A THREAD OF TRUTH

By Marie Bostwick

Prologue

The counselor is young, blonde and pretty and obviously nervous.  She glanced at her reflection in the wall mirror when she entered the waiting room, adjusted her collar and cleared her throat before extending her hand toward me with a wide, rehearsed smile and a request for me to follow her back to her office. 

            After a quick kiss and a promise that I'll see them in a few minutes, Bethany and Bobbie obediently accompany a volunteer to the playroom where they will wait until I finish the intake interview.  I follow the counselor down a wide hallway with recessed lights in the ceiling and thick, fawn colored carpeting on the floors. 

This is a strange place.  More like an upscale hotel than a women's shelter, at least, not like any shelter we've been in before.  Everything is so quiet and everyone on the staff is so welcoming, as if they'd all been recruited from the ranks of retired desk clerks and children's librarians, kind and purposely calm.  Well, almost everyone. 

As we approach a turn in the corridor, I hear the sound of two women arguing, politely but heatedly.  One voice is strained and restrained, trying to appease another, slightly louder voice that belongs to someone skilled in the art of employing clipped, educated enunciation to intimidate those who disagree with her, the voice of a woman who is used to having her own way.      

"Abigail, I'm on your side.  You know I am," the first voice says. "But this is a shelter, not a balloon.  You can't just blow more women into it like so many extra puffs of air and think it will just keep expanding to make room for the additional volume.  I wish we could accommodate everyone who comes through the door but we can't.  We've only got so many beds."

"And that is exactly my point.  Every month we have more people coming through the door than we did the month before.  It's the worst sort of foolishness to think that trend is suddenly going to reverse itself.  So why is the board dragging their feet?  No!  Don't interrupt me.  You don't need to say it.  I've heard it all before.  ‘These things take time.  We should do a feasibility study.  Or take a poll.  Or hire a consultant.'  Rubbish!  We don't need to do any of that.  We need to hire an architect and a bulldozer.  Today!  I am sick and tired of sitting in meetings, listening to Ted Carney drone on about stiffening intake standards while the rest of the board and stares at their navels and does nothing!  If it's a matter of money, I'll write a check tomorrow.  I..."

"Abigail," she says wearily, "it's not just about the money.  You know that.  It's a question of space.  We simply don't have it..."  

My heart sinks.  It's the same old story; no room at the inn.  I should have expected this.  Every shelter has more requests than it can handle, but everyone has been so pleasant since we walked in the door.  I dared to hope there might be room for us right away.  Maybe if we wait a few days.  I dread the thought of sleeping in the car again, but what else can I do?  Besides, this is such a nice place, so clean and quiet.  If we could stay here, even for a week or two, maybe I'd be able to clear my head long enough to figure out a plan to exit the revolving door that leads from one shelter to the next and get the kids into a real home - at least for a while.  I'm so tired of sleeping in a different spot every night.  I'm so tired of being so tired, but from the sound of things, there is no place for us here.  I should have known better than to get my hopes up.

As we round the corner, I see the counselor consciously straighten her shoulders and smooth her hair.  The women halt their conversation as we approach.  The counselor's voice lifts to a slightly higher register as she introduces us.  The first woman, I am told, the one with a genuine smile and dark brown eyes that match her short cropped hair, is Donna Walsh, the shelter director.  The second woman, who doesn't wait for the counselor to do the honors, informs me that she is Abigail Burgess Wynne and she is on the shelter board.  They are both attractive but Abigail Burgess Wynne is beautiful, strikingly so.  Tall, well-dressed, and imposing, with platinum white hair drawn into a blunt-edged ponytail at the base of her neck, high cheekbones, arched eyebrows, and a smooth complexion, she might be any age from fifty to seventy.

Donna Walsh puts out her hand and when I take it, she lays a second hand on top of mine.  The gesture surprises me and I have to stop myself from drawing back.  It has been so long since I was touched with affection.  I don't quite know how to respond. "Hi, Ivy.  Welcome.  It's so nice to meet you."           

