Everybody Else’s Girl

by Andria Rose

‘I know he didn’t mean it,’ says the girl on the TV.

‘I only did it once, I’m not one of those guys,’ says the male character.

‘If this is you, then get help,’ the narrator pleads. ‘Call the Domestic Violence help line on 1800 … ‘ I glance up at him, over our sausage curry, looking for a glimmer of recognition that he heard the TV in the next room. That he knows he is like the man on TV, that he has remorse. He sees me glance up at him, looking for something.

‘What are you looking at?’ he bellows.

‘N-n-nothing. I-it’s fine. It’s fine,’ I look down at the grey linoleum, twisting my fingers under the wooden table. ‘D-do you like your dinner?’

‘You think I’m like that, don’t you?’ he snarls and his eyes glint. He stands up; kicking out his cottage kitchen chair then he pushes me into my chair, restraining me. ‘I’ll show you how good you’ve got it ‘ere with me,’ he yelled. ‘Paying for your food, putting a roof over your head. I’m not like those men, I’m not like your mum and dad!’ He pulled his right arm back, his left still held me down, his fist crunched into my right thigh.

‘Aaah,’ I grunt, I feel his second knuckle protruding. He pulls his arm back again. ‘No! Derek!’ I cry. ‘I get it; I’ve got it good. Aaah! I know I’ve got it good,’ I scream. He glares at me and keeps going, pulling his arm back quicker each time. ‘No! Stop it,’ I plead. ‘What about Sammy! Derek— Sammy !’ It is the same spot on my thigh, over and over. He simply stops and walks away. I close my eyes, I’ll make a run for it, I decide, planning to come back and get Sammy. I jump up to run to the front door. Instead, I fall in a heap on the floor. My leg doesn’t work. I try to stand again, but there’s no strength. Reaching out for the table to pull myself up, I look at my eleven-month-old little boy, crying in his high chair. He looks at me, tears spilling down his cheeks.

‘Mum,’ he blubbers, reaching his arms out. I force myself to smile, to wipe my eyes and console him. After many kisses and tickles he smiles back and resumes covering himself in his dinner. I drag myself through the door to the lounge room, to cry alone. I edge myself around the room, leaning on the walls, the bookshelves, making my way to the couches.

‘What the hell are you doing? Trying to get away?’ He comes at me again. His knuckle meets the same spot on my thigh and I pop out. I mastered popping out of reality as a child. It protected me from feeling; sometimes I controlled it, sometimes not.

*****

I come to; he is holding me in his arms. My face is wet with tears. ‘I’m so sorry sweetie. I love you. I couldn’t let you go. I just had to stop you from going so I could say sorry. I just did enough to stop you leaving, see? I love you.’ I nod and he places me in bed, stroking my hair. ‘I’m not like those other guys. See how bad other women have it, but not you. See?’ He leaves me in bed and I look at my leg. The bruise is black, an area on the outside of my thigh about fifteen centimetres long and ten centimetres wide.

*****

In bed, I look at him sleeping peacefully. I could kill him. I could tiptoe into the kitchen and get the knife, come back and stab him. I would have to kill him though because it would be me dead if he woke up. I have to leave; I can’t think this. I think through the steps in ‘The Manual For Getting Out.’ I have already tried everything: conflict resolution, prevention, time out; nothing works. I am up to the leaving bit and the book says to make a plan. Plan: wait for Derek to go to work, wait another ten minutes in case he comes home, call the police.

*****

‘Hi, m-my name’s Louie. Uhh… I n-need to report a crime.’

‘Yes Miss, what is it?’

‘My fiancé’s beat me up really bad. You’ve been here a few times, it should be on file somewhere.’

‘What’s your last name?’

‘Joy. Can someone take me to a shelter?’

‘No Miss, we can’t do that.’

‘Well, I’d like to charge him and if I do, I obviously can’t be here when he comes home. Can someone come here to take my statement?’

‘No Miss, we don’t do that.’

‘But you’ve been here before! I can’t walk! I’m sitting here on the floor coz I can’t stand, my baby’s in the next room, I can’t come in. Are you sure you can’t come here?’

