Faith. I like it. I’m going to need a lot of it in the coming years.
“Starting next week, my name will be Faith.”
“Faith it is, then.”
“Devereaux,” my father injects. “Faith Devereaux.”
My mother looks at him.
“My great grandmother’s maiden name.”
She nods.
It’s something he didn’t know about but we’ll remember and feel somewhat connected to who we were.
Detective Sanchez takes out a pen and scribbles down the name Faith Devereaux. “And the two of you?”
“Alister and Barbara – People can call us Al and Barb for short.”
“Any reason? Just curious.”
“It was a joke between them when they were dating. No one knows about it but the three of us.”
Detective Sanchez nods and writes down Alister and Barbara Devereaux, underscoring the last name three times.
“Thank you, Detective,” I whisper. “For everything.”
“Good luck,” she says. “This is my last case. I’m retiring and heading to Florida.”
“Then I hope you have a happy and relaxing retirement.”
“Thank you. I pray the same peace for the three of you moving forward.”
That was the last time I saw Detective Sanchez. There were other police officers and agents who helped us over the next week. My father sold his company and handed over the account numbers to them. I’m not sure what or how they did what they did, but within a week, the news reported that my parents and I died in a horrific car crash, when in reality we were on a plane to Jackson, Wyoming.
It was a new beginning.
Part II
A New Beginning
Faith
We arrived at the airport in Jackson at precisely ten o’clock on a Thursday morning. I’m not sure what I expected. I’d filled my head with ideas of what Wyoming would be like. None of them came close.
It’s breathtaking.
And chilly considering the time of year.
I momentarily wondered why we couldn’t have settled someplace warm, like southern California. That would certainly be a big enough place where we could get lost in our new identities. However, the detectives in charge of our witness protection program convinced us that Jackson, Wyoming would be the perfect place to start our new lives.
I thought we’d get to choose our new city, but that turned out to be a false assumption. Our new city had to be someplace safe and far away from the South and anyone we might know. Someplace he would never think to look for us just in case he ever found out we didn’t die.
Looking back now, I cannot believe there was ever a time when I believed Daniel was my soulmate. He was handsome, and I thought, a loving, kind-hearted person who loved me to the moon and back.
I know now that was a lie. He loved the idea of me. Of us. But then things changed. It was almost imperceptible at first. So much so that I didn’t really notice. There were the subtle hints that he didn’t like what I was wearing. The suggestion I shouldn’t go back to school. He wanted to start a family right away, but thankfully, I took measures to prevent that from happening.
I never went back to school. He said he needed me to be more available to him and that we didn’t have the money anyway.
At the time I didn’t care because I may have loved going to school, but I loved him more. At least the person I thought he was at the time. I became whatever it was he needed. I was lost in him and his needs.
Never mind that was never who I was or am. I became what he needed me to be.
For a short time he was happy and that made me happy. At least that’s what I told myself.
It was less than three months into our marriage when I found myself crying on the floor of our bathroom shower with the hot water beating down on my back before I fully realized just how miserable I was.
I know most people might say, “Why didn’t you just leave?”
I wanted to. Really. I wanted to badly. But I was so dependent on him for everything; money, shelter, clothing. He’d cut me off from my emotional support system.
For a long time, I never thought of myself as a victim of domestic violence because there were no physical bruises. At least not first. But I was abused even before he struck me that first time. I can admit that now. Now that I’ve done the research, I know that there are other insidious ways a man can abuse a woman and never lay a hand on her.
There was the emotional abuse like when he stopped calling me by my name. I’m not talking about the first mushy nicknames you give someone. Names like “sugar” or “honey” or “darling.” No. I’m talking about him calling me, “woman” in such a derogatory manner you would think he’d called me “cunt.” Looking back, I think that’s the word that was in his mind when he’d say, “woman” but he was afraid someone might overhear him, so he stuck with that.
After a while, I ceased being Sarah and was only “woman.” Still, I did not realize it was just another way for him to put me in my place and let me know I was useless. I also think it was easier for him to victimize me.
And I allowed it. For a long time, I said nothing.
I was a woman without a name.
His anger could be frightening. As I said before, he didn’t physically abuse me for a long time, but there were other ways he showed his dominance. He would throw things, break things and yell. The intimidation factor alone was enough to have me tiptoeing on eggshells whenever he was home terrified that something I said or did would turn him into a raging monster.
It didn’t take much and the longer we were married, the shorter his fuse became.
Financially, I was destitute. Since I was not working or going to school, I was completely dependent upon him for every financial matter. My clothes, food, car and home were under his complete control. He somehow convinced me that things were better that way.
I know now that was always the plan.
He’d planned a whirlwind courtship, where he swept me off my feet. In the beginning he made everything so perfect I felt as though I was living in a fairy tale.
Once we settled in that tiny house in Dallas, he somehow convinced me it would be a good idea to wait before I enrolled in a new school. Reluctantly, I agreed. Every argument I came up with was met with a better one from him on why I should stay at home.
He said he wanted to treat me like a queen and though I hate to admit it, I loved feeling like a princess living in a dream. But that kind of euphoria doesn’t last forever and soon I became bored. When I approached him a few weeks into our marriage, he became enraged and accused me of cheating on him, something I would never do. He said I must miss all of those college boys because I was a slut and would always be a slut just like my friend. I’m not sure how he did it, but I ended up apologizing to him.
Looking back, I am still dumbfounded by how he could turn any situation on a dime and somehow make himself the victim. My self-esteem bottomed out within a month of making our wedding vows.
We had sex almost immediately after our first big blowup. Despite my confusion, for a while, things got back to normal at least what I came to think of as normal. That didn’t last long. I never knew when it would happen or what would set him off. It could be anything. A look. The way I phrased a question. Anything.
It wasn’t until weeks later that I became truly afraid of him. Outwardly, everything appeared picture perfect. What our neighbors, friends and family never understood was that the picture was a façade and that what lied beneath was an ugly, twisted and broken relationship.