Looking down, I saw I had dropped the Bible, the golden cross against black. My stomach rose in my throat. Gagging, I held it in, turned, and ran for the stairway, again clutching the bannister, racing for the upstairs bathroom. Tossing up the lid on the toilet, I fell to my knees and vomited.
When I managed to pick myself up, my limbs were powerless, my eyes damp. Feebly I wiped my mouth. A sob trembled in my throat as I glanced in the mirror, not wanting to see myself, hair in disarray, eyes bloodshot, face splotched red, loathing my reflection for having allowed harm to come to my children.
I took my time going downstairs, one hand on my belly, the other on the bannister. When I reached the living room, I stood in silence, pausing at the sight of Stan back at the kitchen table, patiently turning the thin, crisp pages of his Bible, devoutly reading.
The following Tuesday morning, after Stan left for work and the children—done with their breakfast—were playing in the living room, Beryl showed up for a visit. She hadn’t heard from me in months, not since I’d moved back to Oromocto. I was gradually shutting down, withdrawing farther into myself in a futile attempt to contain the abuse.
Beryl was worried for me. When she gave me a big, warm hug, I felt emotion surge from deep inside. I broke down and cried, confessing about Stan’s insane behaviour, about the incident with the children, about my constant and immediate fear.
“You should leave now,” she insisted, holding me at arm’s length and looking directly down into my eyes. “Right now. Bring the children to my place. You need time to think.”
I didn’t argue. I just gathered up some clothes and let Beryl help me throw them into a bag. Anxiously loading the children into Beryl’s Volkswagen, I told them we were going for a visit. I glanced around the street, hoping Stan wouldn’t show up all of a sudden. With everyone safely in the car, we headed for the trailer on Waterville Road in Geary where Beryl and her husband lived with their two small children.
It was another warm day, unusually mild for late February. I turned a bit giddy when I realized the snow was actually melting. I felt that way inside: the frost was dissipating, a change forthcoming from the release, the promise of spring.
We were barely settled at Beryl’s when, later that night, the telephone rang. It was Stan. I’d left him a note in spite of Beryl’s insistence that I leave without letting him know where to find us. He pleaded for my return, mustering all the wounded emotion he could manage. I resisted, telling him I wouldn’t come home, that he couldn’t treat the children the way he had.
His voice was quiet, despondent. “If you don’t come home, I’ll kill myself.”
My heart sank at the possibility. After all of the pain, after everything he had done to me and the children, I still felt compassion for this damaged man who couldn’t help himself.
“I will kill myself,” he softly insisted “Without you I’ve got nothing to live for.”
I hung up and sat still. The image of Stan killing himself wouldn’t leave me. The liberating wind had been taken out of my sails. I did not want to be responsible for his death. I didn’t want more guilt.
Two days later, hounded by images of Stan’s imminent suicide, I gathered the children and their clothes and called my husband to come and collect us. Maybe things would be different. Maybe Stan was sincere in his regret. Maybe he’d been taught a lesson and knew better now.
Back in our home, I was apologetic for leaving. I was convinced Stan would change, having seen I was capable of abandoning him, of taking the children away with me. It seemed as if everything might take a turn for the better. I had made my point and Stan had called, whimpering, tail between his legs, begging for my return. Over the next few days Stan remained calm, seemingly reasonable, but sometimes I would catch him glancing at me in a way that suggested I was far from forgiven.
MORE BABIES
Reunited with Stan, old wounds were eventually clawed at, and home life quickly deteriorated. Hostility hovered over our relationship. It became a steady battle of words and fists. I wanted him out of the house. I wanted him gone. When Stan was called out of town for a military exercise, I thanked God for the reprieve.
My third child, another daughter, was born on March 19, 1971, and I was horribly sick. The pregnancy had been difficult. I was toxic, my nerves were shot, and I was physically exhausted from caring for two small children. Regardless, I wanted to name the newborn myself, for her to be the only one of my babies for whom I chose the name. My mother suggested Irene, but I wanted a name that reflected our Slavic heritage. We compromised on Sonya Irene.
Our home was like a war zone. Without the escape into Kevin’s arms or into a bottle, I had to face the fact that I couldn’t stand the man I had married. Instead of holding my tongue during his rages I would make things worse by refusing to submit. On top of that, I slipped into a crippling postpartum depression. I would watch my new fair-haired baby, this new life that had come into a world that was killing me, and hate her. I couldn’t handle three children. Simply coping with day-to-day chores became an oppressive hardship. I desired nothing except to die. I grappled with an indescribable weight that drained my will. When I visited my doctor, he prescribed antidepressants. I was in such a state that I would sometimes nod off in the middle of feeding Sonya. I’d wash my face in cold water and try to sit up on the sofa so I wouldn’t fall asleep, but nothing worked. I just wanted to stay in bed forever. Stan brought a young woman named Judy in from our church to help out with the care of the children and the housework.
Along with the antidepressants, I began taking Valium. For months I lived in a shadow world that prevented me from knowing or properly bonding with my new daughter. I knew Sonya would suffer because of this, yet I couldn’t pull myself free from the void of drugs and depression. I was just too sick to give Sonya the attention a newborn required. More and more I felt dead inside, my spirit hardening to black lead, my mind shrouded in impenetrable darkness. Nothing mattered to me. I only wished to sleep, to lie down, shut my eyes. Simply standing, moving one foot in front of the other, became a defeating thought that knocked me farther back into myself. Grammie Brewer’s predictions of almost seven years earlier came back to taunt me. How had she managed to foresee the situation I now found myself in? I see a man with very dark hair and dark skin in your future…. Be careful Eva. He is not a good man for you.
Snuffing out my existence became a compulsive preoccupation. I was nothing more than a burden that would spread sickness to my children. I’d try to plan how I could safely transport my children to Beryl’s house before I killed myself. I knew Beryl would make certain the children were okay. She’d let them know I loved them. After dropping the children off, I’d return home and write a note to Stan. “It’s your fault,” the note would read. Then I’d swallow an entire bottle of Valium, lie down on my bed, and wait for the sleep that would relieve me of the selfless ache that was my life.
Sometimes I’d consider using poison, but I’d heard that could be painful. My wrists ached terribly when I thought of doing away with myself. I was on the brink of a complete and absolute breakdown. Only my fear of going to Hell, and the obscure notion that my babies might need me, kept me from plummeting completely over the edge.
If it hadn’t been for another pregnancy, I might have remained in that disassociated netherworld forever or, worse, passed beyond. When I discovered I was pregnant for the fourth time, I feared I’d never be able to carry another baby full-term. My bladder was in need of repair from the strain of multiple childbirths in such a short period. Sometimes I’d hemorrhage between my normal periods, and there was often a severe pain in my right side that indicated I might have a cyst on my ovary. I was only twenty years old and already had three children under the age of three and a home that felt like a concentration camp. I was totally exhausted, both physically and mentally. My spirit was dying and the pills I was taking were aiding in my self-destruction.
In