MEMOIRIST IDOL 2022
Running for Her Life- a Woman’s Daring Escape From Captivity
How I, a 9-months-pregnant mom with a care bag, helped deliver a victim from the clutches of abuse
“I’m on the run from my abusive boyfriend,” she returned in a barely audible tone, panic-stricken. “He didn’t start out that way. Slowly, he took control of every aspect of my life; he has my phone. I’ve been planning my escape for days. Please, can you help me?”
Sometimes it’s hard to discern who truly needs (or wants) a handout. Or even a helping hand.
Appearances can be deceiving, and “school-of-hard-knocks” stories are sometimes fabricated. Often, the people most desperately in need are the ones who are most terrified to speak up.
Here’s a memoir from when I was actively looking to distribute a care bag to someone who could genuinely use it. The handout process was incredibly eye-opening.
I used to attend a church that had a care bag ministry.
First, they’d collect non-perishable food and personal care donations. Then, handy volunteers would sew knapsacks out of scrap fabric. Finally, care bags were filled and sent out to the community.
On a Sunday in the summer of 2015, I exited the sanctuary to find a table full of bulging, colorful care bags, ready to go.
“I’ve never done this,” I confessed to a pastor, “do you have any tips?”
“Well, first off, pray over it,” he casually advised. “Only go to well-lit public places.”
The pastor halted and looked me in the eyes. “Now, listen closely because this part is significant. Don’t just give it to the first person who asks you for assistance. Wait. You’ll know when it’s time to give it away.”
I thought the bit about “waiting” was odd, but I nodded in agreement and plucked a Burberry plaid-looking bag from the table. Then, I thanked the local outreach team for their hard work and went on my way.
Ten minutes later:
I didn’t expect things to happen so quickly! As I was pumping gas, a man approached with a well-rehearsed and fairly elaborate story. He was traveling alone, trying to get to LA, had lost his job, etc.
“Do you happen to have an extra $10?” he asked.
“I don’t have any cash on me,” I answered in truth.
An image of the care bag flashed in my mind, but I held my tongue. “Don’t give it to the first person who asks for help,” I recalled.
The “hard luck” man dismissed me with an exasperated hand wave and moved on to hit up the next customer.
Nine months into my second pregnancy, I was sweltering as I finished pumping gas in the mid-day heat. Pregnancy at any age is taxing. As a 40-year-old, it was kicking my butt. I was more than ready to go home and rest!
Unfortunately, I’d been blocked in by a tow truck. So I hit reverse and exited by way of the back alley.
While making my way through the shadows of grimy dumpsters, I noticed the same guy who’d been panhandling “alone” minutes before was now sitting comfortably in an older Mercedes. With a woman. They were counting piles of cash!
I will not judge or presume to know the details of that situation. But one thing was clear — they didn’t need the care bag.
The next day at 8 a.m:
I’d just dropped off my four-year-old daughter at the Montessori preschool and was wedging myself in the car.
In trimester three of pregnancy, even simple tasks had become an ordeal. I had to push the seat back and carefully position my ginormous baby bump, so it didn’t bang into the steering wheel.
I saw the care bag was still in the back seat and made a mental note to pass it on ASAP. Soon I’d have TWO car seats back there!
I stalled in the preschool driveway, grappling with my seatbelt.
That’s when I saw a disarranged but attractive-looking woman with a backpack walking briskly on the sidewalk. She looked to be in her early 20s.
As our eyes met, I witnessed her unblinking wide-eyed stare. She appeared to be choked with anxiety. Surprisingly, she subtly motioned me to roll down my window, and I did, just a crack.
“Can you give me a ride a couple of miles down the street?”
Caught off guard, I did not hasten to reply.
The pedestrian turned from me and scanned the neighborhood as if she was looking for someone.
“I’m on the run from my abusive boyfriend,” she returned in a barely audible tone, panic-stricken. “He didn’t start out that way. Slowly, he took control of every aspect of my life; he has my phone. I’ve been planning my escape for days. Please, can you help me?”
“Do you want me to call the police?” I asked.
