New to Mercy? Start here with the first chapter
Previous Chapter: At Least It Was Something
“How are things, Isla?” Kim put a warm mug of coffee on the table in front of her.
The truth was that Isla felt like a piece of iron made thin and brittle around the edges by rust and wear, flaking off bit by bit, like the underbodies of the salt-damaged cars that Phil and Danny tried to coax through yet another winter. She and Danny fought, either with words or silence, almost constantly. Every time she put her key in the lock, she wondered why she had come home.
She also wondered why she had come here; actually, she knew why. Kim’s kitchen was like a warm, messy embrace. But Kim and Phil deserved to enjoy their happiness, and it was enough to have Dave and Lacey flittering in and out in various stages of distress. Isla thought she should stay the hell away.
“I’m ok.”
Kim looked at her skeptically. “What happened the other night?”
“Well, that’s shooting straight from the hip, isn’t it?” Isla took a gulp of coffee.
“No, I thought about it for a good while.”
Isla stared at her bandaged hand, shook her head and said, “This sounds crazy, but I barely remember. I was so upset, but . . . I walked in, I dropped some things, Danny got mad, I got mad, he stuffed my papers in the fire, and I ran away. Sounds like a whole lot of nothing when you lay it out.”
It was always a whole lot of nothing, now. Probably because the big things were gone— the garage, the house, Danny’s hopes and dreams, her hopes and dreams. Little things were all they had left to lose.
“Are you safe there?” Kim put her hand on Isla’s and looked deeply at her.
Isla looked away. “Of course, I’m safe. What do you mean?”
“Don’t play dumb, Isla. Does Danny hurt you?” Kim eyed her bandaged hand and Isla put it on her lap.
“Danny does nothing but hurt me.”
“Isla!”
“And I suppose I do nothing but hurt him.” She shrugged and looked out the window.
“This can’t go on forever, Isla. How are you getting off this crazy train?”
Isla laughed ruefully. “Jump, I guess,” she said, then muttered, “or get pushed.”
“If there’s anything I can do . . . you know, you’re always welcome here.”
“I know, but no, no, we’re fine. It was just a one-time thing. He’s just so tense, you know. With everything that’s gone wrong for him. Poor guy.” She tried to sound sincere.
“Mmmm.”
While she sat in Kim’s kitchen, Isla felt cared for and a little sane. Yet, between leaving Kim’s and getting home again, her clarity fell apart, and the only thing she remembered was that they weren’t doing well enough at pretending to be a happy couple. Nobody was fooled.
_________________________________________________________________
“So, Isla, tell me why you’re here.” The woman in an armchair opposite her had perfected a look that was friendly, warm, but practiced and non-committal, “Oh, and I’m Carmen, by the way.” Isla wondered how someone achieved that precise level of emotional detachment, and if it was a good thing. The woman had a salt and pepper pixie cut, light on the salt. She leaned forward slightly with hands clasped on her lap, a notebook and pen on the side table.
“My friend made me come.”
“What friend? What do you mean ‘made you’?” Isla realized immediately that “made me” were triggering words in this context.
“My best friend, Kim. I shouldn’t say she made me—she asked me to come. And made the appointment. And threatened not to use cream cheese frosting the next time she baked cinnamon buns.” The woman’s slight wince reminded Isla that “threatened” wasn’t funny here either. She certainly seemed to be stepping in it. Sheesh, everything was taken so seriously.
“And why did she think that would be a good idea?”
“She knows that my husband and I haven’t been getting along well lately.”
“What do you mean, ‘not getting along well’?”
“I told Kim that he hurts me. I guess that kinda freaked her out. But I told her I hurt him, too. She didn’t need to make a big deal of it. We’re just not getting along.”
“In what way do you hurt each other? Physically? Emotionally? Financially?”
“That’s a lot of questions.” Isla shifted in her chair.
Carmen nodded again and wrote a note. “Isla, when we talk about abuse, we talk about an imbalance of power and control. Would you say that this applies to your relationship?” Isla picked at a French knot on the arm of her chair.
“Imbalance? I don’t know. We’re both kinda mean to each other.”
“A lot of experts in domestic abuse do not consider mutual abuse possible. That’s why we need to consider what imbalances may be present, if any.”
“Abuse means using something incorrectly or being cruel or violent, doesn’t it? Two people can do that to each other. It’s just nonsense to say it’s not possible.”
“I’m talking about abuse in a clinical sense. Very often, one person is acting in self-defense or exhibiting behaviors that are maladaptations to the abuse.”
“But they can both be acting in self-defense. Do you get a free pass just by not acting first?”
“Let’s not get hung up on that. I’d like to talk a little bit about your relationship with your husband. Is that ok?”
Isla shrugged.
