Divine

  Emma tried to duck, but his fist came hard and fast against her face before she could move. She fell to the floor,- after that there was no escaping him. He attacked her, dragging her into the bedroom and throwing her onto the bed in a heap.

  "No, Charlie!" she shouted. "Please . . . stop!"

  Her cries grew faint as the attack continued. Then—as quickly as it had started—Charlie drew back and wiped his brow. He looked at her for a long time, breathing hard. Without speaking, he turned and went to the bathroom. She could hear him washing his hands, his face. Then he came back.

  This is it, she told herself. He's going to finish me off. Why'd I come hack, anyway? Mary was right, but I wouldn't listen. I never listen.

  But when Charlie reached the bed, his shoulders slumped forward and he was contrite. "I'm sorry, Emma. I guess I was ... I don't know, crazy for you." He sat on the edge of the bed and studied her. "I don't mean to hurt you."

  She was shaking, every bone in her body bruised, and her right shoulder throbbed with an intensity that made her feel faint from the pain. Her face was bleeding, and her head hurt. She pulled away when he tried to touch her.

  "Look." He sighed. "You're right, okay? I need help. I wouldn't have gotten so mad, but I don't want you and the girls leaving again." He touched her knee. "Understand?"

  She wanted to spit at him, run from him, and never come back. But the things he was saying made sense. Maybe if she hadn't left they could've gotten help sooner. Of course he was mad at her for leaving. Either way she couldn't answer him. She was shaking too hard from the silent sobs racking her body.

  "I'm going to take a shower." He gave her a slow look down the length of her body. "When I come out, I'll show you how sorry I am. I don't want to hurt you." He pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, he gave her another long look. "I want to love you, Emma. Fifteen minutes. You'll see."

  He turned and went back to the bathroom. She heard the shower turn on.

  Panic squeezed the air from her. She couldn't wait around for him to return. He had tried to kill her too many times. She would die if he came back and forced himself on her.

  She struggled to a sitting position and grabbed the phone from the nearby table. With a whispered voice, she called for a cab. "Hurry, please. I don't have a lot of time."

  The dispatch promised a car in five minutes. Emma stumbled out of bed and went to the other bathroom, the one off the living room. Her face was bruised and scraped, swollen around both eyes. She dabbed at the bloody areas and started to cry again. The cabdriver would know she'd been beaten up. Not only that, but she couldn't use her right arm. Her shoulder hurt too badly, and her arm hung at a strange angle.

  Help me, God ... I need to get out of here. . . .

  If Charlie came out of the shower and found her trying to escape, he'd kill her. She had no doubt. She reached into the coat closet and found a lightweight scarf. It was enough to cover the obvious injuries. She tied it around her neck and face, grabbed her wallet, and checked first one drawer then another. Where were the joints? Didn't Charlie keep them here somewhere? They were his stash, forbidden goods. But where she was going it wouldn't matter if she took a few. After looking in three drawers, she gave up. Every second mattered.

  As quietly as she could, she slipped outside and strained to see down the street. Where was the cab? It should be here by now.

  Hurry. . . . Please, hurry. . . .

  Suddenly from inside she heard Charlie's voice. "Emma?" He was out of the shower, earlier than expected. "Where are you?"

  She walked to the curb and searched down the street. A car was coming. Please, God . . . let it be the cab . . . please!

  "Emma!" Charlie was at the door now, his hair wet, a robe wrapped around his thick frame. The rage was back, worse than before. "What are you doing?" He opened the door and started down the walk. "Get back here!"

  Emma started to run. The approaching car was yellow,- it was the cab, for sure. She hurried toward it, waving at the driver. She could still hear Charlie, hear him yelling and running toward her.

  The cab pulled over, and she flung the door open. "Hurry!" she shouted at the driver. She closed the door just as Charlie reached them.

  The driver looked in his rearview mirror and scowled. "That guy bothering you, lady?"

  Emma fell against the backseat, her chest heaving. If he only knew. "Yes ... he was." Three hard breaths. 'Thank you ... for hurrying." She didn't catch her breath until the end of the block.