"Thank you. It's nice to meet you too."  I haven't had much call for company manners recently, but I still remember how it works.

"Leslie's going to be conducting your intake interview?" she asks, looking a question at the young counselor, who nods.  "Well, then you'll be in good hands.  I hope we'll be able to help you."

Abigail Burgess Wynne raises her eyebrows to their highest point as she interrupts the director, "Oh, don't worry about that," she says pointedly.  "I'm certain we will."
            Seated in a firm but comfortable arm chair on the opposite side of the desk, I watch Leslie as she repeatedly presses the top of her ballpoint pen with her thumb while she fills in the forms -- name, children's names, date of birth, and the rest - tapping the pen top several times after she writes down each of my answers. 

The clicking sound reminds me of those cheap, plastic castanets Bethany had.  She used to put the Nutcracker Suite on the stereo, grab her castanets, put her arms over her head, and clack them together, twirling in a circle to the Spanish Dancer song.  She loved those things.  I wish I'd thought to bring them but there wasn't time.  So much had to be left behind.     

            She notices me noticing the clicking pen, laughs, and admits what I'd already suspected.  She is new on the job, just finished her training.  In fact, I'm her first client, well, the first one she's handling completely on her own.

            "Must be exciting to start a new job."

            "It is, but it would be more exciting if jobs like mine weren't necessary."  She shrugs.  "But, anyway, let's get back to you.  You're from Pennsylvania?  That's a long way.  How did you end up in New Bern?"

            I take a breath, deep but not too deep and keep my eyes focused evenly on hers, pausing now and again as if to collect my thoughts, not wanting to sound rehearsed.  I tell her the story I have prepared in advance, the details I've worked out carefully in my mind, the revised history I quizzed Bethany on before we arrived, reminding her that if she got confused or nervous, she should say nothing.  After all she's been through, silence is a perfectly understandable response for a child.  No one will question it.

            Leslie bobs her pretty blonde head sympathetically, bent over her clipboard taking notes.  She believes me.  And I am struck by how easy it is.  The lies just slip from my lips like thread from a spool and she believes every word I am saying. 

            I wish it didn't have to be like this, but I've got to do what I've got to do.  With it's white clapboard houses and trim green lawns, New Bern, Connecticut looks like a town lifted straight from a Norman Rockwell painting, safe and secure as can be.  But after last night, I don't want the kids to spend one more night sleeping in the car than they absolutely have to while we wait for an opening in the shelter.  If it were just for myself, I wouldn't do it, but if lying to this woman is what it takes to protect my children, then that's what I'll do.  I have no choice.  Still, it bothers me to think how good I have become at getting people to see only what I want them to see. 

But why wouldn't I be good at it?  I've had so much practice.  And it isn't like my life is a complete fabrication.  It's close to the truth, but just not close enough. 

I married at eighteen.  I have two children I love.  Bethany is six.  Bobby is eighteen months.  All this is true and the rest of it is almost true.

We were almost a happy family.

But that word is an abyss that separates happy families from everybody else.  Almost. 

I wonder if she understands that, this newly minted intake counselor, fresh from training on the care and feeding of women in crisis?  She wants to understand, I can see that, genuinely wants to help but something about her, something about the smooth shape of her forehead and the crisp ironed creases of her trouser leg makes me know she is merely an observer, standing on the edge of the abyss and peering into it.  She has not been in the valley herself and probably never will.  I hope not, for her sake.

That too, makes it easier for her to take my story at face value.  She won't investigate it and I have all the paperwork, or enough of it, to prove my claim.  I am who I say I am - Ivy Peterman.  But what I don't tell her is that I never changed the name on my driver's license and social security card after I married.  Maybe I forgot to.  Or maybe, deep down, I knew it would come to this one day.  Whatever the reason, I have the documents to prove that I am me. 

