“I need to be bailed out,” I explain. “This is ridiculous.”
The officer turns around. “Hey, you can’t be calling people on your cell phone while you’re arrested.”
I must look ridiculous, my arms twisted up like a demented pretzel. Calling the enabler parents of the man whohasactually abused me, because that abusive man has had me arrested on false charges.
What the actual fuck.
“Oh sorry,” I say to Phil. “Gotta go.”
I hang up, shrugging. “Sorry, I don’t know how this works.”
“You’ll have a chance to make a phone call from the station,” the officer says. “But first, I’m taking you to the hospital to get checked out.”
I lean back against the seat, the absurdity of the situation washing over me.
This is my life now—accused of domestic violence by the man who has actually abused me.
Yelled at by neighbors for lightly tapping a drumstick against a child in a man’s body.
It’s like a bad sitcom, except I’m the punchline.
CHAPTER 65
DEFENSIVE DRINKING
MARGAUX
Imake small talk with the police officer as he drives us to the nearby hospital. “Maybe I should become a COP,” I say, attempting humor to cut through the tension.
“Well, you can’t have any convictions to be one,” he replies, glancing at me in the rear-view mirror. “But you’re not going to get a conviction for this. The chances are very low.”
I’m taken to a waiting room where another officer supervises me. We chat about his career, where he’s lived, and I tell him about roller derby and my police officer uncle who passed away. The conversation feels oddly normal, almost like we’re two strangers waiting for a delayed flight, not one of us being processed after an arrest.
Then I’m led into a sterile examination room, humming with the soft beeping of medical equipment. The air smells faintly of antiseptic. A doctor who looks a bit like Rick Moranis walks in, a flashlight strapped to his forehead.
He and his team perform various scans, and then I’m asked to provide a urine sample.
“So, you were drinking earlier? Why did you have so much to drink?” the doctor asks while adjusting his flashlight.
“Because my fiancé is abusive, and I wanted him to stop hurting me,” I reply, the words tumbling out before I can second-guess them.
“Ah,” says the doctor, nodding knowingly. “Defensive drinking.”
“Yep!” I reply. “Exactly!”
Everyone in the room chuckles softly, breaking the tension. The doctor’s expression softens as he leans in closer. “Open your mouth so I can take a look,” he says.
Without thinking, I stick my tongue out and say, “Aaaah,” like a kid in a pediatrician’s office.
He cracks up laughing, as do the officers. “I literally just needed you to open your mouth,” he says, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye.
I laugh too, my cheeks warm with embarrassment.
The humor fades as he reviews the scan results and frowns. He sits me down, seriousness creeping back into his voice. “Margaux, I’ve performed a scan of your skull, and you have a serious fracture that shows healing consistent with an injury from a few months ago.”
Shock bolts through me. “He… fractured my skull?Oh my God.”
The doctor’s eyes hold mine. “Yes,” he says gently but firmly. He hands me a domestic violence pamphlet. “I’m going to provide you with some resources, but you really need to get out of this relationship.”