The Barren Olive Branch
She hates me, I know that. Her rage and shame drift across the desert sands, and mingle with the salty tinge of ocean air, the wet metal taste of iron. I breathe it in, wishing to God I could take it all away from her, let her be a whole person.
Sara. It means princess, and that's what she was, my little princess. She was always so curious, her eyes brighting the kids eyes as understanding bloomed when they grasped earth science, or the pride in their faces when they wrote their first poem. That day, even with the nightmare that began that night, is one of the best memories of my life. I had a good job that I loved, was in love with what up until then was a wonderful man, and I was having his baby. Life was good.
I couldn't wait for the 3 o'clock bell that called the school day to an end. I climbed into my broking the kids eyes as understanding bloomed when they grasped earth science, or the pride in their faces when they wrote their first poem. That day, even with the nightmare that began that night, is one of the best memories of my life. I had a good job that I loved, was in love with what up until then was a wonderful man, and I was having his baby. Life was good.
I couldn't wait for the 3 o'clock bell that called the school day to an end. I climbed into my broken down VW Bug and coaxed her to the grocery store, where I loaded up on all the ingredients I would need for the anniversary feast I was planning, then headed to the little house we'd moved into when we got back from our honeymoon. By the time I'd made the two trips to and from the car, carrying in the groceries, I had just over an hour until Matthew was due home, and I worked frantically to get everything ready.
With the salad in the fridge, and the steaks on the grill, I spread out the tablecloth his mother had given us as a wedding gift. Running my hand over smooth surface, pressing out each fold with my fingers, I thought of that day, just a year ago, and our first kiss as man and wife, the kiss that held so many promises. I was humming, I remember that, as I set each place, polished the silver candlesticks and the forks. Glancing at the clock, I smiled to myself, and stepped back to view the scene I had dreamed of and planned for six months. The steaks were done; I plated the food and sat down to wait for my husband.
Half an hour later, I was worried. An hour after that I was in full-blown panic. By the time I heard his key in the lock, two more hours later, I was nearly hysterical. Rushing to the front door, my hands were on him, touching his chest, his face, searching for the wounds he must have received in the horrible car accident of my imagination, the only thing I thought could have made him so late.
"What the fuck are you doing?" He pushed me away, but not before I breathed in the foul stench of his whiskey soaked breath. "What's wrong with you?" He shrugged out of his coat, grabbing the wall when he lost his balance, his coat hanging off one shoulder.
"Matthew? What's wrong?" I stepped up, trying to touch him again.
He snorted and brushed past me, stalking down the hall.
"What the hell is this?" He hollered from the dining room. By the time I'd made it down the hall, he'd already picked up one of the steaks, long since cold, and was biting into it, tearing the meat with his teeth like some kind of animal. Grimacing, he spit it out onto the floor. "Ruined." He glared at me like it was my fault he was drunk and hours late.
"It was fine three hours ago." The words were barely out of my mouth, and suddenly his hands were on my neck, and I was pushed against the wall. It was just that quick, I never even saw him take the steps to cross the room.
"Don't talk to me that way, Bitch." He spit his words at me.
And that's when he punched me.
You never think it's going to happen to you. And when it does, you think that it won't happen again. Until he finally beats some sense into you. Literally. After that you don't think anymore, you react.
He cried the next day, sobbed that he was sorry, promised it wouldn't happen again. Blamed the whiskey, blamed his boss, blamed everything but himself. And that's how we lived from then on. Todd was born, followed two years later by Sara.
The beatings became more and more frequent over the years. Todd turned to marijuana to escape, Sara turned to books. I should have left. I know that. But as hard as this may be for you to believe, I loved him. I loved the man who read Sara bedtime stories, and kissed her forehead, told her she was beautiful. I loved the man who showed up to Todd's football games, and stood cheering, even when he was tackled. I loved the man who disappeared a little more every day.
The devil's in the details, as they say, and it was always the details that set him off. My first broken nose was for burned toast. The second time it was over the bed not being made. A broken arm, so many busted lips I lost count. Dark purple bruises covered yellowish, almost healed bruises. Eventually we had to change hospitals, driving further and further out, so no one would be suspicious. By that time, Todd had taken to spending more time away from home, and he was gone to the movies that night. The night I killed Matthew.
It started over Sara's schoolbooks that she'd left on the coffee table. He stormed into the kitchen where I was cooking chicken soup, and threw the books, missing my head in his drunken stupor. When I squatted to pick them up, he kicked me in the stomach. I fell over, onto my back, and he was on top of me, sitting on my thighs, his fists pounding my face. He clutched my neck and pulled me up, my face millimeters from his. He was screaming at me, spittle sprinkled my cheeks and nose, ugly words coming from the same man who'd whispered such sweet things on our wedding night. I felt myself going, slipping into the unconsciousness that I had learned to pray for, when my sweet Sara's voice screamed "Stop it!"
He did. Then he began to laugh. A cruel, joyless laugh. When I looked up, Sara was standing at the kitchen door, Matthews hunting rifle in her hands.
He climbed off me, suddenly freed of his weight, my body somehow let go, like all of my organs imploded the same time. I grabbed at his hand, trying to get his attention away from Sara and back on me. He brushed me off like a pesky fly.
Sara was shaking, her whole body quaked, and tears streamed down her face. He walked slowly toward her, deliberately taking his time. I kept calling her name, begging her to put the gun down. If only she had.
When he was about three feet away, he jumped at her, grabbing the rifle. It wasn't hard for him to wrench it out of her hands. I'd pulled myself up and was leaning on the counter, so I had a perfect view of her face as he backhanded her and sent her sprawling across the floor and into the bakers rack, knocking over bottles of olive oil and vinegar. She laid there, her back propped against the wall, looking so much like a forgotten rag doll.
"You break it?" Matthew muttered, examining his rifle. "You think it still works?" He asked as he lifted it up and pointed it at Sara.
It was her eyes, you see. Those eyes, profound and ancient, old way beyond her years. She looked past the rife, through him, to me. She was saying goodbye.
The knife was in my hand before I realized it. And then it was in his back. I heard my screams, I heard his. Sara never uttered a sound. I stabbed him until he stopped screaming.
There was no such thing as Battered Women Syndrome back then and I knew the bruises would heal before my trial began, all the jury would have seen were the pictures of my husband and the twelve stab wounds I put into him. My little girl would have had to testify, to remember, relive. I didn't want that, I wanted Sara to move on, she was still young enough to almost forget, so I pled guilty, no trial, straight to jail, do not pass Go.
She wrote to me for a while, in the beginning. Short, four or five sentence letters written on notebook paper in big, loopy lettering. They all had a forced feel to them, the tone of polite conversation to fill dead air space between two almost strangers stuck under an awning in a sudden rainstorm. It took a year after the last letter until I gave up looking forward to mail call each day.
After my own mother died there was no one left to tell me about Sara. I'd lost track of her, until I saw her on television a couple of years ago. Some fancy boy Hollywood actor was accused of two murders out there in Vegas, and the trial channel aired the proceedings. I was only half paying attention when my cellmate elbowed me and told me that the girl on the TV had the same last name as mine. I hate to admit; I didn't even recognize her at first. She was just so grown up. But there was no doubt about it, that was my Sara, and those were the same eyes, jaded now, weary and wounded, but the same intelligence and curiosity shined through.
God help me, she looks just like her father.
a/n: Thanks for reading. All comments are welcome and appreciated.