  "No problem." The guy was smacking a piece of gum. He glanced at her and raised a single eyebrow. "Where to, lady?"

  The voices kicked in then. Look at you, Emma Johnson. You're pathetic. You crawl back to Charlie every time, no matter what he does to you. One of these days he'll kill you, and he'll kill the girls too.

  Emma put her hands over her ears. Then she realized how she must look, and she released them. "Uh . . . S Street, please. I want to go to S Street."

  But that wasn't where she really wanted to go. She wanted a tall bridge with nowhere to go but down. Do it, Emma. It's the only way out. Your girls will thank you for it later. Charlie can't hurt you ijyou end it all. Think about it. Go on, Emma. Go to the bridge. You know the one.

  Yes. The 14th Street Bridge. She could go to East Potomac Park and look for the best way onto the bridge. The bike path, probably. She'd walk halfway across, then hunker down and think about her life—all it never was, all it never would be. The cars flowed faster than the river on the 14th Street Bridge—so many lanes of traffic that no one would notice her crouched on the walkway. When she was ready she would simply rise and vault herself over the edge.

  Death might not be instantaneous, but it would come soon enough. And then—finally—she would have the freedom Mary Madison talked about. Emma gripped her knees and leaned forward. "Take me to the 14th Street Bridge, near East Potomac Park on the DC side, please."

  The man nodded absently. He made a turn at the next light and picked up speed.

  Her plan was a good one, a right one. Charlie would come after her now, especially since she'd told him about the shelter. It would only be a matter of time before he figured out which one and found her. If she ended it all today, none of them would ever have to worry again.

  But there was one problem.

  She needed to tell Mary. Not the details, not where she was going, but that she wasn't coming back. She would give Mary her mother's phone number, and that way the girls could live with her. Her mother would know how to handle Charlie. She'd see that he was put in jail where he belonged.

  Charlie would already be out of their lives if Emma had a strong bone in her body. But she didn't. That's why she needed to get to the bridge. She leaned forward and tapped the driver on the shoulder. "Sir . . . could I use your phone?" She tried to sound sweet and helpless. "It's sort of an emergency."

  The man shrugged. "Sure." He handed her a cell phone and turned the radio down. "Just sweeten the tip."

  Emma called information and got the number for the shelter. A minute later the call was going through.

  "S Street shelter—" the voice belonged to Leah Hamilton— "may I help you?"

  "Yes . . ." Emma closed her eyes. If she had life to do over again, she would've wanted to be just like Leah, volunteering her time and talents to help women find hope. She dismissed the thought and found her focus. "This is Emma Johnson."

  Tears crowded her throat, and her voice grew pinched. "May I speak to Mary, please?"

  "Certainly."

  Emma was waiting for Mary to pick up when the driver glanced at her in the mirror. "What bridge you want, lady?"

  "The 14th Street Bridge. You can drop me off at East Potomac Park ... on the DC side. And please hurry."

  There was a sound on the other end of the line, and Emma covered her mouth with her fingers. What if Mary had heard her? "Mary? Are you there?"

  But there was only silence.

  Emma felt relief work
through her battered bones. If Mary had heard her, everything would be ruined. She closed her eyes and waited.

  She could already feel the water closing in around her.

  * * *

  Chapter 22

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  Mary had called the police the moment she learned Emma was gone.

  A pair of officers had come to the shelter and taken a report, but by the time they checked the apartment where Emma had lived with Charlie, no one was home. With no search warrant or proof of a crime in progress, the officers could do nothing. Still, they had searched the streets around the shelter, but they had no leads so far,

  It had been nearly two hours since Emma left.

  Mary was in her office, pacing from the window to her desk and back again. God, this can't be happening. She doesn't understand Your power. . . Your ability to save her. When the police called with no leads, Mary even placed a quick call to her grandmother, who promised to pray without ceasing until they heard news.