‘Miss, all I can recommend is to keep a diary of what happened and when you can walk, bring it in.’ I start crying, one of these days he will kill me.

‘Do you want the number for the shelter?’

‘Hi, m-my name’s Louie. Umm, I-I need help, can I stay at the shelter?’

‘I’m sorry Miss, but we’re full. There’s a six week wait.’

‘But I’m beaten up! I can’t walk, m-my son’s not safe. I need help! Is there any place I can go?’

‘We’re it, sorry. I can take your number and call you when there’s a space. We can call during the day,’ she offered.

‘Okay,’ I feel faint, weak, trapped. I can’t go anywhere else because they won’t be safe: Nana, Mum, Kel. Shit.

I got the anti-Christ in the kitchen yellin’ at me again. Yeah I can hear that, but what if I’m a mermaid…

I sit here on the floor, leaning against the wall crying. I make no noise. All I can do is press play, again. Listen to Tori tell me I can be strong, that maybe I am a mermaid and I can escape this mess.

Everybody else’s girl, maybe one day she’ll be her own. One day, maybe one day.

One day. Well, I’m Derek’s girl now. I’ve been mums, dads, Daves, Dons, now David’s. D’s, no more D’s (I still would never go out with someone who starts with the letter D!) What about me, what would I like if I were my own? My mind goes blank. I sit there stunned. Parenting. Must go parent.

I can only sit. I get Sammy and we go play in the sunroom. He runs; I drag my leg along. We sit with our feet touching, our legs in the shape of a diamond and roll the ball to each other. There are smiles, but no laughter. I didn’t notice this lack of laughter then. A year or so later someone pointed out to me that he didn’t laugh and I looked back and realised he hadn’t spent much time laughing. He laughs freely now, but it took many years.

‘Move back a bit Sam, like this. Wriggle your bum back,’ we wriggle, so now there’s a gap between our feet. ‘That’s it. Good catch.’ It is his turn to roll the ball; it rolls out of our feet and away. ‘Oohh. Oh well. Go get it.’ I’ve already promised to leave if he ever hits my face. But I want to leave now. I can’t even go to school this week; everyone will ask what’s happened. ‘Good catch bub,’ I smile. I’ll have to wait until next week. I feel like I’ve been doing year eleven forever.

*****

My leg has healed somewhat. The bruise has gone from black to deep purple and green. I can walk and right now, I have to run. He chases me through the dining room, around the corner towards the front door, up the two stairs to the landing. I’m ready to run out. I stop, realising I can’t leave Sammy. Last time I ran I thought I would never see him again. I turn around and holding the banister I raise my leg to kick him in the testicles, but I stop mid raise. In three and a half years I have never retaliated. I can’t hurt him; I love him. I lower my leg.

‘You were going to kick me!’ he roars. ‘You bitch!’ He grabs the banisters and does a diabolical kick to my face. Holding my mouth, I stumble back and find myself in the corner by the front door. I still hate corners. There is blood dripping through my fingers onto my clothes, onto the floor. Blood covers the bottom half of my face.

‘Derek! No, no! Please.’ I plead. ‘Stop! I’m bleeding.’ I open my hands to show him. A lot of blood comes out of a lip.

‘You deserve it you bitch, you were going to kick me!’

‘Please, no,’ I cry. ‘Not near Sammy. Take me to the spare room.’ I try and push out, holding my mouth. Often I walk backwards and get him somewhere else so Sam doesn’t see. He pushes me back and I cower. He uppercuts me in the stomach; yelling words with each punch.

‘How – many times – do I have – to say – the bible – says – wives – obey – your husbands. When – will – you ever – learn?’

‘Jesus said,’ I breathlessly push out, looking at him in the eyes. ‘Husbands,’ I take another hit. ‘Husbands, love your wife— as Christ loves the church.’ Jesus wouldn’t do this. I was going to get it now. I see Sammy approach, he’s crawling up the stairs to us. ‘No, Derek,’ I scream. ‘Sammy!’ he ignores me.

