“Sure do.” She opens the bottom half of the door and gestures for me to come in. “I’m Audrey.”
The space designated for the daycare is small, but tidy and orderly, with just a few kids around Sarai’s age crawling and toddling around. Changing tables line the perimeter of the room, and shelves stocked with books and toys dot the walls. The four other daycare workers range from about my age to Audrey’s. All are either changing babies or playing with them on the floor or rocking them in the glider in the corner. It feels warm and safe. I can breathe easy for two hours.
Once I’ve checked Sarai in and taken the little pager they issued in case they needed me, I head back to the front desk. Two other women stand there, similarly attired in designer jeans, like me, but where I opted for flats, they wear stilettos. Their glamor quotient is definitely several notches above mine. No rings in sight.
“The kids will be going in that room down the hall on your left.” The young desk attendant points in that direction. “They’ll be in after they wrap up their morning activity. You can wait if you’d like.”
Both women start down the hall without really acknowledging me, their heads bent together in whispers while they walk. When we reach the room and it’s just the three of us, it’s awkward for me to just stand here. I extend my hand to one of them. “Hey, I’m Iris.”
They look at my hand for a few seconds before one and then the other shake it.
The second one grabs my left hand when she shakes my right.
“Oh, nice.” She eyes my ring so long I wonder if she’ll pull out a magnifying glass. “And she said you went to the nursery. You got the baby and the bling.”
They exchange a meaningful look and then turn back to me with new respect in their eyes.
“You are #Goals, honey. Smart to get what you can while you can. You think a baller has a short run? Our shelf life is even less,” one of them says. Flattering highlighted extensions fall past her shoulders, and she has a body that men must drool over. “I’m Sheila.”
“Nice to meet you, Sheila,” I reply with a smile that’s not an open door, but not quite slammed in your face. It’s … ajar. I’m ajar. Since Caleb showed his true colors, I find myself closing ranks around Sarai and me. I can’t afford attachments or vulnerabilities or friendships. I don’t know who to trust anymore. The last person I trust is myself because I didn’t truly see Caleb until it was too late. Trusting the wrong person can destroy you.
“And I’m Torrie,” the other woman, statuesque with skin smooth as whipped chocolate and a cap of dark curls, offers her hand, tipped with a metallic manicure.
“I think it’s just the three of us today,” Sheila says, pulling up a red plastic chair and gesturing for me to do the same. “Bonnie is ‘sick’ again.” She air quotes sick.
Torrie leans close and speaks her next words sotto voce. “Her man plays for the Stingers, too, and she is always fly.”
“But he beats her ass every chance he gets,” Sheila finishes, her mouth tipped at one corner. “So when she’s ‘sick,’ we know that’s code for ‘he got hold of her again.’”
I freeze in my chair, nausea starting in my belly and slowly crawling over my body, touching every inch of flesh and bone Caleb has terrorized. I keep my face a mask of mild curiosity, but my fingers clench in my palm, the nails cutting into the skin. It’s been a few weeks since the last time Caleb really beat me, so other than the occasional easily hidden bruise or cut, you wouldn’t look at me and know the hell I’ve lived through. Right now, though, I may as well be naked I feel so exposed.
“She won’t ever leave,” Torrie says, sitting down in the seat between us. “That money’s too good.”
Or maybe she’s afraid he’ll kill her.
“Girl, the first time a man hits me,” Torrie says, lips twisted with disdain, “he’s getting hit back. Slapped upside his head.”
But what if he’s a foot taller? A hundred pounds heavier? What if he has a gun?
“I don’t know why she stays,” Torrie continues. “But me and my kids would be out the door.”
But could he bring them back? Could he take her children?
“She has kids?” I ask, not wanting to show too much interest.
“Girl, they have four kids,” Sheila confirms. “Been together like seven years, since college.”
“Maybe she’s afraid he’ll get custody or something,” I offer.
“Not if he beats her!” Torrie’s voice is indignant. “They won’t give him the kids if he’s abusive.”
“They do,” I counter quietly. “It happens all the time, especially if he’s never abused the children and has no record. Lots of abusers get partial custody. Some even get to visit at the women’s shelter she ran to. Our system fails women in lots of ways.”
“Hmmmph. She’s failing herself,” Sheila says. “When somebody is beating the shit out of you, how hard is ‘bye?’”
Sheila and Torrie share a cackling laugh and high-five over the joke, moving on to other juicy bits of gossip. Their conversation passes me by. I’m too busy processing what my life looks like from the outside. I know I’m not what people might assume—I’m not a mercenary, or a weak-willed woman afraid to leave her man, or even confused because I think Caleb loves me. Still, shame takes root in my heart. The same shame I feel when Andrew tends my cuts and scrapes the morning after. The same shame I feel when I see my puffy face in the mirror, one eye swollen shut. There’s a rebel inside, but the girl he hits and kicks and rapes and scorns, the one biding her time and straining her eyes for a way out, she feels shame.
“Either of you know what we’re doing today?” Torrie reaches for gum in her purse and offers us both a stick. “My man’s in Germany scoping, so I needed something to do anyway.”