“I see from your intake form that you do not have children. Is that correct?” Isla nodded. “Are you currently living together?” Isla nodded again. “Do you ever feel unsafe in your home?”
Isla cleared her throat. “I feel unhappy. But unsafe,” she considered, then shrugged. “No, not really.”
There was a spot on the wallpaper behind the therapist’s head. Maybe left by a piece of sticky tack or a greasy finger or some paste when it was being put up, she mused. Carmen kept talking and talking, asking questions. Did Danny try to control her, did she feel stressed, had he ever hit her, did he try to keep her from going places, did he force her to have sex when she didn’t want to?
“Do you have restricted access to money or other resources?”
“Restricted? By Danny? Ha . . . um, no.”
“That’s an interesting response.” The woman tilted her head thoughtfully, another perfected motion of her trade.
“Danny doesn’t have any money. He doesn’t work. Or rather, he doesn’t make money. He costs money.”
“Mm-hmm.” The woman made a note. “So, you are in charge of the money?”
“What are you saying?”
“Just clarifying.”
“I make the money. So yes, I guess I ‘control’ it. Am I just supposed to turn it over?”
“No, of course not. I’m just trying to determine the health of your relationship.”
“Well, doc, is it terminal?” Another weak attempt at humor. The therapist merely maintained her non-committal expression for a beat before moving on.
“Has he ever made an important decision that affected you without asking for your input?”
“Uh, he bought a house and moved all my stuff. Does that count?”
Carmen nodded. “Why would he do that? Was it an attempt to control who you could see?”
“He said it was to ‘surprise’ me.”
More nodding. “And how was he able to buy a house without any money?”
“He used to work. And he owned another house that he sold.”
“I see, I see.” She looked at her watch. “Isla, it’s just about time for the therapy group that I told you about. I’d like to see if the other women are out in the waiting room and bring them in. Are you ready for that?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be.” Isla smiled and shrugged. “It’s all women here?”
“Not necessarily. But generally. Many men don’t report abuse.”
“Why?”
“Many men have been made to feel that a real man is tough, invincible. It can feel weak to them to admit to abuse, and they can’t be sure they’ll be taken seriously. Or some of them don’t take it seriously themselves; some men even say they find it ‘cute’ when a woman gets angry or strikes them. Though that too could be a defense mechanism.”
“They wouldn’t find it ‘cute’ if I hit them,” Isla said, then realized with horror that there was an ugly sneer on her face. Carmen shook her head in confusion and Isla rushed to clarify, “I mean, it’s important to be able to defend myself, right?”
“Self-defense is important if you are unable to call for help,” Carmen said, nodding hesitantly.
“Exactly.”
Carmen rose. “I’ll go see if the group is ready. Be right back.”
As she opened the door, Isla saw a colleague pass her in the hall and heard a little whispering as the door swung shut. She leaned forward to listen.
“. . . something a little off.” How unprofessional, Isla thought.
Carmen came back with the woman from the hall and three people Isla hadn’t seen before. They chose seats from the options scattered around the room. Next to Isla was a tiny, bird-like woman of sixty or so. Her skinny fingers fluttered whenever she moved them, tightening her cardigan, adjusting her necklace. Periodically she crossed her arms and tucked her hands under her elbows to still them. Across from her was a woman on the opposite end of the spectrum physically—tall and heavy, in her late 30s, perhaps. Her short blond hair was frozen with hairspray into a little visor over her forehead and her aqua eyeshadow was clumsily applied. She wore a faded red t-shirt tucked into jeans and an incongruously glitzy wristwatch covered with rhinestones. The third woman sported tall leather boots and a stylish belted jacket cinched around her perfect figure. Her flawless make-up was straight from a TikTok tutorial, and she wore several chains and large hoop earrings.
“Let’s get started,” the new therapist said. Her voice was rich and warm, her blow-out honey colored. Her round face and big eyes behind big glasses were guileless and kind. Isla wondered how she’d gotten stuck with the other one for her individual session. “I’m Melissa,” she said to Isla, then to the group, “I’d like you all to meet Isla. She’s giving our group a try, I know you’ll all be glad to welcome her.” The women nodded as she went on, “We’ll kind of introduce ourselves as we go along. Let’s start with Cindy,” she indicated the little quivering woman by Isla’s side. “She’s one of our success stories. Cindy, tell us why you’re here.”
The woman smiled and began in a gentle, breathy voice, “Well, I spent 25 years in a relationship where I had no autonomy at all and I didn’t think that could ever change, but then about 15 years ago, I started coming here and I started to realize the truth, that I have worth and that I actually can make good decisions for myself. My husband had convinced me that I was ugly, that I was stupid, that I couldn’t survive without him. And when he had me completely under his thumb, he needed to conquer someone else, so there were affairs. I was terribly lonely. Everyone thought we were such a nice couple, it was hard to find help. But finally, I did, and ever since, I’ve been wanting to help other women. Now I’ve been here longer than a lot of the employees.” She raised her shoulders and smiled somewhat sheepishly at the therapists.
