The Woman Who Wouldn't Die

What is fear, undiluted, uncontrollable fear?

It is the phone ringing and a voice you can't place hissing, "Gonna getcha, gonna getcha." It is a stranger outside your house, inexplicably snapping a picture. It is your ex-husband's relatives finding your apartment, dropping by for the first time in years, saying, casually, "Just want to see how you're doing."

Here's how you're doing: A stranger cuts through your yard, you hide in the tub. A palm frond tickles the window, you punch 911. You pack your kids off to grandma's house, then shake like a leaf alone in your bed. You come across his mug shot, and suddenly he's in the room. You think you're safe working at a little hole-in-the-wall restaurant - who possibly could find you there? - and then your boss gets a call from a stranger, asking too many questions about you.

You say his name, your scars itch.

You go to the benefits office, the lady says, "Why not file for child support?" You say no because you can just see his face the day he opens his paycheck and it's short. You can hear him mutter, Bitch.

You move again. Change your phone again. Call the county clerk's office, ask to seal your address. Use an alias. Hand out his picture. You check with the cops, the probation officer, the courthouse. You know what everybody says? "Get a restraining order." This seems so preposterous you laugh. You tell your kids, "Don't walk alone, not even down the block." Tell your mom, "If anything happens to me, I want you to sue the whole damn state."

And then.

He gets out.

And you draw the blinds and lock yourself in.

Mikey's worksheet:

During a fight, what can you do to protect yourself?

lockdoor hide

Who can you call to help?

cops

Make a plan: When I see:

Micke call 911

"Read it, Mom," the kids say. "Read us the story. Read it so we know what happened. What really happened."

The newspaper clipping is titled "The Woman Who Wouldn't Die," and Sandy keeps it pinned to the back of her bedroom door, so that, in her lowest moments, when she undresses and sees her scars - shining like fresh white wounds - she can remind herself that she's tough, that she survived. That headline is her Purple Heart.

Read it, Mom. They already know the rough outline, of course, but an outline is a lusterless substitute for a story in its flesh, and they know this, too.

Did he really hurt you? Why can't we be a family anymore? Her babies are standing shoulder to shoulder like little soldiers by the bedroom door, and they are so insistent, so certain, so tormented, that she gives in. But she is a careful censor, careful about what she leaves out, about how she delivers the truth of what their daddy did.

When she finishes, Courtney is crying, and the corners of Mikey's mouth turn down, the way they do when a math problem is too hard, or a vocabulary word stumps him.

But Lindsey, the oldest, stands perfectly still, then draws an arm around her brother.

Lindsey is an accelerated reader.

And she has been in mother's bedroom many times before.

Sandy is sitting on her bed, wearing purple, because purple will hide the blood.

She has a gun.

She puts it to her temple, then under her chin, practicing different positions.

Lindsey needs help in math.

Mikey's so moody.

Courtney climbs onto my lap when she's sad.

Under her chin. To her temple.

It is perhaps five minutes, but feels much longer than that, when Sandy tiptoes across the hall in the middle of the night to check on the children.

The next morning, she pours a cup of coffee and three bowls of Fruit Loops, and everybody comes running for breakfast, just like always.

"So what about your night terrors, Little Man?" the pretty lady counselor says.

Mikey looks at her with big wet eyes.

"They're pretty scary, huh?"

"Yep."

"How 'bout we make a picture of them?"

"OK."

"After the park?"

"OK."

"Do you want to punch the balloon next time?"

"Yeah."

It feels good to punch a balloon when you're angry.

It is a Saturday morning, and the pretty lady named Zoe is trying to find the key to unlock Mikey. She and her partner, Matt, are from the Children's Home Society, a new program called the Child Witness to Violence Project, which helps youngsters who have seen far too much of what they should not see at all.

Matt Anderson and Zoe Costello first knocked on Sandy's door the week Mike Jones went free, and they have been back many times since to assist Sandy in practical ways - doctors' appointments, shopping, parenting techniques - but mostly, they listen. To all the stuff she and the kids don't usually talk about. "All the dark spots," Sandy says. Sandy's dark spots go back to childhood, when she was raped by a relative. "I learned early," she tells Matt, "how to be a victim."

Talking helps.

Matt asks Sandy to sign a contract: If she is thinking about hurting herself, she is supposed to call right away.

He asks her to keep a diary, and after a while she stops looking over her shoulder to see if anybody is snooping when she writes, on a bad day, "God, if you can hear me, please help!"

He asks her to keep a daily agenda. Her whole day is mapped out, from 6 a.m., when she gets up to make coffee, until 8:30 p.m., when Lindsey goes to bed. In between, she reads the paper, exercises (after The Incident, her weight ballooned), cleans the house, helps with homework, cooks the dinner, bathes the kids, slides in a tape and out-Mariahs Mariah Carey.

Her last assignment, right before bed, is to look in the mirror and repeat a sentence:

"I, Sandy Manning, am a good person, and I'm going to be OK."

On good days, she almost believes it.

It is afternoon, a clean, blue, spring day, and Sandy is scrubbing kitchen counters with the window open, a breeze fluttering in. She has freshly painted nails, a pretty blue dress and beautiful strawberry blond hair.

Life is looking up. Just recently, she moved her family into a cheerful new apartment and decorated it with throw rugs and family photos and banners from her favorite team, the Cowboys (cowboys, you know, are tough). On the kitchen table there is a boom box, which means that Sandy never does dishes without LeAnn Rimes singing How Do I Live as back-up.

Sandy likes to think of the apartment as the place she and the kids will start fresh, put all the junk behind them and live - dare she say it? - a more or less normal life. As if that's possible.

Mike Jones, free now for nearly half a year, is living in Lakeland, where, Sandy hears, he is working at a restaurant and reporting regularly to his probation officer. When she feels jittery, she pulls out the court papers and checks the terms of his 15-year probation, forbidding him from having contact with her or her children.

In the court file, she knows, there is also a note from Judge Roger B. Colton of the Fifteenth Judicial Circuit that states that Mike "should serve his probationary period outside of Palm Beach County and/or in an area other than where the victim in this case resides."

This is a comfort - but not a guarantee.

Sandy looks out the window, ticks off recent developments: Mikey's night terrors are worse. Lindsey still cries a lot. Sandy still hides in the tub.

But some good things have happened, too, and in Sandy's mind these are worth remarking upon, because it has been a very long time since she has been able to list so many.

Sandy took all the kids to Kmart, and right there in the middle of the aisle, Lindsey crossed her arms and said, "We're not leaving, Mom, until you buy yourself something nice," and that is how Sandy got her new pajamas.

Courtney got student of the month, and Sandy posted the certificate on the fridge.

Matt took Sandy to sit for a practice exam to earn her GED, and she couldn't believe it but she did really well.

And here's some news. Sandy heard it through the grapevine, confirmed it with a probation officer. Mike Jones met somebody, got serious fast - and just got married.

When Nancy Ham, 10th Circuit administrator for the Department of Corrections, asks Mike if he will talk to a reporter for a story about Sandy, he declines.

"He mentioned that he doesn't want to cause any more pain and confusion for his children," Ham says.

Sandy pauses a long time when she hears this.

"That would be great," she finally says. "If it's true."

Sunday. Dead summer. She sees him.

He is backing a white van into his cousin's driveway, a few blocks from her apartment, and when she passes by on her way to a manicure, God as her witness, he leans out and waves.

It's Mike all right, she tells herself.

She recognizes his smile.

It's Mike.

She's 100 percent certain.

It's Mike.

Isn't it?

Sandy Manning floors it, and after she adjusts the rearview mirror, she takes a good long look back.