it back down on the stove top again. I fell to the floor, dizzy, disoriented, and in pain.  

“You’re useless.” He kicked my back.  “I want steak. You have twenty minutes to make it, or I come back and show you what it’s like when the burner’s on.” He turned and stomped out of the kitchen.

There was no blink. 

****

Nothing I did was ever right. He didn’t like my hair, my clothes made me look like a slut, I was sleeping with my co-workers. And each time he’d teach me a lesson.

I left twice. But he found me both times before I had a chance to find safety. I had no idea how. Then I found them—AirTags in my car, and sewn into the lining of my purse and backpack—who knew he could sew? Plus he had a tracker on my phone. 

I needed to get smart.

*****

I became the perfect wife. Or tried to. Everything I did was still wrong. But, I realized that this was about him, not me.

*****

It was my least favourite outing of the year—the annual hunting trip. Two weeks in a rustic cabin in the middle of nowhere, alone with an abusive, gun-toting psychopath, miles and miles away from another soul. I could disappear, and no one would ever know. Not ideal.  

I, of course, had to accompany him. One year, early on, I said that I couldn’t get the time off of work—I did have the accrued time, I just didn’t want to go with him.  

He accused me of wanting to be free to sleep with my boss and coworkers while he was away. He beat me, and locked me out of the house overnight. Either I got the time off, or he would get it off for me. I had no idea what that meant, but I couldn’t put my co-workers in jeopardy. I put in my request for vacation time. Granted.

*****

My time at the cabin was always the same—follow Chase through the woods on his expeditions, carrying all the shit he said he needed, none of which we ever used. Chase was a terrible hunter. But every time he missed a shot, it was, of course, my fault—I was too noisy when I walked, I was breathing too loud—it didn’t matter. Always my fault.  He once drove the stock of his rifle into my gut because I sighed too loudly and the bird he was hunting flew away. I’d fallen to the forest floor, gasping for breath. He’d turned on his heel and walked away, leaving me on the ground writhing in pain.

I hate hunting.

*****

We were out looking for … I don’t know, whatever Chase was tracking. He didn’t bother with hunting seasons, or game restrictions, or licenses. He killed—or tried to kill—anything he saw. He shot at racoons, chipmunks, deer, squirrels, birds. It didn’t matter, he just wanted to kill something. Once he thought he saw a wolf, and he shot at it, but it was a dog. I don’t know how he can confuse a Dalmatian for a wolf. Because he can’t hit the broad side of a barn, the dog only startled, and ran away.  

I despised hunting, but loved the forest in autumn. It was my favourite place and time. I would inhale deeply, savouring the smell of pine trees and decaying plants and leaves. The chill in the early morning air, fresh and invigorating. The beautiful colours of changing leaves woven throughout the green coniferous trees. And that particular quiet in the fall—only the sound of blue jays and my feet crunching dry, fallen leaves. Except for my psycho husband, it was perfect.

It was still early. We’d been out for a couple of hours—Chase ahead looking for game, like he was some great hunter, me schlepping behind him carrying everything in a backpack. He made me come out with him every time because he couldn’t trust me to stay at the cabin and not leave. He wasn’t wrong.

We heard a scuffling sound. I stopped, looking around. Chase crept forward, visions of a big-game kill dancing in his head. I watched as he lifted his gun, sighting to the right. Then I saw it—a small bear, probably a yearling. Chase held steady, waiting for his best shot.

“Chase! Don’t! It’s only a cub!” I shouted at him. I knew that there would be consequences, but I didn’t care. You don’t shoot a cub or a mama bear. It’s unethical.

He turned to look at me, and hissed “Shut. Up.”

The cub stopped, looked at Chase, turned and ran into the bush.

“You stupid, bi—”

Before he could finish, an enormous brown shape flew out of the underbrush from the left, tackling Chase to the ground. I pulled out the bear spray, flipped the top, and prepared to spray her.  But I didn’t.

Chase was screaming. The bear was roaring. I watched the bear take her giant paw and swipe over Chase’s back. Then she flipped him over, swiped across his face and down his torso.  She bit his thigh, and moved to bite his head, but Chase moved his arm up to cover his head, and she bit that instead. He screamed.

Then she stopped. Chase was whimpering. She looked at him, and swiped at his head again. She turned and looked at me. I looked back at her. Then, she huffed, turned, and ran into the woods after her cub.

I slowly walked towards the bloody mess that was Chase. I looked down at him.  

It was horrific. Grizzly claws do a lot of damage. I could see the bone through his lacerated skin. Her claw had ripped his left eye out of its socket. The punctures on his arm and thigh were gushing blood. But he was still alive.

“Mary Louise! Help me!” he whispered.

I thought of every punch, slap, threat. Every time he’d grabbed me by the throat and taunted me, saying he could kill me any time he wanted. Every time he’d grabbed my hair and dragged me, or pushed me from behind down the stairs. Every time he forced me to do what he wanted. I thought about the burner on the stove. I thought about the rifle butt rammed into my stomach.

I leaned down and put my hand into his front pocket, and pulled out the truck keys, avoiding his bloody wounds.

“Don’t worry, honey, I’ll get you some help.” I smiled at him.

Blink, blink, blink. Nope, this was real life.  

As I walked back towards the cabin, I thought about how much I loved the autumn. How peaceful and quiet it was.  

I slowed my pace, enjoying my solitude, moss and leaves under foot. No blink. Just the realization I had all the time in the world to enjoy my walk in the woods.