She Can Fly: A Domestic Violence Survival Story

By Michael G. Gabel

A young woman's harrowing journey across state lines to escape an endless cycle of abuse. Raised in a comfortable middle class neighborhood in America's Midwest, Kerry's seduction by a master manipulator plunges her into a world of deceit and violence. Forced to perform illegal acts to keep herself alive and her family intact, she spirals downward,

• Language: English
• Publisher: Resistance Publishing
• Release date: Mar 4, 2014
• ISBN: 9780991632817

Book preview

Chapter One

May 2010

St. Louis, MO

Kerry, age 61

Ilined up my items on the conveyor. Ahead of me, a mid-forties couple watched the teenage checkout boy scan each barcode. Beep… bread… beep… milk… beep… eggs… beep… cookies —

Wait a minute. The man gripped the back of his wife’s arm. I didn’t say you could get those. Put ‘em back. His wife kept her head down. Large, black sunglasses covered her eyes.

As the checkout boy placed the box of cookies next to his register, he glanced up at me. Forgot to ask permission, I said to myself. You always ask permission.

I chewed the inside of my lip as I paid for my items. Then I wheeled my cart into the parking lot. The couple, a few spaces away, loaded the last of their bags into their trunk. I abandoned my cart in the middle of the row and hobbled across the hot asphalt. I headed straight for the woman.

I motioned to the fading bruise on her cheekbone. I know what’s been happening to you. The woman didn’t react. She stared into the trunk while her husband, a few feet away, went off. You don’t know what you’re talking about.She was in an accident. Who the fuck are you anyways?

His large frame swelled with anger, but I tuned him out. I will help you, I said to the woman. You can get in my car. We can call the police. I have a spare bedroom. The woman lifted her head. Do you see me? I said. I held my cane in one hand to support my crumpled body. "It’s not going to get better. He’s not going to get better. Trust me."

The man stepped in between the woman and me. You don’t know what you’re talking about. He used his back to push me aside and cornered his wife. "You get in the car."

She obeyed. I scribbled down the license plate as the car peeled out of the parking lot.

"Did you see him hit her?" the young officer said when he arrived.

I shook my head. I was trying to keep it together. You don’t understand —

The officer cut me off. I do. Have you been abused?

I was trying to help.

He placed his hands on my shoulders and waited for my full attention. Don’t do that. I looked at his face and recoiled. I’d seen him before. In Savannah. In Denver. In St. Louis. I tried to shimmy out of his grasp, but he held me still. You’re just going to get hurt again. Call us instead. If you call and say someone’s getting hurt, we’ll be there right away.

My shoulders dropped, I nodded, and then I began to cry.

Chapter Two

May 1997

Cañon City, CO

Kerry, 45 yrs

Iwas led out of the lieutenant’s office, past the cell I’d slept in for no more than two nights, down to the end of a long corridor. The guard pulled open a solid steel door and stood there blinking at me as if to say, What are you waiting for?

I took a step into the six-by-nine-foot room and looked around. There was a sink, a toilet, and a steel slab jutting out of the wall with a one-inch-thick piece of foam rubber and a wool blanket on top — no sheet, no pillow.

I can’t do this, I said.

Mrs. Keyes, you don’t have a choice.

You don’t understand. I can’t physically do this.

We’ll just have to see about that, he said and swung the door shut.

By the second day in solitary confinement, the swelling around my spine was so bad I couldn’t even get up off the bed to receive my meals. A nurse was called down and she cleared me to be taken to the infirmary. Two guards found a wheelchair and helped me into it. One guard put me in handcuffs and a waist chain, while the other tried to shackle my ankles. He fumbled with the steel cuffs, and then sat back on his heels. I can’t get them on. Her ankles are too swollen.

All right. We’ll have to send for some men’s shackles, said the other guard.

I have the men’s shackles…

They managed to get me to the infirmary, and the head nurse ordered an X-ray of my back. She walked into the room with the films in her hand. Holy crap! What happened to you?

I got hit with a baseball bat years ago.

And how have you dealt with this in the past?

I make sure I stay mobile. I take anti-inflammatories and pain meds from time to time. I’ve just learned how to deal with it, but it’s not that easy in here.

The nurse shook her head in agreement. Here’s what we can do, she said. I’m going to order you a heavy anti-inflammatory. I’m going to put you on some prednisone. Have you taken prednisone before? I nodded. Good. That’ll get the swelling down. But it’s also going to get you wound up, so I’m going to give you a sleeping pill to counteract that. I’m also going to get you on some medication for the pain. The nurse used all ten fingers to count off the medications she planned to give me. And we’re going to try to get this solitary sentence waived. You can’t be stuck in a cell like that.

