Maid - Stephanie Land Page 0,10

a lot of expenses like dance or karate lessons, and there was no account for our college education. I learned the importance of money pretty quickly. I started babysitting at eleven and almost always had a job or two after that. It was in my blood to work. My brother and I were protected through the shroud of our religion and my parents’ financial security.

Safety was instilled in me. I was safe, and never questioned that, until I wasn’t.

* * *

Jamie’s eyes narrowed when I told him I wanted to take Mia to go live with my dad and stepmother, Charlotte. Mia was barely seven months old but had witnessed too many of his angry outbursts; the lashing out and destruction had traumatized me.

“I looked online,” I said, reaching for a piece of paper in my pocket while holding Mia on my hip. “They have a child support calculator, and the amount seems more than fair.”

He snatched the paper out of my hand, crumpled it, and threw it at my face, his intense glare not leaving my eyes. “I’m not gonna pay you child support,” he said evenly. “You should be the one paying me!” His voice grew louder as he spoke and paced back and forth. “You’re not going anywhere.” He pointed to Mia. “I’ll take her so fast it’ll make your head spin.” With that, he turned to leave, releasing a yell of rage as he punched a hole through the Plexiglas window on the door. Mia jumped and let out a high-pitched scream that I had never heard before.

My hand trembled while I dialed the domestic violence hotline. I was barely able to explain what was happening before Jamie started calling repeatedly. They advised me to hang up and call the police. Minutes later, the headlights of a patrol car lit up the entire side of the single-wide trailer. An officer knocked gently at the broken door. He stood so tall, his head nearly grazed the ceiling. While I told him what had happened, he took a few notes, examining the door, nodding, asking if we were okay. If we felt safe. After a year of abuse, threats, and screaming insults thrown at me, that question came with much relief. Most of Jamie’s rage had been invisible. It didn’t leave bruises or red marks. But this—this I could point to. I could ask someone to look at it. I could say, “He did this. He did this to us.” And they could look at it, nod, and tell me, “I see that. I see that he did this to you.” The police report the officer left was a validation that I wasn’t crazy. I carried it in my purse for months like a certificate.

* * *

Those first nights we spent in the transitional housing apartment building off a main street filled me with uncertainty. Every noise that echoed through the walls and floors of the complex made me jump. I constantly checked to make sure the door was locked when we were home, something I’d never done before. But it was just my daughter and me, and I was our only protection.

When we lived in the homeless shelter, the driveway led straight to my cabin’s door, so my car was parked right outside if we ever needed to get away. I never saw or heard my neighbors, who all lived in separate cabins, and we were surrounded by nature—trees and fields that triggered a sense of peace, not trouble. That little space was my own, and I didn’t fear invasion. But in the apartment, the walls and floors seemed so thin, and there were so many unfamiliar voices. In the stairwell, strangers filed up and down, yelling at each other. I’d stare at my front door, the only thing between us and the rest of the world, knowing that someone could break through it at any moment.

Apartments surrounded us in that gray rectangle, but the only evidence of occupants was the voices from behind the walls, the trash piled high in the dumpster, the cars pulled into the parking lot. Maybe I would have felt safer had I met my neighbors, had I seen what they looked like. Their night sounds, heels that clicked across the floor, an unexpected deep voice, then the laughter of a child, paddled my sleep. I’d get up several times throughout the night to check on Mia. She slept in the next room in a portable crib.

Most nights, I’d lay awake for