“NO,” she fired back, then lowered her voice again. “That would draw too much attention. My boyfriend threatened he’d kill me if I tried to go anywhere. But I’ve been observing his patterns. He leaves work randomly to ensure that I’m still there. But not until after 9. Right now is the only time of day he’s usually away.”
“Can you go to a shelter?” I asked, feeling alarmed.
“My cousin’s family lives down the street in Rubidoux,” she whispered. “He’s never met them, so he won’t think to look there. They can keep me safe until I can get more help.”
I released my breath slowly. This was a tough call. I was alone! (or not?)
Suddenly, my thin cotton maternity t-shirt rippled and swelled. I saw the imprint of my unborn son’s tiny foot moving under my ribs. (We!) were not accustomed to offering rides to strangers at all. And this young lady was claiming to be a fugitive, running for her life.
“Just a few miles,” she repeated. “I’m trying to make it on foot, but I’m scared he’ll see me.” She paused.
“Hey, it’s OK, but if you can’t take me, I’ve got to go. I can’t stay here,” she said, backing away.
Again, I saw the panic in her eyes. But something else. Authenticity.
I surveyed the perimeter of our surroundings — nobody else in sight. The two of us were in an older neighborhood with alternating houses, small businesses, and empty lots. In that instant, I made a gut-level decision.
“OK, get in,” I said under my breath.
The woman in distress flew into the passenger seat in a nanosecond. I looked left for oncoming traffic, cranked the steering wheel to the right, and hit it.
I kept my eyes on the road, monitoring for suspicious characters. The runaway clutched her backpack, bowed her head, and closed her eyes as if praying, “please get me the hell away from him.”
She raised her face only when she needed to direct me to her family member’s house, which was under 10 minutes away by car. However, had she traveled by foot, she would’ve been exposed on the main city thoroughfare for at least 45 minutes.
I didn’t ask any more questions. This was the victim’s only chance at a covert escape, and we both knew it.
She was out the door as soon as my car touched the curb at her destination.
“Hold on,” I said, reaching in the back and slinging the care package towards her. “There’s some food and supplies in there for you. I was waiting for the right person to give them to.”
Her bloodshot eyes welled up with tears. Greenish-yellow in the morning sun, I noticed a fading bruise under her left cheekbone.
“Thank you. All I have left of my life is in my backpack. I totally appreciate this. God bless you.”
The victim pivoted 180 degrees in the same breath and jogged to the front door. Thankfully, an older woman answered her urgent knock. After a few words, she quickly slipped inside and was gone without a trace.
That night, I forgot to pray for the care bag. Instead, I prayed for the young woman on the run to stay out of harm’s way and get help. I thanked God for my safety and prayed for my baby's health. It had been quite an eventful day.
That incident and the summer heat prompted me to lay low for the remainder of my pregnancy — no more care bags.
I thought my mega-bump couldn’t get any bigger, but over the following days, it did!
Our baby boy was born healthy in my tenth month, at 41 weeks. The leaves had just begun to change into Burberry plaid fall colors, reminiscent of a hand-sewn knapsack destined to be passed on, woman to woman.
Thank you for reading my submission to The Memoirist Idol Competition. I wrote about my personal experience to raise awareness around the epidemic of domestic violence.
I’m prepared to take some heat for my decision to allow an unknown woman in my car. Picking up strangers is not a safe practice. But at that moment, my intuition told me to act swiftly, and I did. Also, in 2015 I was unaware of some other options.
Confidential professional services protecting D.V. victims are available. If you or someone you know is in danger, here’s a helpful resource (link below) and hotline number: 1–800–799–7233
If you enjoyed this story, you may vote for it (or others) in the contest by using the link below until 8/20/22. Thank you for your support.
If you’d like to read something fabulous that’s sure to put a smile on your face; please check out this steamy vignette evoking the innocence of young love by Deb Groves Harman.
This next story is a personal recommendation, it chronicles how a seemingly normal relationship turned into a cycle of control and abuse. It Can Happen to Anyone by C.A. Jaymes:
Thank you, KiKi Walter, for this opportunity to share.
