From Far Away
Prologue
Eleven o’clock. October 30, 1997.
The night is quiet. Melody Stevenson is falling asleep. Her son, Bobby, sleeps in the room off of the stairs leading to the family area. Hard to believe, she thinks, that just a half-hour earlier, he’d bounded in from seeing the Flyers game with his father, happier than a clam, full of exclamations about how “cool” the game was, how the music was so “loud and cool,” how “cool” it was when Ron Hextall highfived him coming out of the tunnel. He’d chattered on and on, a huge smile lighting up his cherubic face, his lisp making some of the words semi-incoherent. And just as suddenly as her baby had burst in and spilled his guts, Melody had turned around to see him falter in mid-sentence and yawn hugely, his head nodding and his little body slumping. The sight filled her heart with love. She gathered him in her arms, watching him blink his sleepy blue eyes and fall out completely.
He’s tucked safely into bed now, while she waits for her husband, Bob, to return home. The TV is low, but loud enough to keep her occupied; still, she can hear her son’s breathing even from all of these feet away, though he’s quiet as a cat while he’s sleeping. It’s as though he is still in her womb, and if she lies still enough, she can hear his heartbeat, pulsing with every silence of her own, hurried, vulnerable.
Just like her own.
Suddenly, the door is wrenched open. No, that’s not the right word for it- ripped, more like it, right off the hinges. Bob is standing in the doorway. The doorknob, door attached, hangs from his hand. His eyes have that look in them- the look of whiskey, of vodka shots, the look that tells her it would be wise to clear out. “What the fuck are you doing?” he snaps at her, stumbling forward.
“Wh-what do you mean, I’m right here. I’m not doing anything, honey,” she stammers, leaping up as he lurches toward her. “Don’t-“
“Don’t WHAT. Where are they?”
“Shh, you’re going to-“
“Don’t you FUCKING tell me, ‘Shhhhhh,’ you lying BITCH.” He slaps her, and that one slap- the snap of muscles, tendons, bones and flesh so slight, but so powerful- is enough to make her buckle. “You make me sick. Where the FUCK are they?”
“Where is WHAT?”
“The DRUGS, you bitch!” Another slap, and that breaks the levees within him wide open. She finds herself drowning underneath his blows, close-handed now, hard enough to break bones. Every punch steals her breath, her sight, her speech. “Where ARE THEY? ANSWER ME!”
“I’m not- I don’t, Bob, please!” she sobs as soon as she can find the oxygen. Her jaw feels unhinged; her temples and ribs are throbbing. Inside her mouth she can sense the metallic tang of her blood, and spits it out. It doesn’t go away. “Oh, my God.”
“Shut up.” He pulls her up by her hair, making her scream with agony. But somehow, she finds the strength to haul her knee into his gut, doubling him. Not thinking, she dashes out the door, into the calm night, looking for anything she can find to help her. The porch light of the house down and across the street shines at her, blinding her tender eyes with hope. She throws herself down the pavement, up the stairs, knowing he’s giving chase. “Help me! Help me, please!” she shrieks, pounding on the door, nearly falling over as Don Hannity opens it. “He’s going to kill me, oh my God, help me, please-“
“Jesus, Melody,” he breathes, and catches sight of Bob storming up to the door. “Bob, don’t you dare- Diane, call the police!”
But Bob is in a state of mind far from reality, far from sanity. He’s looking for one thing and one thing only- Melody. Reaching for her, grasping her, beating the drugs out of her, the ones he can smell in the blood that seeps from her veins through her skin, onto his hands. Don is shouting, pulling him away, much stronger than his short, lean frame suggests.
Diane is frozen in place, her blue eyes wide, staring at the crumpled figure of her neighbor on the floor of her porch as that neighbor’s husband is dragged away, in a daze, incoherent.
Melody watches as the hulking, blurred figure of her husband grows smaller, distant. Every cell in her body is in shock, almost going numb with the effort to stay alive despite the pain. “Th…thank God,” she chokes out, blinking away tears she doesn’t know she’s been crying. Her head hits the floorboards; her world shrinks to the black of her eyelids.
Soon, little Bobby, still asleep in his snug little room, is awoken by the sound of sirens.
