Recovery.

Before Jonathan Chaimberg even realized that his sister was at the gym, she was running out of it. And Georges was standing there, dumbfounded, ready to run after her.

“You wait here,” Jonathan said, no commanded, “I’ll go.”



“What happened?” His massive hand rested on the center of my back, warming my skin through my cotton t-shirt.

I turned to face him, my head still resting against the steering wheel as if my body couldn’t support the sheer weight of it, my eyes were red and swollen and my throat raw. I focused on his face, on his too blue eyes, reminding myself it was Jonny. Jonny. Jonny. Not Edward. Not Edward. Not-

“Jo,” He never called me by my full name. Never Jocelyn like Georges always called me. Always Jo or Josie, “Please. Something. Someone hurt you. Is hurting you. Please,” He stroked my hair, “I love you,” He looked as tired and worn as I was. “And it hurts me to see you like this.”

How could I be so selfish? I bit my lip, could I admit to him what I wasn’t sure I was able to admit to myself without wanting to curl into a ball and cry?

“Please,” Jonathan studied me, my disheveled hair, my blotchy skin, “I don’t know if you know but Georges lost on Saturday and- and decided to take a break from fighting. I have all day,” He laughed, “I can sit here with you for forever, as long as it takes.”

“Edward,” I croaked, “Edward Poole.”

“What?”

I opened my mouth to speak, to somehow describe to him what happened, to give words to the brutality that scarred my mind, but I couldn’t. “He’s what happened. That night in Vegas, a year ago, I met him at the after party and- and everything felt so right, when everything with Georges was just crumbling. So we got married that night and just left.”

“What did he do?”

“It was nice at first. We were happy and we made it work somehow. I thought it was love. Maybe we were in love. But then we went back together to his home in Texas and, and then it started. It wasn’t bad at first. I was working with Karolyi’s for a little bit, got a green card but for Edward a bad day at work would lead to arguments and the arguments started to end with hitting. I think- I think was desensitized to it since it was a steady buildup, a slow miserable burn.

“I couldn’t escape. I didn’t have a car and the Karolyis lived so far away. My life centered on making him happy because when he was happy he left me alone. I slept with him because sex made him less combative, fed him because when he was full, he was lazy. I lived in fear. Fear that someone or something would set him off, which happened at least a few times a week, no matter how hard I worked at avoiding it.

“It was then I realized how women who’ve never been in an abusive relationship could be so- so outspoken about spousal abuse. How could the wife be so stupid to stick around? They couldn’t understand. You couldn’t understand. That’s why I didn’t want to say anything. I didn’t want to tell you at first, because I knew you were going to judge me. I hid the bruises under long sleeved shirts or makeup, but I really didn't have to since Edward didn't take me out all that much.

“Except once, Edward took me to a gynecologist to find out why I wasn’t able to get pregnant and he wasn’t allowed to come into the examination room. I begged for a refill on the birth control pills I was taking in secret and I knew Edward wanted a baby so badly. He wanted to tie me to him by flesh and blood, but I couldn’t-” I inhaled sharply, trying to keep the tears that burned my eyes from falling, “I couldn’t bring a child into that mess. I would rather die than do that. The nurse was shocked at my adamancy for contraception and the nurse asked me if he- he was hitting me and I said yes. All the time.

“The nurse did exactly what I predicted. She judged me. ‘I’d never…’ ‘Why didn’t you just walk when he started hurting you’ blah blah blah. Telling that nurse set off a whole chain of events that led to me be put into an abuse center and filing for divorce. I was friendless, jobless and broke. The divorce was messy but it was worth it. I was finally free, but then- then he started stalking me. Calling me, drunk and ranting about how it was my fault, he lost his job because he couldn’t survive without me. I called the police over and over again and I was finally able to get a restraining order. Then one night, I was getting off of work and he tackled me in the parking lot, threatening that he would kill me, if I didn’t come back to him. I called the police for the last time and I left. I got on the first flight to Quebec and went straight to your door.”

I needed to get it out. I needed to accept what happened and not live in denial anymore. I need to accept the fact that I was in a powerless situation, but that doesn't mean I'm powerless now. And maybe telling Jon was the first step to that.