Autumn Begins, Awakening Her Spirit

Autumn Begins, Awakening Her Spirit

Everything is still in the black Mustang while outside Autumn is raging. Trees ablaze with color, the autumn air bitingly chilled, and fallen leaves whipping around the vehicle in a mad dance before the windshield.

Rose takes it all in, marveling at the multi-sensory experience, lost in it—which can be dangerous. She forgets, just for a moment, that he's driving—a definite trigger. It slips her mind to be on guard. And then she really gets carried away—she starts singing to the radio…until:

His booming voice cuts through the autumn scenery, the music, her enjoyment of it all, bringing a cold, depressing winter to her soul.

"What the FUCK?" shouts Buddy.

{what did I do now, Rose wonders timidly, perhaps for the billionth time.}

"What is it? Rose near whispers, biting her nails.

"That fuckin' Asshole in the Minivan just cut off that white Altima over there—fuckin’ Idiot!

Get your fingers away from your mouth, Rosie—that's gross!"

As her hands automatically flutter down to her lap, some semi-dormant part of her brain retorts; he bit his nails until they bled, up until 3 or 4 years ago—friggin’ hypocrite!

A small, unbidden giggle escapes Rose's lips before she could swallow it.

"What's funny, Rose? Huh? You think it's fuckin' funny now? Jes-us! I don't know what the fuck is wrong with you sometimes! It's like you're just retarded or something…"

She winces at the r-word, as he knew she would. With a Master's degree in Teaching Children with Special Needs and her genuine love for Buddy's brother, a lovable man with Autism, Rose has no use for such derogatory terms. Silently, she reaches out to turn the radio volume up. He beats her to it, angrily pushing the button in, cutting off the music altogether. Rose picks up her journal and a purple gel pen and begins to scrawl furiously, letting the pages have it!

Just once, could we have a decent day? Is a quiet country drive to go apple picking, without all the arguing and tension, really too much to ask? What the hell did I do this time anyway? Was I breathing again?!

And why "retard”—he knows I hate that word! I just hope he never uses that word around Mikey. The last thing Buddy's younger brother needs is to be reminded of his rocky childhood when other kids would tease him cruelly for being different! Well, just look at him now: a high school graduate, working 2 jobs, including a major international company, and saving his money. He works so hard to stay in control of the outbursts that used to happen so much more often and intensely. I'm so proud of the man he's become! When you think of it, he's come further than his older brother in terms of controlling his emotions. Maybe I should just leave and go for Mikey—sweet, kind Mikey!

Mikey would never rip my heart to shreds with words. Mikey would never tear me down with a nasty look. And Mikey, the one who opens doors for me, gives me gentle hugs and tells me he loves me, would certainly never treat me like a verbal punching bag.

Then again, there are days that Buddy seems more like Mikey than himself. He makes me smile, his eyes are soft and loving, and his arms embrace me as if they mean it. And sometimes, sometimes when Buddy says, "I love you," it doesn't sound robotic, but sincere and heartfelt. These are the times that remind me why I fell in love with him in the first place and why I have stayed for over 30 years, despite his growing anger and seeming resentment towards me. Sure, there are moments that I dream of unfolding my butterfly wings and taking flight—setting up a whole new life down South. Every time, he draws me back to reality with a light kiss, a kind word, or a promise of a better tomorrow.

Today is not one of those tomorrows. Perhaps Buddy's a bit cranky, hungrily anticipating his cider donuts and apple crisp from the farm stand. Or maybe the brilliance of the leaves in the sunlight is causing him to squint, giving him a migraine. Is it really me? Have I annoyed him somehow—it was the singing. I knew it. I must watch that—I know it bothers him when I sing over the radio. Sometimes, I feel momentarily free within my constraints, and I just get carried away. The lyrics I am singing in my head just fly out of my mouth before I realize it. Then he really goes off and he…

"Earth to Rose—HEL-LOOO!!"

“HEY!!”

“Quit doodling and pay attention!! What the HELL, Rosie!”

She jumps, and her pen scratches across the page as Rose becomes aware of his shouting—always with the shouting, it seems. And, naturally, Buddy has to call her journaling “doodling.” He’s never taken her writing seriously, especially the pieces she’s trying to publish. Rose’s journaling is equally valuable to her—it may never bring her any money nor notoriety, but it maintains her sanity!