Sammy had just learned to walk; he took his first steps a few weeks before this. He baby runs to us, with his wide nappy run, and pushes in between us. Sammy stands with his back to me, reaches his arms around me and yells, ‘Daddy, no!’ Derek picks him up, turns around and sits him on the floor next to us then returns to his repeated pummelling of my stomach. I don’t feel it now. Sammy pushes himself off the ground with his hands, comes back and pushes in again. He spreads his arms around me again and looks up at his father. ‘Daddy, no!’ he screams. I fall behind him, hold him and cry. This is so wrong, I think to myself. I should be protecting Sammy. I have to leave.

*****

‘I was going to give you your first Mothers Day breakfast in bed,’ he says, handing me a hot cup of tea. I take a sip.

‘Owww,’ I don’t even think as I try to sip it that the tea could hurt my lip. My lip opened time and time again over the coming weeks and still he would not take me to hospital. It still opens up, ten years on, with hot drinks, curry.

‘That wasn’t very thoughtful of me was it,’ he laughs. ‘I’ll see if we have a straw.’ He wanders off to the kitchen and calls out, ‘Now, we have to work out our story Louie. Your mum is definitely coming today and I think Crystal is too. I was thinking, you could say you were mopping the floor and a chair fell.’ I walk into the kitchen to watch him create his lie. ‘That would work, the end of the chairs are the right height. What do you think?’ I say nothing. I can get away with a lot after a beating. ‘Well? We have to say something.’

‘How about you tell them? I can’t tell anymore stories.’ I walk away. I didn’t have to tell too many stories generally; a few to Doctors at the hospital, a few to explain things like limping.

‘Louie! We have to!’ he calls to me.

‘You tell them Derek,’ I have to get out of here.

*****

There’s a knock at the front door. I limp across the lounge and up the few steps to the front door. ‘Who is it?’ I call out. I would get in trouble if it was Derek and I didn’t do this, even though he’d only just left.

‘It’s Kel.’ I let her in and shut the door. ‘Shit,’ she says. ‘No wonder he was worried! What has he done to your face?’

‘What? What do you mean, worried?’

‘Oh, it’s nothing,’ Kel says dismissively. ‘I drove past a minute ago; I thought he’d be at work, so I went to get a drink instead of coming straight here,’ she paused for a second. ‘Well, he thought I’d come coz you called. I made sure he knew you didn’t call though.’ She reaches her arm around me and smiles. Years later, she explained that on that day he actually ‘pulled his car across the front of’ hers; he cut her off the road and ‘carried on’, at her, paranoid and nervous. On other times he chased her, trapped her, yelled at her, banged on her house door looking for me when I had left him, and tried to run her off the road. She was unsafe, and at eighteen, she protected me from that. Kel was the only person I could cry with or talk to. She never told me what I should have done.

At the time, I couldn’t tell what the fights were about; I think that’s partly why I stayed. I wondered if it was because of me. He’d have a go at me for something that was silly, like leaving streaks on the kitchen counter after wiping it. He would twist and contort every issue so it would be my fault. With the streaks on the counter, it was my thoughtlessness that provoked him. He worked and I couldn’t even keep the house clean. After an incident, I didn’t generally know why it had happened or what had happened. It was like a cloud filled my head.

*****

It’s Thursday and I decided I had to go back to school. I couldn’t come earlier in the week because I had to let my lip calm down and I couldn’t explain it. I caught the bus to school; pram, nappy bag and school bag in tow, dropped Sam off at childcare then walked through the halls to class.

‘Louie! I haven’t seen you for ages! How are you!’

‘Hi Joan, I’- good,’ I say. My mouth is so damaged I can’t speak properly. I try to position my hand and body so my old English teacher can’t see my face.

‘Louie, what happened to you?’

‘Oh, it’s nothing,’ I say, looking at the beige tiled floor. ‘What about you, how are you?’ I struggle to look at her, attempt a lopsided smile to look fine. She gently holds me by my shoulders and turns me to look at her.

‘What happened?’

‘I want to leave Joan, I do,’ I wipe my eyes and look at the dirty beige floor again.

‘Come to the office with me,’ she is firm, leading me with her arm around my shoulders. ‘I have a spare house, let me get you the keys.’

‘What?’

‘Well, I stay there sometimes as I live too far away from the school. You can stay there. It’s furnished. There’s lots of canned food, you’ll just need some fresh stuff. Take these keys and go there whenever you’re ready. Just let me know and please don’t let him know where it is.’

