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'What?"
'I left him, but I couldn't take Sara with me. He made it clear that I won’t get to see her if I’m not with him. Unless I have a real job and a sensible place to live, they’ll take her from me.’
'Maggie, he's an abuser. No court in their right mind would leave him with the kid'.
'I already talked to the social worker and a public lawyer. Clarissa, I’ve been in and out of women’s shelters for months. This co-op is my one real shot at making a business to support myself, but it hasn’t even started yet. He’s the one with the job and the house. He’s the one paying for my daughter’s food and care. I can't afford to piss him off until I have my life in order'.
The last thing I wanted to do was give in, but I couldn’t ignore the tears in her eyes or the desperation in her voice. I told her I’d take a few days to think about it, but I’m still wondering if that was the right call.
I know how these abusers work. They’re manipulative and dangerous. They’re skilled at convincing a woman that she’s the one in the wrong.
Or that she has the most to lose.
Maggie needs to take her power back and I want to help her in any way I can. Keeping quiet feels wrong but, for the moment, it’s the only thing I can do.
Moodily, I take a quick bath, brush my teeth and shuffle into the kitchen.
To my surprise, I find another note. It’s pinned on top of a stack of bananas—bananas that werenotin my fruit basket last night.
I didn’t evenhavea fruit basket last night.
Stunned, I pick up the missive.
‘I bought fruit and yogurt. Eat something light before taking medication’.
A puzzled crease mars my forehead. I open the fridge and see that all my old, expired food have been thrown out. Colorful fruits and vegetables nestle together in see-through containers. All color-coded. Reds. Greens. Oranges. Blacks. There are fresh eggs in the side panel. The bottle of merlot that I got from one of the galas I attended last year has been replaced with a new bottle of wine. Or an old one according to the date. The label has gold foil lettering. I don’t recognize the brand, but it seems expensive. Like it belongs in a wine cooler and not in my rusty, old fridge.
Jaw dropping, I open the freezer and notice fresh meat. Whoever organized my fridge probably has mild OCD. Why is everything so perfectly placed?
My phone buzzes.
Still confused, I answer it.
“Ms. Phoebe.” Her name on my lips is a distracted murmur. And then I realize I’m talking to my boss and my back snaps into a straight line. “I’m so sorry I’m late. I’m heading to work now.”
Frantically, I grab my house keys.
“Clarissa, how fast can you get here?”
“About twenty minutes tops. Why? Is something wrong?” My breath hitches as the worst-case scenarios pop through my mind. What if Maggie’s ex came back with a weapon this time? What if he’s holding Maggie hostage?
“There are delivery trucks lining the block.”
I almost stumble. “Did you saydelivery trucks?”
“Yes. They all claim they’re here for you.”
* * *
Money as a concepthas always been so foreign to me. Growing up, I was stunned that people could just…decideto buy things.
Didn’t they need to count their pennies? Didn’t they need to give up one thing to afford another?
Cody didn’t come from my world.
Back then, he wasn’t rich. Not as much as he is now. But he never had to struggle for money the way I did. He didn’t seem to appreciate the little things the way I did.
Coupons. Giveaways. Student discounts.