The rest of the story -- the true parts, that my husband abused me for years and that my children and I have been bouncing from emergency shelter to emergency shelter for months now; the almost true parts, that we've got no where else to go; and the lies, that my husband was killed in a construction accident - she accepts without question.  Even with her training, training that surely included admonitions not to buy into the stereotypes of victims of domestic violence as being poor, powerless, and poorly educated - in other words, not like people this woman lives next door to, not people from nice suburban neighborhoods, or even wealthy ones, with trimmed hedges and late model SUV's in the driveway - part of her still finds it easier to accept my story precisely because it feeds into the stereotype; poor, teenage girl marries boozing, battering, blue-collar boy she thought would be her salvation but didn't realize what she was getting into until it was too late.  She finds it easy to believe because it's almost true and because she wants to believe it.  The whole truth would hit too close to home, send her to the phones and files to verify my background, but this?  It doesn't even cross her mind to check my facts.  I can tell.

She smiles and gets up from her desk, excuses herself for a moment, and promises to be right back. 

In spite of the elegant furnishings and plush carpets, the walls between the offices are surprisingly thin.  I can hear Leslie's voice, high and uncertain as she speaks to Donna Walsh in the hallway mixing with the director's calmer, deeper tones, intersected and frequently interrupted by the clipped, insistent voice of the older woman, Abigail Burgess Whatever-Her-Name-Was.  I don't remember anymore.  I can't understand what they're saying so I turn my attention to the sounds coming from the    playroom next door, where I can hear Bethany and Bobby's muffled voices as they play with the volunteer.  I like knowing they are so close and I like being alone in this room.  Even with the murmur of voices coming through the walls, this is still I quietest room I have been in for weeks.  It feels good to sit here alone and think.  Peaceful. 

Maybe, if I wanted to, I could stay here for a while.  This seems like a nice town, filled with nice people.  People like Leslie.  She's just a couple of years younger than me. Twenty-two, twenty-three at the most.  Fresh out of college. So weird.  All she knows about the world is what she's read in books or heard from her professors.  I'm twenty-four but I've seen enough to last three lifetimes.  She makes me feel ancient.  But still... If I lived here, maybe we'd be friends, go to the movies or shopping.  Do the things that girlfriends do.  It would be nice to have a friend, someone who knew the truth about me and liked me anyway, to stay here for a long time, to live here, maybe forever. 

No, I remind myself.  That can't be. 

We can't stay.  Not forever or for long.   Even if I'm right and Leslie never checks out my story, or if I'm wrong and she eventually does, it doesn't make any difference.  We'll be gone before the truth comes out. We must be. 

If we stay too long in one place, he's bound to find us.  It isn't safe to stand still.  But if I'm careful.  Then maybe?  For a while?  I'm tired of looking over my shoulder, of carrying my life and my children's lives stuffed into a suitcase constructed of half-truths, and only as large as can be fit into the trunk of my Toyota.

I'm lost in my thoughts and don't hear the counselor when she comes back in the room.

"Mrs. Peterman?  Ivy?  Are you all right?"

The sound of her voice startles me, jars me back into the moment, and I realize that she's been gone for a good while, at least fifteen minutes.  "Sorry.  I was a million miles away.  Guess I'm tired."

Leslie tips her head to one side, murmurs sympathetically.  "I can imagine you are.  Don't worry about it.  We're almost done here."  She puts the clipboard down on her desk and sits down again.  "Then we'll get you and the children something to eat and see you settled in for the night."

"You can take us?  Tonight?"  I can't quite believe what she's saying. Maybe I didn't hear her correctly.  "You've got a room right now?"

She nods, pleased that I am so pleased, and beams when she tells me the truly amazing news, like she's handing me a wonderful and unexpected gift.  And she is.

"But...I thought...when I heard them talking in the hall...I thought you were full."

"Well, technically we are, but Mrs. Burgess Wynne absolutely insisted that we find you and the children a bed tonight.  She said if we didn't then she was taking you home herself so Donna did a little shifting and asked some of the single women to double up a few days so we could make room for you and the children now."