Melissa gently prodded her, “And what are you here for, Cindy?”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she laughed a fluttery laugh. “I’m here to encourage the new ladies as someone who survived. Tell them what I’ve learned. I just want them to know that they matter. That’s the main thing. They come in here with someone telling them over and over that they don’t matter, and they just need to know that it’s not true.” She looked at Isla with a meek, hopeful smile as she pulled her cardigan tight again. “You matter.” Isla nodded curtly in acknowledgment.
“Cindy’s very dear to us,” Melissa said. “Thanks so much for sharing. Let’s get into our discussion, but first just a couple of reminders. We want this to be a safe place to share; we aren’t critical of each other. We keep our words encouraging and helpful. We talk in quiet voices. It’s ok to be upset, but shouting and unkindness are absolutely out of line. Please remember that we are all at different points on our journey.” Everyone nodded assent. “Remember to stick to a few minutes each and then look for some input. Don’t monopolize the time. If you don’t want to speak, you are always allowed to pass, or even to leave. You are here voluntarily; you have agency over your life. If you take away nothing else, we want you to experience that certainty while you are here. Isla, this is Jess,” Melissa indicated the woman in the red shirt, who nodded, “and this is Taylor.”
“Hi,” Taylor, the chic woman with the jewelry said in a bubbly voice, ending with a crackly laugh. “Hi, nice to meet you. Welcome.”
“Who would like to start us off? How was your week?” Melissa asked.
“Well, Dylan is back,” Taylor said, laughing nervously again.
Melissa’s face was concerned.
“Yep, well, he says he’s sorry. You know, he said he should never have left and he was so sorry and it would never happen again and he loves me. You know the drill. My boyfriend said he’d leave me if I kept coming here,” she explained to Isla, “and I did, so he did. Only for a couple of days, though.”
“And what do you think about all that?” Melissa prodded.
“I mean, I feel kind of bad for him. He says that it’s embarrassing to him that I’m coming here and that some things are private and that it’s wrong for me to come here and talk about our relationship. That it’s not really that bad with us.” Nervous laugh, once more.
“My husband was always sorry,” Cindy said, “but I think he felt like a failure when I got upset. I think he was worried about himself. I don’t think he was sorry because he knew it was wrong, that he was hurting me, or because he didn’t want to see someone he loved hurting.”
“Apologizing can be another way to control someone,” Melissa said. “Do you feel like he is trying to use his apologies to make you do what he wants?”
“I don’t know,” Taylor said, laughing self-consciously and brushing her highlighted hair behind one ear. “How can you tell? He sounds really, really sorry. Like he’s begging me. He says he’s afraid of losing me.”
“And he is,” Jess spoke up finally. “Because he owns you. A narcissist will always say what you want to hear. It’s part of their manipulative plan.”
“We’re all concerned about Taylor’s situation, but let’s remember that we can’t read Dylan’s mind,” Melissa gently corrected her, then added, “Do you have any thoughts, Isla? No pressure.”
Isla cleared her throat. “Well, yeah. Yeah, I do. I mean I don’t get it, it doesn’t feel like you’re being fair to . . . was it Dylan? I mean, people can be sorry. And doesn’t it make sense that he’s afraid of losing you? Isn’t he in danger of losing you? Isn’t that what these people are here for? To convince you to leave? The only ‘success’ story I’ve heard so far was a divorce.”
“Isla,” Melissa said gently, “you probably aren’t aware of it, but your voice is starting to rise a little bit.”
“I’m sorry.” Isla sighed impatiently.
“To answer your question . . . no, we are here to care for the health and safety of each other.”
“But that means splitting up.”
“Splitting people up is not our purpose. Not every relationship is the same. But reconciliation can be difficult and we’d be very cautious to recommend it. Although people can change, those situations are not often the ones that we encounter here.”
“Then Dylan has everything to be afraid of. And if you’re going to sit here and say that he can’t be sorry, he can’t make things right, he can’t possibly mean it, it’s always just a sinister plan . . . then how can he get out of that position? Do you really think that people have a ten-point takeover plan? Don’t you think that they are just desperate and scared and sad?” Cindy put a gentle hand on her shoulder. Gentle, calming, but also, Isla sensed, a warning.
Carmen was calm yet stern, “Isla, let’s plan to talk about this privately in our next session.” If there is another session, Isla thought as she sat deeper in her chair in resignation.
Taylor was laughing steadily now. At least, it sounded like laughing and her mouth looked like smiling, but Isla saw that there were tears in her eyes. “They are good questions, though. They really are good questions.”
