Saving Avery (2 page)

PRESENT DAY

Nags Head, North Carolina

AVERY

I stare at my reflection in the foggy bathroom mirror. As the overhead fan gradually pulls away some of the steam from the hot shower I took moments earlier, my reflection becomes less distorted. The fluffy white towel wrapped around me is in striking contrast to the multi-colored bruises littering my exposed skin. Pink, red, purple, blue, green and yellow spots mark my arms, chest and legs like cheetah print. Nathan is usually very methodical and careful in the way he hits me; therefore, he rarely touches my face. He's calculated and smart in that sense, because he knows that doing so could lead to questions…questions he wouldn't want to answer to anyone --- especially the police.

Before I met Nathan, I was a free spirit that my father was constantly trying to rein in and tame. He allowed me to rebel to a certain extent growing up, knowing that I was, for the most part, just being a typical teenager. However, every day I spend with Nathan I feel that spirit slowly breaking. I wear a constant frown when I'm alone in remembrance of how miserable I really am. Most days I feel like I can't even breathe. It's as if he is literally sucking the life out of me.

I'm not totally broken…not yet anyway, but I don't doubt for one second that Nathan isn't trying to break me down completely. It's only a matter of time until my former self totally disappears, and left in her place will be a lifeless doll without any will or conviction of her own. He likes control, and controlling me seems to be his most crucial conquest in life.

My eyes fall to the jagged scar on the inside of my left wrist. Nathan was able to save me that night no matter how hard I fought to die. After my botched suicide attempt, I was placed on involuntary psychiatric hold and eventually committed to a hospital. I spent forty-five days on mind-numbing drugs under Nathan's authority and control. The memory of him shoving a piece of paper in my face while I could barely hold my own head up still haunts me to this day.

"All I have to do is sign this, and you'll be committed to a psych ward for the rest of your life,"
he had said. "
Imagine what it will do to your father's reputation. I'll tell every newspaper in the city that you were a drug addict, a whore, mentally unstable. A scandal like that could ruin everything he's worked so hard for."
And then for good measure, he'd added,
"I'll take everything away from you, Avery. You will have nothing. I will destroy you and your entire family. Try to remember that the next time you even think about hurting yourself or running away."

Nathan always knew the right things to say to make me stay. If he threatened my family, it was like a stake straight through my heart. His threats knew no bounds, and he used them often. My father was in the midst of preparing to run for governor, and I knew how important the campaign was going to be to him. My sister, Allison, was just getting her life together with a new husband and baby. I had always protected Allison no matter what, and nothing would ever change that.

Feeling like I had no other choice, I went along with my husband's plans. But going home to Nathan was like returning to a life sentence in prison. I would have to die before he would ever let me go. And even though deep down I wanted to keep fighting and trying to run away like I had in the past, I just stopped. I found myself slowly dwindling away into someone else, someone weak and docile, someone I never thought I would become. And as long as I'm with Nathan, nothing and no one would ever change that.

Snapping myself out of my reverie, I continue on with my strict routine for the day. After waking up at three every morning, I have to shower, get ready, make sure the house is spotless and have his breakfast ready all before five-thirty.

While running a brush through my long reddish-brown hair, I check my subtle makeup one last time in the mirror. Nathan likes my hair to be down and my eye makeup to be in neutral colors, nothing too dark. And even though years ago I would have rebelled against him, now I just appease him to save myself from the additional pain and anguish. Trying to commit suicide changed me. That last little bit of fight inside of me died, and I wish more than anything that I could get it back. I know the old Avery is in there somewhere, but she has yet to make an appearance when I need her most.

I pull on a pair of dark blue scrubs and instantly feel slightly better. I have been volunteering at the local hospital for the past six years. It actually started out as a punishment from my father when I broke curfew one too many times, but I eventually grew to love it and have been volunteering ever since. I mostly visit with kids who have cancer, and bringing a smile to their face helps me to hurt a little less inside. It gives me a purpose, and most days it's my only reason to get out of bed in the morning.

After Nathan and I were married, I had to fight him tooth and nail to allow me to keep volunteering. He eventually agreed with certain stipulations, and it wasn't without consequences if his rules were broken. I'm on an extremely stringent schedule. I have to be home at a certain time with the house clean and dinner started before he gets home. And if I'm ever late…well, let's just say there's hell to pay. I live my life by the ticking of a clock, my eyes constantly glued to the time. A deep-rooted fear has been instilled within me if I ever run late for anything.

Some days I ask myself if it's worth the punishment, worth the bruises and worth the heartache. But every time I see a child's face light up when I bring them their favorite snack or read them a story, it makes it all worthwhile. And one small spark of light breaking through the darkness that is my life allows me to continue on for another day. And that is all I am able to do right now --- find one small reason every day to carry on.

Before I leave the bathroom, I reach into a drawer in the sink cabinet and produce a prescription of anxiety medication. I pop a pill into my mouth and swallow it with a cup of water from the sink. It isn't a miracle drug, but it does help…especially on the bad days.

Tiptoeing into the bedroom so that I don't disturb Nathan, I grab a beige cardigan from the closet and slip it on. Even on the hottest days of the year, I wear a cardigan to hide the bruises on my arms. It's easier than attempting to cover them with makeup every morning when I already have so many other things to do before he wakes up.

