I read the message over and over again. I made excited little squeaks, I pressed my fingers to my mouth. I did a weird little jig, as relief and joy washed over me in waves.
She made it, I thought. Thank God.
I was planning on writing about something else today. Something somewhat self-indulgent, an exploration of my feelings after the "nice trip" last Easter, and how it has affected me. Well, I'll give you the short version of that: everything is fine, aside from a few things, and I'll write that entry next time for anyone who is interested. Tonight, let's talk about Ella.
It was dawn, and I had gotten greedy. Somewhere in the middle of the shift, I had decided to just keep going for as long as I could. But finally, I felt I could do one more fare, and then I'd be done. And as luck would have it, this far would take me from an area in the eastern part of town, to some bumhole-nowhere way beyond King's River. Easily 30+ minute drive and an excellent way to end the evening.
The preceding sentence was the last positive thought I had for the next hour.
I arrived at the address, and sitting on the stoop was a woman. She looked exhausted, and all around here were these tote bags. Some guy, all muscles and salt-and-pepper hair, kept moving in and out of the house, bringing out more tote bags, filled with (as far as I could see) soft things like blankets or clothes.
Something felt off, but I did a quick calculation. Most likely, this couple came from Bumfuck-nowhere-beyond-King's-River and had been in town visiting friends, potentially having some kind of picknick or other kind of outing which requires luggage in tote bags. Aside from the sheer amount of bags, the theory seemed to check out.
I stepped out and opened the trunk. The man said nothing to me, didn't even meet my gaze. He simply began filling the trunk with tote bags. The woman rose on unsteady legs (if she were drunk, then that too would fit into my theory) and climbed into the back. I went back to the trunk to close it. While I did, the man leaned his head inside the car.
The driveway in which I was parked was very narrow. Save for actually climbing over the guy, I had no way of getting past him to the driver's seat. So I waited while he stood there, leaning into the car. Then he pulled out, slammed the door and walked back to his house.
Huh...
I got into the driver's seat and I asked: "So.. Just you then?"
"Yes," she said softly, her eyes glazed and her face pale. "Just me."
"So just where in <destination> are we going?"
She burst into tears.
On reflex, I handed her one of the many paper towels cabbies keep on hand for just such an occasion. She wept and she wept, whimpering.
A whole other story began to take form in my head. Lovers' spat - he threw her out. I was driving her from a very ugly breakup. Right?
"I don't mean to pry," I said softly. "And if you want me to shut up for the rest of the trip, I will. But would you tell me what happened?"
She wept and she spoke. He had broken things. Her phone, most of all. He had thrown her into a wall.
"I never thought this could happen to me," she said bitterly. "Who would've imagined that I would be one of those women who said that, huh?"
"If its any consolation," I said, trying for a little gallows humour (because that sometimes has a positive effect). "most of those women were probably just as shocked."
She didn't laugh. She simply said: "I need to borrow your phone. He broke mine. I need to make a call."
I gave it to her, and she called her mother, crying and crying, telling her what had happened between ragged sobs. Once she was done, she handed back the phone and sighed.
"I need cigarettes. Could you stop by the gas station over there?"
After she got her cigarettes, we rode on. There's really little point in trying to recreate the conversation. It was haphazard and disconnected - usually I would ask a question, she'd give a short answer, I'd try to say something comforting, she'd say nothing. So in a long, long car trip, made up of mostly awkward silences, I found out the following:
Her name was Ella. She was a manager at one of the fancier restaurants in town. She and her husband had been out clubbing, and gotten separated. Or he had decided to go home early. It wasn't quite clear. However, this separation had taken its toll on him. When she came home, he had flipped out, angrily accusing her of fucking every guy imaginable in the hours they'd been apart. He also told her that he had called her parents and said the same thing. When she tried to protest, he had exploded, smashed her phone. Then he had broken a hat rack. Then it was a blur. He had thrown her stuff out into the garden, and he had thrown her into a wall, hard enough to make her entire side and shoulder scream with pain.
"I've never been so scared," she said more than once.
I've never felt so fucking useless. Usually in these situations, I'm able to at least comfort the person I'm talking to. Make them feel, if not better, then at least safer. But here... Here, there was nothing I could say or do. So I posed my little questions. Questions about the situation. Questions about her life. In the end, it petered out into a shade paler than smalltalk and I just kept my mouth shut for the rest of the trip.
Because what the fuck do I know? There was a nasty truth in all this, which is that no matter how much I profess my progressive views, no matter how many abused women I'll drive, no matter how many hugs and thankful words I may receive, or praise from friends, the fact is that I am not a person who can actually save anyone. I'm just a dude with a car, and an overdeveloped sense of morality and quite possibly a white-knight-complex. And there she was, sitting in the back seat, completely devastated, her life literally in pieces, and there was absolutely nothing I could say or do to help her except keep driving.