Melissa was visibly working hard to control herself. “Isla is very new here,” she said to Taylor. “There’s a lot she doesn’t know about your journey,” she said with a significant look, “and you have no obligation to tell it all now, although it’s up to you. Please don’t forget the things we’ve been talking about in our private sessions.” Taylor nodded. Jess had handed her a tissue and Taylor was dabbing at her eyelashes in what Isla thought was a prissy way. Heaven forbid her precious mascara smear.
“Jess, would you like to share anything this week or introduce yourself to Isla at all?”
“Yeah, I uh . . . well, welcome, first of all. I’m uh, newly separated from my partner and she, uh . . . well, she was a manipulative little princess, wasn’t she?” Taylor laughed and Cindy tilted her head and nodded kindly. “So, uh, I’m just trying to figure things out, you know, she took all my money and my keys and just, uh, I’m basically starting over and um . . . I’m just grateful for these ladies. I don’t know how I’d do it.” She looked down and rocked in her chair a bit.
“Thank you, Jess, anything new you want to talk about?”
“Uh . . . it’s just more of the same, really.”
“Ok. Let’s give the floor to Isla. Isla, what brings you here?”
“So, my best friend made me come.”
“But why? Remember, you never have to answer.”
“No, that’s ok. My husband and I have had a rough patch and it’s become, well . . . too much. And the other day we had a fight and he broke some things and my hand got hurt and . . . yeah, Kim was just concerned. Honestly, I don’t know where or how it can come to an end.”
“How long have you been married?” Taylor asked.
“Let’s see . . . almost two years? Yeah.”
“Has he always been this way?”
“No, well, sometimes I think we didn’t know each other well enough when we got married—who does—but no, we used to get along, well, mostly. He’s had some, uh, disappointments in life and . . . he’s taken it hard. I don’t know that I’d call it abuse.”
“When someone is hurting you and breaking your things, that’s called abuse,” Cindy said softly.
“Well, I’ve been told that the clinical definition . . .” she looked at Carmen, “well, anyway, that’s basically my story.”
Taylor’s phone buzzed. “Oh . . . oh, are we almost done here? I’m so sorry, my ride is here.” She laughed her trilling laugh again.
“It’s about time to wind up anyway,” Melissa said. “Thank you all so much. See you next week, and please call the office if you need anything before then. Remember in an emergency, who do we call?”
“Ghostbusters?” Isla offered.
“911.”
As the other women made their way into the hall, Isla moved next to Melissa and Carmen. “Look, I’m not sure that I really belong here, you know? I just, I’m not sure I’m going through what these other women are.”
Carmen peered into her eyes for a moment. “You might be right.”
“You are welcome, of course,” Melissa added, “but make the right decision for you.”
“And everyone else,” Carmen cautioned. Isla nodded and hustled into the hall.
Clustered at the end of it were Cindy, Taylor, and Jess. Taylor had her hand on the doorknob, somehow at once seeming to indicate that she would leave at any second and also as if she wanted to pull it closed.
“And are you ready for the wedding night?” Taylor was saying, laughing of course.
Cindy smiled at the floor, coy but shy. “It sounds silly coming from this old wrinkly, but . . . I have a package coming from Victoria’s Secret this afternoon.”
“You hussy!” Taylor teased her, then, as Isla came up, explained, “Cindy is getting married this weekend!”
“Married!” Isla responded. “Isn’t that something?”
“Dan is really something,” Jess said. “Cindy got an award at the state house last year and he said that she’s his hero.”
“Oh,” Cindy said dismissively, “well, he’s a good man, I won’t argue with that.”
“Dan, huh? Congratulations. It was nice to meet you all.” Isla excused herself and gestured towards the door.
A young man was leaning on the wall right next to it. Isla recognized him from an exchange of pleasantries in the waiting room when she’d first arrived. He’d been very affable. But now . . .
“There you are,” he said to Taylor, reaching around Isla to grab her wrist. He pulled her close, putting his arm around her waist. “I missed you.” He kissed her then looked at her face. “What the hell is wrong with your mascara?”
“Oh, I uh . . .”
“Go fix it . . .”
“Ok, I’ll just go in the bath . . .”
“You know what, just fix it in the car.”
“Ok, I just need to get my . . .” Taylor grabbed her coat from a hook as he propelled her past it and through the doors to a big black SUV that was already running. Isla saw him grope her bottom as she climbed in and then smacked it hard. His cold laugh reached her ears just as the automatic doors hissed shut. She felt a little sick. She felt disoriented.
______________________________________________________________
<<How did it go?>> Kim’s text was already there when Isla got into her car.
<<Eh, ok. There’s so much unhappiness in the world.>>
<<Think you’ll go back?>>
<<I don’t think so. It didn’t seem like a good fit for me.>>
<<I’ll keep trying.>>
<<I know.>
Copyright 2025 Jennie Robertson