Just as she was working up the courage to say something, totally unsure what, Buddy points out a beautifully shocking Autumn tree with spectacular red and orange leaves, and the issue fell from her mind as he smiles at her, with his eyes even. He does have a sensitive side and, there are these times that they share, so precious and intimate, for which she lives. In keeping with the mood shift, Buddy turns the radio on, tunes to a classic rock station, and begins playing the air drums. As a former drummer, he really let's go when doing these solos. She loves imagining those days before they met when Buddy must have been at home behind his drum set, long curly hair flowing. These days, his locks cropped close to his ears, Buddy still embodies that rocker when banging out a beat—whether on his leg, Rose’s shoulder, or in thin air. He begins to sing along to Led Zeppelin’s Kashmir, silently granting her permission to join him.

“Oh let the sun beat down upon my face

Stars fill my dream

I’m a traveler of both time and space

To be where I have been,”

they cry out in unison, Rose turning her face up to the sunlight beyond her window.

Before they know it (and before the end of the 8 ½ minute song), McIntyre Farm comes into view. Rose starts putting her shoes on, packing up her journal and pens, and gathering her purse so she would be ready to jump right out of the car once they found a parking spot. She is well aware of the drill and, especially now, did not want to risk angering him by lingering too long in the car. When he was ready to get out, so she had to be.

They head for the line to get in line (welcome to Covid-19 days) and wait. Buddy gets impatient after about 15 seconds. Rose, embarrassed, tries to shush him as he loudly complains about the process,

“What the hell is the point of this? I just want to get my apple crisp. Why can’t I get in the line for that instead of waiting here to wait to get in line to wait some more? Fuckin ridiculous!”

He begins to pace just as Rose offers calmly,

“Try to be patient, honey—it looks like the line is moving pretty fast. I’m sure they have plenty of apple crisp to go around.”

“That’s not the point, now is it, Rosie?? You don’t get it. This is fuckin stupid, comprende? S-T-U-P-I-D!”

Rose focuses on the back of the head in front of her, sealing her lips shut.

Indeed, the line(s) move quickly, and they order their apple crisp, complete with ice cream and whipped cream. However, the cashier tells them that this year, the farm stand is only providing vanilla ice cream with the treat on weekends in an effort to keep the unusually long lines moving.

Uh uh, Rose thinks with her inside voice, here we go…

Sure enough, Buddy immediately begins yelling. At no one in particular, he rants:

“Oh, that’s just great!! It says Pumpkin ice cream—right there on the sign! Why is it on the menu at all if I can’t have what I want? Just because it’s the weekend—that makes no fuckin sense whatsoever! What brainiac asshole thought this one up?”

“Uh, so, ah, do you still want the apple crisp?” the cashier inquires.

“Well, yeah. Gimmee two—with VANILLA ice cream!”

He turns to Rose,

“You believe this shit? What the fuck does my ice cream have to do with the lines moving?”

Dismayed, Rose simply shakes her head from side to side, unable to respond. She leans toward the cashier window, apologizing and thanking the stunned young woman whose job it is to scoop ice cream and serve apple desserts. The Rose walks past him and gets a few napkins from the napkin dispenser when she feels a vice grip on her upper arm.

“Owww. What the hell?!” she shouts as she tries to worm her way out of his grasp, but he’s way too strong. “LET ME GO, Buddy!" He immediately lets her arm drop and walks away.

Rose follows him as he gets in line to purchase an apple picking bag.

“Are we getting a peck or a half-peck,” he asks, turning to look at her as if nothing had just happened.

“WE aren’t doing anything, but YOU are taking me home. I’m DONE,” Rose asserts, walking towards the parking lot.

“What the fuck, Rosie!”

She spins on one heel and lashes out,

“Don’t call me Rosie—I am NOT a child, and my name is Rose! And I don’t like that language you use when you speak to me. I’m tired of always hearing it,” she insists as she continues to storm toward the car.

Rose doesn’t bother looking back, but if she had, she would have seen the stunned look on Buddy’s face, as well as felt the encouraging, celebratory energy from onlookers.

Finally, Buddy picks up his jaw from the mulch and jogs to catch up with Rose at the car.

“Unlock the door, please,” she states aloofly. He obeys, and she quickly gets in, almost slamming the car door.

“Rosie, what the hell is up your ass?! I mean…”

She interrupts him with a hand held up in the air and buries her face in her journal as he tears out of the parking spot.

They spend the entire hour drive back in blissful silence; he shocked and fuming; she shocked and triumphant. It had been exhilarating to stand up for herself—felt scary, but mostly fantastic and freeing! After about a half-hour, basking in her relatively small but significant “win,” Rose boldly turns the radio on and even increases the volume by a few clicks. Settling for humming to the music, she chair dances as Buddy shoots her sideway glances—not necessarily glaring, but not very loving either. Mainly, he’s incredulous!

