PART 2

It is never quite how you expect it, when it happens. Even when you see it coming, even when all the warnings are there, the moment, the event itself, is always a surprise. There is no drama here, no glory. Only shock and fear and pain and yes, that no small measure of disbelief that it cannot be you, cannot be here, cannot be now. Cannot be them who hits you.

But it is.

And then you know. You know what those before you know, those into whose tragic group you now number. And you know the truth that it can be anyone, that gender or race or money will not protect you.

Now you understand them, these others.

Now you understand, deep inside, why they do what they do. Now you understand why they may not go for help right away, why they may hide their bruises and their terror, why they may insist that it was only that once, that it was my fault anyway because I did something wrong. Now you understand, because it is you now. Not Hollywood, not a script where the good guys always win. No. It is you and this person who you have tied your life to, who is a part of you, like it or not.

This person who has now hit you.

#

Realization came slowly through the pain.

Annie. Hit. Me.

She was holding him now, still, caressing his hair, her voice soft and loving as she told him it was all right, that it would be all right. And in his mind's eye, Eric saw only that bit of a picture, that corner, singed by the flame, that had once held the image of his daughter.

Of their daughter.

How could she?

Annie drew back. There were tears streaking down her face now, and she smiled at him.

"I'm sorry, Eric," she said. "But it's all right now. I've made it all right. We're all going to be all right now, you'll see."

He did not answer. At last she took his hand in hers.

"Come."

He went. She took him upstairs and as she did they passed Mary.

"Dad?"

"He's all right, honey," Annie said.

She took him to their bedroom, laid him down on the bed, then said something about an ice pack and left, closing the door behind her. A moment passed, then another.

Annie. Hit. Me.

His head began to clear through the pain. No, no, she wouldn't. His Annie wasn't like that. She was kind and loving and the mother of his children. He could trust her. She wouldn't hit him.

Wouldn't.

This couldn't ... no, it wasn't.

His nose and face throbbed.

Oh, God. No.

Annie. Hit. Me.

He had a sudden spasm of terror, a sudden moment of panic that she would come back, that it would happen again. And he gasped in fear at the sound of the door.

Something cold, against his face. He winced.

"There. Is that better?"

He took the ice pack, held it. He opened his other eye and looked at her.

She was sitting, there on the bed, close. She was watching him. Her eyes were bright, her face still smiling with love. But as he looked, Eric saw nothing that was her. He knew her face, knew by memory every line, every feature. It was more familiar to him than his own. And this was her face, was Annie, but it wasn't.

Who are you? he thought.

#

Later, she slept.

Eric lay awake, the pain burning in his face.

It was quiet in the Camden house.

What had she done?

All the pictures, gone. She had cut away her own daughter. Everything that Lucy had been, everything that she had represented. She had burned them.

He tried to remember Lucy's face, her smile. She had had a beautiful smile, a happy smile. When she smiled he had always felt the tension melt away, because of the beauty of her smile.

But now she was gone, and Annie had tried to destroy what there was of her that remained.

No. Annie wouldn't do that. Annie would never do that. Annie loves her kids like nothing else in the world. Annie loves me.

I have to work this out. I have to make this make sense.

He tried without success until morning.

#

Morning.

Fatigue and pain. The ice pack had helped a little, but he hadn't slept much. There was work to do, down at the church, though it was hard to think about that now.

Now.

As he looked into the mirror, he knew his nose was broken. His left eye was purple, swollen, and the swelling extended to the bridge of his nose. He had known it right away, in fact, the second she had hit him.

I need a doctor.

Why didn't you go down to the emergency room last night?

And tell them what?

He reached up, touched at the bruising, winced. And he knew that he hadn't gone last night for the same reason he was hesitating now; he was afraid to leave her. For himself, and for the kids.

You have to go.

What if she doesn't let you?

He trembled. I can't hit her back. I can't hit her.

#

In the end he went, telling her that he was going to work and then driving down to the hospital and walking into the emergency room and sitting quietly until they were able to see him. Because there wasn't an emergency, he told himself. It wasn't that bad. She had only hit him once.