‘No, Joan, you can’t! I can’t!’ She presses the keys into my hand.

‘Take them.’

*****

I sit on our bed at home, looking out on the street. I can leave! I’ll stay for Sammy’s birthday, that’s only a few days. But, I won’t stay for Derek’s birthday. That would be another week here. I have to hide these keys.

*****

At school again, I feel like I am in shock. We had Sammy’s birthday, but I had to wait until Derek went back to work to leave, then there was Anzac day on the Monday, and I had no idea how I would actually leave.

‘Louie, are you ok?’ Helen, my friend from year seven is in front of me, with that familiar look of concern. My golf ball is now smaller, but that’s what she refers to.

‘I-I— yeah?’ I lie.

‘Louie, do you want to leave?’

‘ Yes I do Helen,’ I wipe my eyes.

‘Now?’ she asked. ‘C’mon, lets go now.’

‘I can’t, I’ve got Chemistry.’ She looks at me, amazed. ‘W-well I’ve missed heaps in the last few weeks. I-I’ll never pass if I don’t go.’

‘After Chemistry then?’

‘Yeah, after Chemistry.’

‘Meet here?’

‘Yep. Thanks Helen.’

*****

‘What do you need?’ Helen asks as the bus rumbled along.

‘Clothes, photos. I put a box of old pots, pans, crockery, cutlery etc away a few weeks ago. Derek wanted to give it to his mum, but I said no, that I might leave him one day.’

‘You really said that?’

‘Yeah, he didn’t do anything. Just put the box on the top shelf and walked away.’

Packing was frantic. We cleared clothes out, shoved them in bags. Got my box of crockery. We couldn’t actually get us out though; we had no car.

‘Helen, I just realised, it’s nearly lunch time and Derek sometimes comes home for lunch. You’ll have to get out if he comes home.’

‘Shit. Just keep calling your mum.’ I ring again, it rings out again.

‘Everything is packed now,’ I inform her. ‘We just need to get out.’ We pace. I ring mum. We wait. All I need is by the front door.

Knock knock. It was the front door. We look at each other. It’s lunchtime.

‘What time does he come home,’ Helen whispered.

‘Well, it’s only sometimes and it changes,’ I whisper back. ‘Hang on,’ I yell to the door. ‘Go open the sliding door. If it’s him, get out, shut the door and run. Okay?’ She nods and is visibly afraid. It’s too late to move all the stuff away, I have to chance opening the door and wear the consequences. God, Helen’s too young for this. I hold the knob and my breath and call out the obligatory, ‘Who is it?’

‘It’s your Mother,’ came the singing voice. I rip the door open.

‘Mum!’ I yell. ‘Quick, get this to the car. I’m leaving! How did you know to come, you have no answering machine?’ I shove a few bags at her, and run more to the car.

‘I didn’t know, I was just coming to visit,’ says mum. ‘Where are you going?’

‘To my English teachers house, she gave me a key to her spare house. Who has a spare house mum?’

*****

I sat alone at the dining table of Joans house in shock, pondering my life. My emotions alternated from anger to grief and around again.

Everybody else’s girl, maybe someday she’ll be her own…Dreams of the flying pigs… one day, maybe one day

If I didn’t experience the childhood I had, if I was respected, if I wasn’t forced to see what I did, if the judges and ministers hadn’t let dad get away with his crimes, would I be in this position now? If my mother wasn’t jealous and violent? She was brutal. I had to get out of her house. If I didn’t have to get out, if I was safe, I wouldn’t have had to leave at fifteen, I rationalise. All of the past can be healed, I’m sure it can. It has to. I’m only eighteen; life can’t all be like this. I can work out it out, the why, and the where to from here.

Andria Rose gives regular presentations on Domestic Violence; the most regular being to Police Cadets being trained in South Australia, as well Community Groups wanting to know more about how to support people experiencing Domestic Violence.

She is the owner of Studio M, a photography and lifecasting business. Studio M is about Metamorphosis; being involved in the growth of women and their journey from feeling ordinary to realising their inherent beauty and freedom, and lifecasting is about celebrating life; recording in scultpure the transitions of self and family.