"Really?  Thank you.  I...I don't know what to say."

"You don't have to say anything.  I'm so glad we were able to find a place for you.  And," she grinned, "the news gets even better than that.  We have an opening in the Stanton Center.  Not tonight but soon." 

I look questions at her and she goes on to explain.  "The Stanton Center is an apartment building just for women and children who have been victims of domestic violence, the home of our transitional housing program.  You can stay there for up to two years while you're getting back on your feet.  Initially, it's free, but we'll encourage you to find a job as soon as possible and then we'll charge modest rent, a percentage of your earnings.  While you're there, we can offer you vocational, financial, and psychological counseling, and child care."  She pauses, waiting for me to say something, but it takes me a moment.

"An apartment.  A real apartment?"  Tears fill my eyes. 

She nods.  "A real apartment.   There's a community room where we hold meetings for the residents and a playground with a swing set and slide for the children.  It's in a secret location, no sign in front, and a good security system.  Of course, since you're a widow, you don't have to worry about that so much, but the other residents have fled violent relationships and we do everything possible to make sure their abusers can't find them.  It's like a safe house."

I blink hard, willing back the tears, trying to stay composed, not wanting her to see the effect those words have on me - a safe house.  It has been so long since I even dreamed of such a thing.

"So?"  She asks cheerily, already certain of my response.  "What do you say? Would you like to take the apartment and stay here in New Bern for a while?"

"Yes," I whisper.  "I would.  Thank you."

"Good!"  She stands up, indicating that I should follow her.  "We can finish the paperwork tomorrow, after you've had a chance to settle in a bit."

Leslie opens the door and leads the way through the three right turns of the corridor that will lead us the playroom that backs up her counseling office, talking as she does.  I'm still in shock, able to offer only short responses to her commentary, the script she has been trained to deliver to new residents. 

"You're not required to accept any of the counseling services we offer to residents, but I do urge you to take advantage of them as much as possible - especially the group counseling sessions.  Your abuser can't hurt you anymore, but even so, the effects of domestic violence can stay with you long after the abuse ends.  Counseling can help you work though that and I think you'll appreciate the chance to develop relationships with women who've dealt with similar problems."

"Yes.  I'm sure you're right," I say, knowing that I'll never go to even one of those group sessions.  I'm not going to get close to those women.  I'm not going to get close to anyone.  I can't take that risk.

"Good."  She looks back over her shoulder, pleased that I agree.  Leslie is a good person.  Part of me wants to tell her the truth, but I can't, especially not now, with an apartment on the line.  An apartment.  A real apartment just for us.  I still can't believe it. 

"Your timing was lucky.  One of our residents, former residents," she corrects herself, "decided to go back to her husband.  That's why we have an opening in the Stanton Center."  She sighs heavily and shakes her head.

"After all she'd been through, you'd think that's the last thing she'd do, but it happens a lot more often that you'd suppose.  It's such a hard pattern to break.  Well, at least we don't have to worry about that with you, do we?"

"No." 

This is the truth.  I'm not going back.  There was a moment, one, when I wavered, but not now.  In my mind, I see my daughter's face, a dark reflection in the rearview mirror, small and serious and too old to know so much.  No.  We're not going back.

"Good," Leslie says again, even more firmly. She likes to speak in affirmations.  "I hate to think of our other resident leaving, but I'm glad it's worked out so well for you.  The timing really was fortunate." 

We have arrived at the playroom.  She puts her hand on the knob and turns to me before opening the door.  "You must be on a lucky streak."   

If I am, it's a first. 

But, then again...A striking, silver-haired woman whose name I can't even remember insisted that room be made for me and my children.  A brown eyed director I'd never met before shifted her charges to make it happen.  And now sweet, nervous, well-meaning Leslie has said there is a place for us.  A safe house. Tonight.  Now.  Just a few miles from here, somewhere in this lovely little town where the kindest people on earth live, there is room for us. 

Maybe she is right.  Maybe, at last, my luck is changing.