The night is quiet. Melody Stevenson is falling asleep. Her son, Bobby, sleeps in the room off of the stairs leading to the family area. Hard to believe, she thinks, that just a half-hour earlier, he’d bounded in from seeing the Flyers game with his father, happier than a clam, full of exclamations about how “cool” the game was, how the music was so “loud and cool,” how “cool” it was when Ron Hextall highfived him coming out of the tunnel. He’d chattered on and on, a huge smile lighting up his cherubic face, his lisp making some of the words semi-incoherent. And just as suddenly as her baby had burst in and spilled his guts, Melody had turned around to see him falter in mid-sentence and yawn hugely, his head nodding and his little body slumping. The sight filled her heart with love. She gathered him in her arms, watching him blink his sleepy blue eyes and fall out completely.
He’s tucked safely into bed now, while she waits for her husband, Bob, to return home. The TV is low, but loud enough to keep her occupied; still, she can hear her son’s breathing even from all of these feet away, though he’s quiet as a cat while he’s sleeping. It’s as though he is still in her womb, and if she lies still enough, she can hear his heartbeat, pulsing with every silence of her own, hurried, vulnerable.
Just like her own.
Suddenly, the door is wrenched open. No, that’s not the right word for it- ripped, more like it, right off the hinges. Bob is standing in the doorway. The doorknob, door attached, hangs from his hand. His eyes have that look in them- the look of whiskey, of vodka shots, the look that tells her it would be wise to clear out. “What the fuck are you doing?” he snaps at her, stumbling forward.
“Wh-what do you mean, I’m right here. I’m not doing anything, honey,” she stammers, leaping up as he lurches toward her. “Don’t-“
“Don’t WHAT. Where are they?”
“Shh, you’re going to-“
“Don’t you FUCKING tell me, ‘Shhhhhh,’ you lying BITCH.” He slaps her, and that one slap- the snap of muscles, tendons, bones and flesh so slight, but so powerful- is enough to make her buckle. “You make me sick. Where the FUCK are they?”
“Where is WHAT?”
“The DRUGS, you bitch!” Another slap, and that breaks the levees within him wide open. She finds herself drowning underneath his blows, close-handed now, hard enough to break bones. Every punch steals her breath, her sight, her speech. “Where ARE THEY? ANSWER ME!”
“I’m not- I don’t, Bob, please!” she sobs as soon as she can find the oxygen. Her jaw feels unhinged; her temples and ribs are throbbing. Inside her mouth she can sense the metallic tang of her blood, and spits it out. It doesn’t go away. “Oh, my God.”
“Shut up.” He pulls her up by her hair, making her scream with agony. But somehow, she finds the strength to haul her knee into his gut, doubling him. Not thinking, she dashes out the door, into the calm night, looking for anything she can find to help her. The porch light of the house down and across the street shines at her, blinding her tender eyes with hope. She throws herself down the pavement, up the stairs, knowing he’s giving chase. “Help me! Help me, please!” she shrieks, pounding on the door, nearly falling over as Don Hannity opens it. “He’s going to kill me, oh my God, help me, please-“
“Jesus, Melody,” he breathes, and catches sight of Bob storming up to the door. “Bob, don’t you dare- Diane, call the police!”
But Bob is in a state of mind far from reality, far from sanity. He’s looking for one thing and one thing only- Melody. Reaching for her, grasping her, beating the drugs out of her, the ones he can smell in the blood that seeps from her veins through her skin, onto his hands. Don is shouting, pulling him away, much stronger than his short, lean frame suggests.
Diane is frozen in place, her blue eyes wide, staring at the crumpled figure of her neighbor on the floor of her porch as that neighbor’s husband is dragged away, in a daze, incoherent.
Melody watches as the hulking, blurred figure of her husband grows smaller, distant. Every cell in her body is in shock, almost going numb with the effort to stay alive despite the pain. “Th…thank God,” she chokes out, blinking away tears she doesn’t know she’s been crying. Her head hits the floorboards; her world shrinks to the black of her eyelids.
Soon, little Bobby, still asleep in his snug little room, is awoken by the sound of sirens.
♠ ♠ ♠
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