  When the phone rang, Mary spun toward it and picked up the receiver on the first ring. It was a woman's voice talking on the other end. But at first it sounded like a wrong number, a misplaced call.

  "The 14th Street Bridge. You can drop me off at East Potomac Park ... on the DC side. And please hurry." There was a short, slight gasp. "Mary? Are you there?"

  What was this? The voice sounded like Emma's.

  Mary opened her mouth to say something, to respond to the question, but something stopped her. Instead she waited a few beats. Maybe she wasn't supposed to hear that first part. She breathed a silent prayer,- then she acted as if she'd just answered the phone. "Hello, this is Mary."

  "Oh, Mary . . . I'm sorry . . ." The voice on the other end was definitely Emma's. She started to cry.

  "Emma, where are you?" Mary worked to keep her panic in check. "Let me come get you."

  "No!" Emma's tone was adamant. "I'm done with it,- I can't do this anymore." Her sobs fell off some, and her words came faster than before. "Here . . . write this down. It's my mother's phone number. When I'm gone, I want her to have my girls, okay? Can you do that for me?"

  "Emma, don't talk like that." Mary sat at her desk and raked her fingers through her hair. No, God . . . please, no. Stop her right now. "You told me you'd come every day until the story was finished."

  "I know. I'm sorry." Emma cried harder. "I can't break away from Charlie. I can't do it." She coughed a few times, and her voice grew frantic. "Tell the girls . . . tell them I love them."

  The call ended.

  Mary checked her phone, but the caller ID showed a restricted number. Adrenaline shot through her. The first part of the call was the most crucial of all. Whoever was driving, Emma had asked them to take her to East Potomac Park, across from the 14th Street Bridge.

  Mary grabbed her purse, her car keys, and her cell phone and paused at Leah's desk. "I'm going to get Emma."

  "She told you where she is?" Leah was on her feet, her face twisted with concern.

  "No. God told me."

  Mary didn't have to take a moment to ask Leah to pray. She could tell by the look on the girl's face that prayer was a given. They'd run into conflicts and crises with the women at the shelter before.

  Once she was in the car, Mary thought about calling the police. But she was bound to beat them to the scene. Besides, officers would frighten Emma, maybe push her to make the jump sooner than later.

  God . . . I don't know what to do!

  Daughter... A calm soothed the desperate turmoil in Mary's soul. I am with you . . . go in My strength.

  Mary tightened her grip on the steering wheel. Five minutes later she pulled into East Potomac Park and found a spot for her car. The bridge was a hundred yards away on the other side of the street. Mary began to run, moving as fast as she could. As she drew closer she saw a woman cross the street and head for the bike path, the one that crossed the bridge.

  "Emma!" She screamed her name, but the sound of it was lost in the noise of the 14th Street traffic. Please, God, stop her. Hold her back. Don't let her jump. Please. . .

  The woman was definitely Emma. She looked over her shoulder, but she didn't see Mary reaching the street and stepping into the crosswalk.

  Mary picked up her pace. She darted across the road, not waiting for traffic and ignoring the drivers who honked at her. "Emma!"

  Again Emma mustn't have heard her, because she didn't turn around. But she started jogging toward the middle of the bridge.

  Mary kept running.

  Emma was fifty yards ahead of her now . . . forty . . . thirty.

  The traffic blocked out the sound of Mary's feet and allowed her to close in on Emma without Emma's noticing her.

  Twenty yards . . . ten . . .

  At the bridge's railing Emma stopped and turned around, her eyes wide. "Mary!" She shook her head and faced the water. Then she grabbed the railing and put one leg over the edge.

  "Stop!" Mary was five yards away when she came to a halt. She forced herself not to react, but she was horrified. Emma had been badly beaten. Her face was barely recognizable. "Emma . . . you can't do this!"

  "How'd you know?" Emma was shaking. She stared at the water and made a surge as if she might throw herself over. But something seemed to stop her. She looked at Mary, and her fear turned to sorrow. "I can't live another day. I'm a wreck. A worthless wreck."