After enjoying a few classic rock songs, the only genre they can meet in the middle on, she ups the ante and chooses her own preset: the local Country station. Unbelievably, he doesn’t say or do a thing. So, she leaves the station on and begins letting the wisdom and inspiration of Rascal Flatts, one of her favorite bands of all time, sink in as they croon out the song, “Changed.” Rose has heard the song a thousand times before. Now, for the first time, she allows herself to listen and the lyrics she braves singing along to truly hit home:

“Felt a new wind kiss my face.

Walked away, eyes wide open

Could finally see where I was going

Didn’t matter where I’d been I’m not the same [wo]man I was then...”

Rose wipes the tears streaming down her cheeks while singing pointedly. The last two verses were especially poignant:

“I got off track, I made mistakes

Back slid my way into that place where souls get lost

Lines get crossed

And the pain won’t go away

I hit my knees now here I stand

There I was now here I am

Here I am

I’ve changed for the better

More smiles, that’s better

I even started to forgive myself

Yes I am

I hit my knee, no here I stand

There I was, now here I am

Here I am (here I am) here I am (here I am) I’m changed

Yes I am, I’m changed for the better

(Oh, here I am, changed)

Thank God I’m changed”

I am changed, Rose muses, and all it took was him laying his hands on me, something I told myself he would never do. But, let’s face it, what he’s already done over the past 28 years is damaging enough—just as if he twisted my arm, slapped me across the face, or punched me square in the stomach. You can’t see the wounds and the scars I have carried all these years, but they are still there. I don’t know how long it will take for them to heal. Will they ever? I guess it’s time for me to do some self-healing.

Rose’s house appears before them. She was so lost in her own thoughts, and in the music in the background, she didn’t realize how close they were. Now that she has, a lump grows in her esophagus, her palms moisten, and her stomach feels like the first time she went on a windy rollercoaster with deep dips.

Now what, she wonders.

Buddy shuts off the Mustang’s engine. Rose gathers everything she owned, including her shoes, in her hands, and makes a beeline out of his car, this time purposefully slamming the door behind her.

“HEY, watch it!” he reacts.

Inside, she feels the satisfaction that he’s upset by her action, an assault on his pride and joy. What she does not do is suffer or get unhinged by his anger. If anything, it emboldens her.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Rose demands.

“Whaddaya mean?”

“I mean, where are you going?”

“In the house. Where else would I be going? Tonight’s Netflix night—we’re going back and binging Breaking Bad, remember. Why, where do you want to go?”

Rose is in disbelief over his level of denial—or utter ignorance. Either way, not her monkey, not her zoo. She was not taking it anymore today—Enough is enough, and she’s long past had it with him today. Today, this year, this decade…

She tells him so, not in so many words, but saying she needed space apart to clear her mind (truth) and that she would finish up a writing project, get something to eat, and then go to bed.

“You tryin’ to get rid of me, Rosie, er, Rose? Whaddaya have a hot date tonight?”

With a roll of her eyes, Rose responds honestly, “Well, yes, and no, of course not!”

“FINE-you want to be alone, get used to it, Rosie! Two can play at that game. Maybe I’ll need to ‘take space’ for a while, huh? Then you’ll be all alone for the whole week—maybe longer! How would you like that?”

Rose responds with a weighted sigh before walking away from the car, away from Buddy. Although her tote—and her heart— is heavy, her load lightens with each step. She suddenly remembers the last song that was playing on the radio before they got home, and the artist’s name, an atypical one, is on the tip of her tongue, but she can’t get it. Humming the tune, she hopes to remember. Lynn-something—close but no. She can’t even recall the song—queens; she knows it has to do with queens.

Tires squeal and spin, taking the turn onto the main road. Rose watches as Buddy’s Mustang disappears from sight, although she can still hear the muscle car’s motor in the distance. She feels herself crying softly, knowing they are the first of many tears, not of the same type of pain to which she’s grown accustomed. These new tears taste of fear of the unknown, rather than the known all too well.

Wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand and straightening her back, some of the lyrics suddenly jump into her head and, as she unlocks her front door, she softly yet firmly sings:

“Queens don’t stay unless their king treats her right, oh

Every jewel on my crown, you better believe I earned it

Won’t keep people around that don’t believe I deserve it”[i]

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I dedicate this story to fellow Victims and Survivors of Domestic Violence, of all types—including Verbal and Emotional Abuse, in honor of National Domestic Violence month (October). You are not alone, and you are stronger than you know!