Rose Connors - Temporary Sanity

She runs a hand through her bleached hair, then tilts her head back and studies the ceiling.

“Maggie needs you. She needs you more than Howard Davis ever did.”

She closes her eyes, head still tilted, and takes a deep breath. “How is she? Maggie. Is she okay?”

“She’s fine. But she won’t be, down the road, if you don’t beat this charge. And tomorrow’s assessment is step one. Take it seriously. It matters.”

Finally, Sonia tears her eyes from the ceiling and looks at me. “What is it? The battered woman thing-what’s it all about?”

The million-dollar question.

“It’s a syndrome-described by the experts as a subclass of post-traumatic stress disorder. It’s not classified as an illness; it’s not even a diagnosis. It’s a pattern of emotions and behaviors common among women who’ve been battered by their partners.”

“Like what?”

“Depression. Shame. Self-reproach. Repeatedly leaving-and then going back to-the abuse. The medical community sums it all up as ‘learned helplessness.’”

Sonia’s gaze returns to the ceiling. “So what? Why does any of that matter?”

“It goes to intent. A woman in the throes of the syndrome lives in constant dread of imminent aggression.”

Sonia looks at me, raises her eyebrows. “Translation?”

“She knows she might get hurt-badly-any minute of the day, every day.”

Sonia nods.

“The battered woman has a heightened perception of threat. She’s on constant alert. Expert testimony on that issue can bolster a self-defense claim.”

“I didn’t kill him.”

“There have been cases where the women didn’t remember.”

“Didn’t remember what?”

“Killing their abusers.”

Sonia stares at me, mouth open.

“I’m not kidding. The psychiatrists call it ‘dissociative amnesia.’ The woman does in her batterer-in one case, she bludgeoned him with a baseball bat-then doesn’t remember anything about it.”

Sonia knits her eyebrows and shakes her head, slowly. She doesn’t buy it. “I’ve never hurt anyone,” she says. “Not on purpose.” Her voice is little more than a whisper. “If I killed somebody-anybody-it wouldn’t slip my mind.”

She falls silent, still staring at me. Her expression says I’m the one who needs a shrink. Our dissociative amnesia discussion is over.

“Okay, Sonia. But I want you to understand the syndrome. So you’ll know the kind of information you need to share with Dr. Nelson.”

She shrugs.

“The experts all agree it’s cyclical. The cycle has three stages. The initial stage is mostly verbal, a lot of yelling. There’s some physical abuse too, but it’s minor.”

“People fight,” she says. “What’s the big deal?”

“In stage two, the verbal abuse escalates. The yelling gets louder, more threatening. Then there’s a single explosion. The woman gets physically beaten up-once.”

Sonia nods, says nothing.

“That’s followed by a respite, a break. No abuse at all. Until stage three.”

She lowers her eyes to her lap again.

“Stage three is essentially a repetition of the first two stages-on fast-forward. The time between beatings gets shorter and shorter.”

For a full minute, the telephone line between us is quiet. Sonia takes a deep breath and looks up at me. “Okay,” she says. “I get it.”

“You should know,” I tell her, “that the law doesn’t recognize a woman as battered unless she’s gone through the complete cycle-all three stages, and with the same man-at least twice.”

Sonia lets out a soft laugh and stares at her lap again, hugging her cast. “Twice?” Her eyes are brimming when she looks back at me. “No problem.”

She’s had it.

“Are we done?”

“Yes.”

She hangs up her phone, stands, and turns away.

I hang up too, and press the buzzer. The matron opens the door behind Sonia in a millisecond. She must have been leaning on it.

It occurs to me, as I pack up my briefcase, that I’m two for two. First in Buck Hammond’s case, and now in this one, I’m arguing that the dead guy deserved it. I’ve barely begun my career with the defense bar, but I seem to be developing a niche.

The moon is almost full tonight. Beams of light shimmer on the salt water at the end of Bayview Road. They light up the beach and the narrow lane, reflecting off the newly fallen foot of snow. The weatherman was right on.

Sonia Baker’s cottage, crime scene tape and all, is bathed in a soft yellow glow. Geraldine’s Buick is parked at the curb, empty. She’s already gone inside.

Every light in the place is on. Soft lamplight peeks out from behind ivory lace curtains. If it weren’t wrapped in that black-lettered tape, the small shingled house would look cozy and inviting on this frigid night. It occurs to me, for the first time, that Maggie Baker will probably get good and homesick long before all this is over.

Geraldine agreed to meet me here at seven, but I’m a half hour late. I was only a few minutes behind schedule when I left the Barnstable County House of Correction, then I got stuck behind a sander on the single-lane portion of the Mid-Cape Highway. This isn’t good. Geraldine doesn’t like to be kept waiting.

The front door is unlocked. I let myself in, tapping on the inlaid glass to announce my arrival. Sonia’s living room looks altogether different than it did twenty-four hours ago. Howard Davis’s body is gone, of course; so is the blood-drenched sofa, the serrated knife, and the Johnnie Walker Red bottle.

A white, powdery film covers every surface in the room-the remaining furniture, the doorknobs, even the windowsills. It’s residue from the print search. Patches of the living-room rug-close to where the couch and body were-have been excised. A scuffed wooden floor shows through the holes.

“In here, Martha.”

I follow Geraldine’s voice to Maggie’s back bedroom, a room we surveyed quickly on last night’s brisk tour. It holds only a single bed, an oval braided rug, and an old pine bureau. The lamp on the bureau-a ceramic ballerina with a chipped tutu and a frilly pink shade-is on. Maggie’s hairbrush sits beside it.

The room’s walls are covered with the predictable tattered posters of movie stars and rock singers, but otherwise the space is surprisingly neat for a teenager’s. My stomach registers a small surge of hope; maybe a touch of Maggie’s tidiness will rub off on Luke.

Geraldine doesn’t look up when I join her. She’s busy filling two shopping bags she’s positioned on Maggie’s bed. I wouldn’t have a clue about packing for a teenage girl, but Geraldine selects items from the bureau’s open drawers without hesitation, as if she’s been Maggie Baker’s personal shopper for years.

“How do you know what to choose, Geraldine?”

She gives me that look, the one she perfected during the ten years we worked together. “Martha, get a brain,” it says. Then she gestures toward the bureau’s open drawers; they’re just about empty. No choosing necessary.

“Divine inspiration.” Geraldine raises her hands to the heavens, as if even she can’t comprehend the extent of her God-given talents. She empties the last few items from the bureau and shuts the drawers. She drops the hairbrush in with the clothes, hands both shopping bags to me, and turns off the ballerina lamp. She pauses to light a cigarette, and heads for the bedroom door.

“Funny,” she says, walking in front of me down the short hallway to the kitchen, “you never struck me as the foster parent type.”

“It’s temporary, Geraldine.”

“Temporary?” She throws a skeptical look over her shoulder at me. “As in until-her-mother-serves-a-life-sentence temporary?”