She gave me a handful of pills to swallow and helped me into one of the beds. Three hours later, she shook me out of a fitful sleep. The captain won’t relinquish the sentence, she said. We’re going to put some extra mattresses in your cell and get you more blankets, but you’re going to have to do those fourteen days.

Yeah, I know, I said.

But we’ll make sure you keep getting the medication you need. Hopefully you’ll be able to sleep through the majority of it.

That first night, one of the older matrons — a female prison guard — came and opened up my cell. A head of gray hair peeked in. Hi, sweetie. How are you?

Oh, I’m alive.

Her kind eyes wrinkled around the edges as she smiled and sat down on the edge of my bed. She handed me two paper cups, one with my medicine and one with water. Listen, I work every day from 3 in the afternoon until I have to report at 11. I’m still wired when I get off, though. How ’bout I come and get you every night after lights out — after I report — around 11:30? I’ll let you take a nice hot shower, and we’ll walk around for half an hour or so. Does that sound okay?

You have no idea how nice that would be, I said.

She left for the night, and I propped myself against the cold concrete wall and thought about my situation. I knew that no amount of complaining — about my back or otherwise — was going to make any difference. Like the nurse said, I was going to do those fourteen days. This is bad, I thought, but I’ve been through much worse.

After all those years of abuse, my body ached constantly. But it wasn’t like I could stop going to work and lie in bed all day. I had to make a living, so I learned to just shelf the pain, as my mom used to say.

The worst part of being with Wayman was having no idea what to expect from day to day. Is he going to beat me today? Is someone going to give him the finger on the road and get him pissed off? Did I not bring home enough money last night? Are the police going to show up? Now I knew exactly what I had to do. I had to take my medicine, and I had to sit in that room. I thought about my boys, about Mikey, about the good things. Before I fell asleep, I reminded myself I was one day closer.

Chapter Three

1971 – 1972

St. Louis, MO

Kerry, 19 yrs

Since I was fifteen, I had worked in a hospital to earn spending money. After high school graduation I continued to follow that path and enrolled in the Lutheran Hospital School of Nursing. We all lived in a big dorm. I shared a room with a third-year girl. I made my bed after I got up, and I hung my clothes up after I took them off at night. My roommate never made her bed and used the floor as a closet. She came in from the bathroom one morning while I smoothed out the wrinkles in my sheets. Why do you always make your bed?

I assumed that since she was an upperclassman, she didn’t have to keep her part of the room clean. Aren’t we supposed to?

She shook her head. No. No one cares what you do. You go to class, you sign out when you leave the building, and you sign back in by midnight. Other than that, you’re on your own.

So I don’t have to tell anyone where I’m going or who I’ll be with?

She laughed. Fuck no.

A lot of my friends started smoking and drinking beers on the weekends in high school, but I never joined in. I was taught to respect authority and my elders, and I did just that. I thought if I got into trouble, my parents wouldn’t love me anymore. Nothing meant more than their love and approval. In the third grade, I came home from my Catholic grade school and told my mother I wanted to be a nun when I grew up. I overheard my mother on the phone with my grandmother that night. She said I was going to be perfect. By the seventh grade, I was all signed up for the convent, but I knew I couldn’t do it. I grew up as the best babysitter on my block, and knew from a very early age that I wanted to have a family. Nuns couldn’t get married or have kids. One night, I was lying on the couch with a stress migraine.

My dad nudged me over so he could sit next to me. Kerry, if you don’t want to be nun, you don’t have to be a nun. I’ll make sure of it.

I looked up at him with tears in my eyes.

He nodded and went into the other room to tell my mother. I had tried to drop hints before, but she’d smile and say, All the little children at the church will be your kids, honey. She didn’t smile this time. She walked out of the room and right past me. For the rest of that week she looked through me, not at me. Being invisible hurt more than any scolding.

But now, I was free to do as I pleased. I hung out with friends and experienced the things I was too scared to do in high school. In other words, I hardly studied. By the end of the second semester, I knew I was done with school. I wasn’t the only one who noticed.

The Director called me into her office. You don’t really want to be here, do you? I looked down. "You’re wonderful with patients and you know clinical rotations better than most upperclassmen, but your academics clearly indicate you don’t want to be here. I think you need to spend some time figuring out what you do want to do." Freedom had done me in.

So I got a job as a lab assistant at the same hospital, and an apartment with a grade school friend named Cindy Kuhlman. Cindy studied art at Webster University. It was the hippie era — flower children, all that. I ironed my long, brown hair straight every morning and fit right into the scene, but I shied away from the more illicit aspects and didn’t quite agree with Cindy’s definition of free love. In fact, I was still a virgin. I dated different guys, no one really special.