  "But—" Mary had to shout to be heard above the traffic—"I was a wreck first. Way before you. Worthless, faithless, trapped by sin."

  "No!" Emma looked at the water, then over her shoulder at Mary. "You're strong and smart. You broke free from—" she waved her hand—"from all this."

  Mary came a few steps closer. "I didn't break free." Another step. "I was set free." She held out her hand. "You can be too."

  "Don't come closer!" Emma hung her head, and another wave of sobs shook her body. "I'm not. . . strong enough."

  Mary held her breath. Six lanes of traffic whizzed by, but not one person seemed to notice the drama playing out. Just one more desperate life, one more person at the end of her rope. Mary caught a glimpse of the water below, swirling as it rushed passed. If Emma jumped, there would be nothing Mary could do.

  "Emma . . . please." She had to get closer, had to get a hand on Emma if she was going to stop her. "No one's strong enough." She took another step and another. "Don't you see? That's the point of the story. No one on earth has that sort of power except for one."

  Emma squeezed her eyes shut. She gripped the railing and leaned toward the water.

  At the same time, Mary took a final step and grabbed hold of Emma's shoulder. In a blur of motion she put her arms around Emma and held tight. "This isn't the answer." She spoke the words inches from Emma's face. "Let me tell you about Jesus!"

  The moment Mary said the Lord's name, she felt the fight leave Emma's body. Her tears came harder, but she let Mary ease her back onto the bike path. Then, with eyes as scared and desperate as a child's, Emma looked at Mary. "Show me the way. ... I don't want to die."

  Mary had been holding her breath, and at Emma's admission, she exhaled. She drew Emma into her arms, and for a long moment they stayed that way—clinging to each other, to hope, to the possibility that there was some other way out. After a full minute, Mary pulled back, her arm still around Emma's shoulders. They walked back to 14th Street, back across the busy roadway and through the park to Mary's car.

  Emma pressed herself into the seat back and huddled there, terrified. She looked at Mary. "I'm so scared." Her teeth chattered, and she was shivering hard. "What if. . . you hadn't saved me?"

  Mary was scared too. They still had a long way to go, and today Mary had almost lost her. But she said the words that filled her heart instead. "1 didn't save you, Emma. Jesus did. In fact. . . He's only just getting started."

  Mary drove her straight to the hospital. The emergency-room doctor examined Emma and then called the police and reported Charlie.

  Fifteen minutes later t
hey got the news from one of the nurses. Emma's boyfriend had been picked up at his apartment and arrested, charged with battery and attempted murder. An officer came by the hospital and told Emma she didn't have to worry. Hopefully, it would be more than a decade before Charlie saw the outside of a prison cell. Emma was questioned and photographed. Her arm was broken just below the shoulder. Doctors fitted her with a cast and released her to Mary's care.

  The day had been exhausting, but it was the turning point Mary knew had to come. When they reached the shelter, they ate dinner in Mary's office, and for the next hour Mary talked with Emma about her decisions. Mary's training had given her tools to evaluate a suicidal person. If Emma was far enough gone, Mary would have called a lockdown facility, where Emma could be admitted and restrained until the danger of suicide passed.

  But Emma didn't qualify.

  A number of times during that hour Emma told Mary that she didn't want to die, not really. And now that Charlie was in custody, she wasn't nearly as fearful. Still, Mary made a decision. She set up a cot in her office for Emma and laid a blanket on the sofa for herself. "Leah's staying overnight with your girls. I checked on them,- they're fine." She started the coffeepot in the corner of her office, never taking her eyes from Emma. "We're staying here all night. We'll talk about whatever's on your mind."

  "Thank you." The lines at the corners of Emma's eyes relaxed a little. "Actually . . ." She wasn't shaking anymore, but she held her casted arm in her lap and winced whenever she moved. "I want to hear the rest of your story—" she hesitated—"if you don't mind."

  Mary took her place on the sofa. As wild as the day had been, as tragic as things might've turned out, peace reigned in her heart. God was in control, even now. "I told you about being at the New Life Center and hearing about Stephen, right?"