Important note: This short story was written as healing medicine. Although based on a real-life experience, it reflects only the writer's attempt to come to terms with inner turmoil, just a few weeks after an unexpected life change, and is not intended as a judgment of any of the characters or events.
Read more on the value of writing about personal crises and shifting perspective through creative writing here.
This work by Sara Firman is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Non-Commercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 Unported License.
An Escape
by Sara Firman (June 2007)
Trent the survivalist, Trent the saboteur, is now suicidal. All because of me. 'This is not something you can think your way through,' says my brother-in-law Bill. At less than 24 hours' notice, he has flown thousands of miles and driven down countless dead-end lanes in the dark to rescue me. He met Collins's fixing their battered trucks by headlight. The Lancashire accent threw them, so they had no knowledge of the recently closed brewery that had been there for years. He wanted me to leave the house, so here I am with cat.
Now that he's here, it does feel as if my mind has been shot to pieces. I've spent three long days talking to the crisis line, meeting with the crisis officer, deciding if the counselor's fears are correct. Perhaps, finally, I am having a breakdown. I huddle in Bill's arms and sob. Neighbors look on. They cannot see friend Trent in this frightening light. But they see that I am no longer the calm, collected English woman. They offer tea with milk, as they've read that this is what the English do under such circumstances.
We try to figure out what to do about my husband's imminent 'arrest'. Here in the wild woods, a suicidal person must be picked up by the sheriff, hand-cuffed, and taken away. My husband's whereabouts is uncertain. He hasn't called me but he'll expect to find me at home. 'Something like this cannot be finessed either,' says my brother-in-law, looking tired now as he listens to my hopeless courage. The counselor wants me to brave being there when he's taken but where is she? I feel betrayed and a betrayer.
These good people offer the couch and say it would be fine if Trent arrived, they're not worried. But it's not fine. I lead Bill in convoy through the winding woods to the town, half-expecting the oncoming sight of my husband's truck with it's load of firewood. My cat Treasure is on the seat beside me, sitting good as gold in her carrier. I talk to her all the way, mostly to calm myself. At the Holiday Inn, they can't find the UK on their computer to check us in but they'll work it out. No, a king-sized bed in a smoking room won't do.
In the confusion, I slip my cat past the sign that says 'No Animals'. She sleeps, as always, wrapped around my neck, then tries out Bill's bed for a while. Some time in the long night I say 'The thing is, Bill ...', trying to process my anguish. 'The worse that can happen ...,' he replies, 'just try to sleep'. And I go back to my impossible sleep. After breakfast, Treasure picks up on my fear and hides under the bed. There's a sign there that says, 'Yes, we do clean under here!'. One can only laugh, and be grateful for small mercies.
My vet, Doc C, comes out of surgery to say a prayer with me for the 'devil' he knows must have taken Trent's spirit. My brother-in-law is polite. I am willing to pray a thousand prayers, filled with gratitude that this saved man will take my beloved cat, and keep her safe for whatever time I need. It might be forever, so I pretend to myself that I'll be collecting her soon. It's odd that I booked her in for vaccinations today anyway. Not knowing or knowing? Now we're just waiting for the sheriff who still can't find Trent.
Outside Walmart where we've gone to buy a mobile phone, Bill tries to make a donation to the grizzled old guy at the trestle table. But this charity is a raffled gun; we exchange looks of mild hysteria and move swiftly on. I think of the guns I've hidden, the knives I've bundled up in the shed. Shirley, the manager at the phone counter, assists beyond the call of duty. She's kind and competent and we can't thank her enough. It takes a while, so Bill finds two pairs of trousers that are always a good US buy. Small mercies.
Afterwards we drive around for hours, trying to help track Trent who has been home and left again. Probably in distress. The story he wrote about me being abducted may have come true. One of his stories, at least, has come true. He's just returned from helping Sam, who confirms that he had been talking of suicide. Sam, whose wife is dying, told him that his life is worth more than me or something to that effect. I agree. We all try to see him as a victim. Meanwhile, Bill and I are doing 'Thelma and Louise' English-style.
Finally, we go to a truck stop where there is no chance of me seeing anyone I know. Bill talks to me about an adventure in Finland in his work as health-care expert. It's his only sauna experience, which he knows will interest me (I work in the spa trade). A funny story, and it keeps me engaged though I can't eat. The dispatcher calls on the mobile. They've picked Trent up and will be bringing him in to the hospital by a route that passes the truck stop. Bill sees me blanche and sends me to the car while he pays the worn-out waitress.
I get into the front seat just in time before I fold up into a tight ball of grief and hear the terrifying sound that is my own voice. There's a strong cord that connects me to the man I love and fear. Now it's wrenching at my entrails and I feel I might die. Bill drives us back to the Holiday Inn. This is no holiday. I try to apologize but he is clear now who the victim is. He changes the open tickets again and tells me we are flying out of Little Rock in the morning, Chicago to London on Sunday. I can and must surrender.
At first light, we go to the peaceful cabin beside the beautiful creek that has been my home and my haven. It was no rough arrest. Trent knows the sheriff; they gave him time to shave and pack a bag. I pack my own bag. What do you take when your house is on fire? My writings, my old bear, a few sacred objects, clothing for a long weekend that will turn into months, passport and phone numbers. Tom from the Volunteer Fire Department calls by. His eyes tell me what they'll think of a wife who betrays her husband.
I've made arrangements for friends to take care of Trent when he comes out of the Stress Unit, and they're glad to help. But Trent was not stressed - the whole thing has been overblown he tells me on the phone from there. Why have I had him arrested? He never was suicidal, just wanted me to understand how difficult I had made his life by not fulfilling my contract as a wife. So I fly. Bill takes me to downtown Chicago and walks me until the terror has subsided. It's sunny and people are at play. I'm in a bad mad dream.
On the plane, I watch a love story called 'The Holiday'. How English Iris eventually escapes her utterly pathetic (she knows it) infatuation with a man who needs her but does not love her. It's a suitable story that takes place in the two countries between which I also am now held in limbo. It works out for Iris, so it might work out for me. She falls in love again. Meanwhile, I am the infant-woman holding my brother-in-law's capable hand as he organizes my tickets and passport and me. I have flown to the walled garden belonging to my mother.