I walk into the living room and adjust the throw pillows and rearrange the magazines on the coffee table. I sweep the tiled and hardwood floors, inspecting each room as I go. My hands move quickly to make sure everything is in its place before making my way to the front door. I grab the morning newspaper and place it on the large island in the middle of the kitchen. Then I glance at the breakfast schedule Nathan has posted by the fridge. Today is Monday. He wants two over-easy eggs, one piece of multi-grain toast with light butter, an orange cut up into quarters and half a glass of two-percent milk. I get to work on making his breakfast and barely notice when he comes into the kitchen and sits down at the island. He doesn't say anything; just opens the paper to the business and financial section like every morning.

After arranging the eggs, toast and orange on a large plate, I place the food in front of him. He smells fresh from his shower, and his hair is still slightly damp. I nervously glance at him as he inspects the food before I turn around to grab his glass of milk.

Sometimes my anxiety medicine makes my mind a little foggy. Sometimes I forget things…like this morning when I forgot how Nathan wanted his eggs, and I made them scrambled instead of over-easy. I don't realize my mistake until I hear the plate shattering against the floor beside my feet. I jump and freeze.

Nathan is up and out of his chair in an instant. He grabs my wrist and whirls me around to face him, his blue eyes piercing into me. "How difficult is it to make eggs the way I want them made?" he yells.

To a normal person, eggs are eggs whether they are scrambled or over easy. But to Nathan, this mistake means insolence and defiance. His hand clamps down on my wrist and the back of my neck as he pushes me to the floor. My face is less than an inch from the jagged pieces of fine china. "I should make you clean this up with your mouth," he says through gritted teeth.

I close my eyes and try to calm my breathing. And then I say the only thing that will make things somewhat better. "I'm sorry."

His fingers tighten their grip, and his thumbnail digs into the scar on my wrist. I wince in pain. "I don't think you are,
Avery
." He says my name as if it leaves a bad taste in his mouth.

"I am. I'm sorry," I plead, cringing at how weak and compliant I sound.
When did I become this person?
I think to myself.

After a few moments, he finally releases me. Standing, he straightens his white linen shirt and tie. "Now I'll have to stop somewhere on the way to work to get breakfast, and I'll probably be late. Some of us have a
real
job to go to in the morning, Avery. Some of us have people that depend on us. Some of us actually
work
for a living. I don't get to volunteer like you do. I make real money to keep you in this nice home."

I stay hunched over, afraid to move, afraid to speak.

He sighs loudly, walks away and slips on his suit jacket. "I have to go." His footsteps pause halfway to the front door. "I expect this mess to be cleaned up before you leave."

I don't move until I hear the door close and his car pull out of the driveway. With trembling hands, I grab a small broom and dustpan from the pantry and clean up the broken plate and food. I scrub any remnants left on the floor and cabinets with some dish soap and a rag. When I'm satisfied that the kitchen is completely spotless, I grab my purse and head out the door.

I climb into my white Mercedes-Benz and snack on a granola bar on the way to the hospital. My neck and wrist are killing me, but the pain reminds me that I'm still alive and I'm still fighting…even if it doesn't feel like it sometimes.

All the tension in my body seems to dissipate the moment I pull into the parking lot. A lot of people hate Mondays, but I love them. After a weekend in hell, Monday is a reprieve for me, a light at the end of a very dark tunnel. Even if it's only an eight-hour escape, it's better than nothing.

As I park the car, the corners of my lips pull up into a grin, something that rarely appears on my face anymore. But when I'm here, I can't help but feel a sense of peace somehow and a sense of worth. This is the only good thing I have in my life. Without it, I would probably shrivel up and die.

I step out of the car, checking out my reflection in the window. I adjust my cardigan and make sure the sleeves are pulled completely down to my hands. When you constantly have something to hide, it becomes easier over time. Everything becomes habitual, natural.

Grabbing my purse and lanyard with an ID badge that has
volunteer
emblazoned on the bottom of it along with my photo, I make my way into the hospital with a smile on my face.

*

I know I shouldn't pick favorites, but out of all the children in the pediatrics wing of the hospital, Jacob is my favorite. His father isn't in the picture, and his mother rarely comes to visit. It's not because she doesn't want to see him or doesn't love him, but the hospital bills are piling up, and she's busy trying to hold down two full-time jobs. I know Jacob misses his mom, and a lot of times I find him alone and crying in his room. But I'm always able to turn his frown upside down even if it's only for an hour out of the day. I suppose that's why I focus a lot of my attention on him at the end of my shift before I leave. Making him happy makes me happy. I just wish the happiness I feel when I'm around him would stay with me a little bit longer after I've gone home.

Jacob just turned six a few months ago and was diagnosed with leukemia shortly after that. I know the chemotherapy is taking its toll on his body; hence, his extended hospital stay, but he always has a smile for me. I knock on his door and enter the room. He's staring out the window with a frown on his face.

"Jacob," I whisper.

He turns, and his freckled face instantly lights up, completely melting my heart. "Did you bring it?" he asks with a big grin. He's missing his two front teeth, which makes him look even more adorable.

"Bring what?" I ask, pretending like I totally forgot.

His face falls a little. And then when I pull the chocolate pudding cup from behind my back, his smile instantly returns. "You didn't forget. You're the best, Avery!" he says as I hand him his favorite snack in the whole wide world and a plastic spoon.

I had promised the snack after a particularly rough chemotherapy session this morning. At least once a week, I sit with Jacob during his therapy. I hold his hand and comfort him if his mom can't be there. He's usually pretty stubborn about letting anyone else be around him when he's not feeling well, so I consider it an honor that the kid likes me. I have to say the feeling is definitely mutual.

Jacob digs into the pudding, eating it greedily. I smile, because it's impossible not to around this kid. "How are you feeling?" I ask.

He shrugs and puts another spoonful of pudding into his mouth. "Little better. I guess."