Around Christmas of 1971 I picked up a few shifts a week as a hostess at the Sheraton’s restaurant. The work was easy and the extra money was nice, so I stayed on after the holiday season ended. One night, as I looked over the waiting list, I sensed someone walk up. Good evening, I said before looking up. Do you have a reservation? The man smiling back at me towered over the hostess stand. The cut of his three-piece cream suit accentuated his powerful shoulders. He never broke eye contact as he shook his head no.

I glanced over my shoulder at the half-empty dining room. Well, would you like a table, sir?

I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but you are one of the prettiest girls I’ve ever seen. Has anyone ever told you that?I felt my cheeks flush. I looked down. He reached out a strong hand and raised my chin. Look at those big, beautiful brown eyes and that gorgeous, long brown hair. I exhaled a giggled puff of air. How long are you working tonight?

’Til close, I said.

His smile weakened my knees. I’m playing in a band downstairs. Do you mind if I come back and see you when I finish? Or you could come down and watch me play?

I shrugged and buried my eyes again. After a few moments, I watched him glide through the crowd toward the stairs.

On my next break, I went downstairs and wiggled my way through the packed venue until I could see him on stage. His backlit body gyrated to the rhythms of his guitar. He noticed me watching him and whispered into the ear of one of the backup vocalists. The next song was dedicated to me. I looked around at all the dolled-up girls in the crowd. My plain white work shirt fit my skinny, four-foot-eleven frame like a pillowcase. Then it hit me. Out of all these girls, he picked me. The audience melted away, and I couldn’t help but smile.

When the set ended, he appeared at my station again and we chatted while I wrapped up my duties. He offered to buy me a drink, and I politely declined. I had to be at the hospital early the next morning. He asked for my number, but it only took me half the drive home to convince myself he wouldn’t call.

Cindy met me at the door when I came home from work the following night. A guy called for you. Twice, she said. I bit the inside of my cheeks to hide my grin. Who is Wayman?

I pushed by her and made my way down the hall. Just some guy I met last night.

She collapsed against the door. Oh my God, that voice.

A few weeks later I came home to the apartment and heard people in my room. I opened the door and my dad spun around on his heels. He held a cardboard box jammed full of my things. A NIGGER?! You’ve been dating a fucking nigger?! My mom sat on the edge of the bed with a pile of neatly folded clothes next to her. She placed her thin, folded hands in her lap, but didn’t look up.

I latched onto the box in my father’s arms. What are you doing?

I’m getting your shit together, he said.

You can’t do this!

Watch me.

Just do what your father says, Kerry. My mother kept her head down.

He loaded his Lincoln with my belongings, put me in the backseat like a child, and drove to St. Mary’s Hospital. I was admitted to the locked psychiatric ward. My dad left as soon as he finished the paperwork. None of the staff would tell me why I was there or what they were going to do to me. When they put me in a room and locked the door, my questions turned to screams. A black nurse’s aide came in with linens. Between sobs, I pleaded with her to tell me what was going on.

She began making my bed. Your parents have you on a seventy-two-hour hold. Have you been taking drugs? I couldn’t even process how many days seventy-two hours was, but I had never taken drugs. I shook my head. Sweetie, they’re going to find out one way or another, so you might as well tell. Have you done anything that you don’t normally do the past couple months?

My boyfriend’s black? I said.

That’ll do it. She said as she left the room. She offered a clinical smile through the door’s window. Then I heard the lock click.

I watched a full staff rotation go by through that window before anyone else came to see me. I never even heard from my parents. Right before I started ripping out fistfuls of hair, a psychiatrist entered. He asked me questions about my nonexistent drug use. Then, Are you, in fact, dating a Negro? I nodded yes. The doctor cocked his head. Are you deliberately trying to embarrass your family?

I shook my head from side to side as my eyes lost focus.

After three days, my father came to pick me up. He said nothing as we walked to the car. In his hand, my discharge papers read: Antisocial Personality Disorder characterized by disregard for others. Mrs. Keyes may have an impoverished moral sense or conscience and a potential for crime, legal problems and aggressive behavior.

I looked into the backseat of his car. Where are my things?

Home, he said.

Does that mean —

Home.

Can we at least go to my apartment first?

You don’t have an apartment anymore. Cindy doesn’t want you there. Cindy. That’s how he found out. Our mothers talked, and my mother kept nothing from my father. His knuckles tightened on the steering wheel. "Your life is going to change. Obviously you’re not going to change it, so I will. I’ve already spoken with a recruiter. You’re