Somewhere during the trip, I turned off the meter. The idea of her having to pay me, on top of all the other mess just felt disgusting.
"What can I do? That's my entire life back there. What the fuck do I do now?"
"Are you asking me...?" I said carefully. She sighed.
"Sure."
"I have no idea, to be honest," I said. "But... right now, I think you shouldn't worry about what happens next. Right now, there's nothing you can do, except sit back and wait until we get to <destination>. Once we're there, I could give you a number you could call, to a women's support hot line. They will know what you can do next. You're not alone in this."
In the midst of my self-loathing, I just felt as if every word was a stupid fucking platitude. A slightly more verbal version of patting someone awkwardly on the head, saying 'there there'. But she sighed with a little relief and nodded.
We'd driven for almost an hour, and we were nearing <destination>. It was gorgeous. Rolling hills, the mountains towering over the fjord, and the sun rising in the east, spilling gold over the whole thing. And we arrived at the address - a little weekend cottage she'd bought.
"What do I owe you?" she asked.
"Nothing at all. This ones on me."
"No, you can't," she pleaded. "Of course I'm supposed to pay you."
I realised I may have made a mistake. By turning off the meter, I had essentially taken away one of the securities the passenger has against the cabby. Also, I had done so without explaining it to her. At the very least, she might think I did this out of pity. For some, it is a matter of pride to be able to pay, rather than to be reduced to a victim who can't make their way in the world.
Well, shit...
"Look," I said. "This is for my own sake. I'm not trying to make you feel any less of an adult, here. The way I figure it, you've had it rough enough and I don't want to add to it. So for my own peace of mind, this trip is on me, all right? I can give you the receipt for what we've racked up so far, but you don't have to pay."
She meekly accepted this, though she declined the receipt. "Do you need any help carrying those bags?"
"No, its... its fine," she said.
Once more, I decided to ignore her potential wishes in this. Although there was a practical reason to this. The driveway was at the bottom of a hill, and the house was at the top. If she would do this herself, I'd be stuck here for a while. Also... I needed to do something. I needed to feel useful, even if all I could do was to drag a couple of tote bags up a hill.
So without a word, I loaded my arms full of bags, and together we made our way up to the house. She got the bags inside and I remained outside. I asked her: "Do you still want that number? To the women's support hot line? You got a phone in your house?"
"Yes I do, and yes please," she said. I wrote it down and gave it to her. She stood there, staring at the little note. And she began to cry again.
"What will I do now?" she whispered.
"You'll call that number," I said. "Whatever happens next will happen later."
She trembled, and I, stupidly, extended my hand to shake hers and say goodbye. Tears were flowing down her face, so I very carefully and very awkwardly, giving her plenty of time to shy away, placed my hand on her arm and squeezed gently.
"He knows where I am," she said. "What if he comes? Shit, I'm scared, I don't know what..."
"Do you have neighbours?" I asked. She nodded. "Then wake them up, and tell them your situation. Don't be alone, if he comes. Make sure there are other people around you. Beyond that, I don't know. But you're not alone in all of this. There is help. There are people who have been where you are."
She gave me a slightly grateful smile and nodded. We parted ways.
On the long way back, I freaked out. I started recording the events, so I could write this down later, but it devolved into screaming. I was so furious. I hated him. I hated everyone like him. I hated the system that allowed and in its own way encouraged people like him to exist. I wanted to kill. I wanted to fucking cry.
Somewhere in the middle of my hysterical ranting, I became aware of the fact that he was the guy who called the cab. He knew she was out here. Far, far away from civilisation, and I had left her there.
Hero complex again, right?
I decided to do two things. One was, I sent a text to her mother, telling her she was safe. The second was to call the cops, tell the story, give them every scrap of information I had. It was all I could do, and it wasn't nearly enough. Useless and pointless. Because I'd not changed shit, I'd simply just moved it around.
Another abused woman, another blog about me bemoaning the patriarchy, and cursing my inadequacies, while signalling to the world what a virtuous, progressive bleeding heart I was. For the longest time, I didn't want to write this. Actively refused, because what's the point? I've told Ella's story so many times already. The same roles. The same conflict. The same script.
You see why I mostly wanted to forget all this, right?
But then I received the message you see at the top of the page. I responded and we passed a few messages back and forth, before deciding that we're going to talk tomorrow. She wants to know my side of what happened - she can't remember much of that night at all.
So this story had something akin to a happy ending. At the very least, it didn't end in impotent silence. And I do hope she'll get all the help she needs. Because I can't really do shit other than move her from one place to another. It's barely anything, but maybe this time it was enough.
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