a way to escape for good. I was plagued by the questions facing a woman forced to flee a dangerous household: Where will I go? What about the kids? What will we do for money?
I suspected I was a prisoner who would never be free of the torment. I was convinced one of us would have to die and I didn’t want it to be one of my children. I saw no way out except for pills. I hated asking my doctor for tranquillizers, but if I didn’t I knew I’d crack. I would take smaller doses this time, I bargained with myself. Valium became a soother, a protector, a means to detach and smother the fear and rage.
When I spoke to my doctor about the stress I was under, I was too ashamed to tell him the truth about the abuse. What sort of woman was I to stand for such denigration? Regardless, I’m pretty certain he knew. Bruises and split lips were common decorations. An occasional purple-ringed eye could be hidden behind makeup and sunglasses. These were merely superficial signs of the near-fatal wounds inflicted upon my spirit. A prescription for Valium was easy to obtain. Doctors handed out the drug like candy. I took the pills only at bedtime. They helped to a slight degree, but it was becoming more apparent the children and I would be in greater danger if I allowed the pills to further deaden my senses. Stan’s moods were totally unpredictable.
Some nights I’d wake in a groggy haze while the bulk of a man rolled off me, his gratified moan like a growl reverberating deep in my head. Unconscious, I was of great use to Stan. Nothing woke me when I swallowed those tiny white pills. But my very real paranoia soon overtook my waking hours. Questions constantly plagued me: What if he started on the kids? What if he decided he should kill me to deliver me from evil? I knew I had to give up the pills if we were ever going to escape, but how could I manage, how could I extract myself from the hopeless darkness that spiralled around me?
Then a thought occurred to me: Why don’t I put Valium in Stan’s evening coffee?
I tried it that night, nervously crushing the pill with the back of a spoon while Stan waited for his cup to be delivered. Quietly sweeping the powder in, I listened for his possible approach, each tiny sound magnified. Rattling the spoon, I stirred the coffee.
My heart pounded wildly as I faithfully delivered the coffee to my husband. Handing him the cup, I was relieved to see he paid no attention to my trembling state, familiar with how I was persistently in a lousy frame of mind. Perhaps he was even gloating over my unsteadiness, revelling in the power he had over me. He took a sip and nodded his approval. I smiled like a good wife and walked away.
For months I continued spiking his coffee. It ensured I’d have a proper night’s sleep and never need to take another nerve pill to put me under.
While Stan slept his drug-induced sleep, I sat in the living room, clearheaded, planning our forthcoming departure.
DEATH ON THE BRIDGE
My next attempt to break away from Stan nearly ended in my death. I had pledged to get out of that house, but no one wanted to take in five penniless visitors being chased by a crazed 250-pound Mohawk Black Watch soldier. No one could possibly be that charitable.
Fortunately my suspicions were disproved when Mary Westall, who was almost as big and could be nearly as mean as Stan, offered to let us stay with her and her six children. She cornered me after Sunday School one morning when I tried to sneak out unnoticed.
“Come live with us,” she insisted, her eyes trying not to focus on the bruise around my eye. “Until you get on your feet. Sonya’s already used to us.” She even agreed to baby-sit while I sought employment.
“We’re not going to have to live with Daddy anymore,” I told the children one afternoon. Heather clapped her hands and started to sing: “Jesus loves the little children, All the children of the world…” My mind drifted back to that spring day when I returned home from a walk, only to find Heather’s and Jody’s hands burned by Stan. I’d comforted them with the same song. The rest of the kids joined in. Even baby Jennifer babbled along, not having a clue what we were so pleased about.
A week after I moved in with Mary I managed to secure a job working at a local motel restaurant as a waitress. I was feeling at ease, genuinely content for the first time in years. A monstrous burden had lifted from my heart and I was sure life would be better now. The noise of ten children in a three-bedroom apartment never even bothered me. It was a luxury to be free of constant, belittling intimidation. Compared to the quiet punches and whispered threats, the noise from the children sounded like a heavenly choir.
For the first time in years I found myself looking toward the future, and I’d even catch myself smiling with a faint hint of promise. I had a life again. A life that was mine. Surprisingly Stan hadn’t chased after me and I was encouraged by his sensible reaction. Perhaps he had accepted that things would never be right between us. I didn’t miss him at all. I was even starting to flirt a little with the cook at the restaurant where I worked. The attention he paid me was heartening.
On a Saturday, two weeks after I began my new job, I was at the motel preparing to work a supper banquet when Stan stormed into the dining room wearing an old pair of green army fatigues, his imposing body rigid with anticipation. I was standing on the opposite side of the room setting one of the tables. When I saw Stan, the silverware I was holding dropped to the floor with a riotous clang. The coldness in his eyes sent a cascading shiver throughout me.
Stan didn’t say a word to anyone. He walked over to me, grabbed my waist-length hair, and turned toward the door, pulling me along. Stumbling, in pain, I screamed at my co-workers, “Call the police!” I struggled against Stan, attempting to break free, stinging tears in my eyes. Desperately I tried to twist out of his grip, yanking my own hair in the process. “He’s gonna kill me!”
Two other waitresses and the manager were standing in the banquet hall, watching the scene with detached disbelief. No one moved as Stan hauled me out the door and shoved me into the passenger’s side of his small Toyota. My heart was beating so hard I thought people in the motel could hear it above my screams. Stan was still clutching my hair. Terrified by the certainty that I was going to die, I prayed for help, but no one, not one single person, bothered coming to my rescue.
Stan never opened his mouth. He slammed my door shut and walked unhurried around to the driver’s side, confident I wouldn’t run from him, secure in his hold over me. Once settled in his seat, he turned to me and smiled. “Why’d you think you could leave me like that?” he asked, calmly starting the car.
“I…I…didn’t mean to.”
“Well, you won’t be leaving me anymore. We’ll always be together.” He shifted gears and raced out of the parking lot, heading for the ramp that connected to the Princess Margaret Bridge.
“Where we going?” I asked, unable to control my wavering voice.
“Over the bridge,” he said, stopping for a tractor trailer that was gearing down. I glanced at the door handle, thought of yanking it and bolting away.
“What?”
“Over the bridge,” he repeated. “Together, into the water.”
“Oh, God, no, Stan. I’ll do anything. I love you. I need you.”
Slowly he pulled out and looked over at me. I was babbling anything that came into my head, desperate to live, thinking of my sweet children back at Mary’s apartment. Their faces, their laughter and gentle mannerisms, filled my head. I believed I would never see them again, and tears rimmed my eyes as the car sped up.
“Please forgive me,” I begged. “I’ll
