A Chick in the Cockpit (15 page)

The milk I was sending was probably full of endorphins and adrenaline, and Lindsey didn't nurse for long. She started squirming and stopped nursing even though I knew she was probably hungry. It was lunch time and she had just started eating a few spoonfuls of oatmeal a few days before. Before heading to the kitchen, I took a baby wipe and dabbed at the wet spot on the back of my head where the blood had leaked down my neck. The wipe came away full of bright blood, but it wasn't flowing and it felt like it was already stopped bleeding. I cleaned myself up and, like a good pilot, assessed my situation.

I didn't keep a clock in Lindsey's room (it would taunt me in the wee hours of the night, laughing at me that I was the only person in the world awake at 2:30 in the morning). I wasn't sure of the time, but about fifteen minutes had passed since I'd heard Brad's voice. He was still in the downstairs office, so I quietly opened the door to the nursery and peeked down the stairs.

The door to his office was closed, so I quietly took Lindsey to the kitchen to make her some oatmeal. She watched in anticipation as I pulled down the box with the Gerber baby on it. She was bouncing in my arms and smiling as I got out the little bowl and spoon. While walking across the kitchen to set up her high chair, the beep of the microwave went off at the same time I heard the office door open.

In an instant, the footsteps went from walking to running. Brad bounded up the stairs in two leaps and ran straight towards me. My feet stood planted like an oak. I couldn't move. With shark eyes still blazing, Brad instantly started grabbing Lindsey out of my arms. He didn't say anything at first. He just started pulling my fingers back to get me to release her. The terror that flooded my body when I realized what he was doing was like nothing I'd ever experienced before. It was sheer panic thinking he was about to hurt my baby. I pleaded over and over, “Please stop, please stop, please.”

Brad grabbed me around my underarm and squeezed into my armpit. “I'm going to hurt her if you don't let go of her. Give her to me right fucking now or you're both going to get hurt! You're totally out of control.”

He was blocking the exit from the kitchen and there was no way out from the kitchen. The intense fear had caused my bladder to release. I had been in life or death situations in an airplane, but nothing ever scared me like this. This was pure terror, and I was humiliated.

As I turned my body to put flesh between myself and Lindsey, I saw a movement out of the corner of my eye. I could see something coming down my driveway. It was a car and as I forced my eyes to focus for more than a moment, I saw it was a police car.

Thank you, Sweet Jesus. One of my neighbors must've heard me pleading for help. Thank God someone heard me cry for help. Now, at least I know, we'll be safe.

In the motion it had taken me to turn slightly and look out the window, Brad was able to get his hands under both of Lindsey's underarms and he pulled her up and out of my arms with all of his might. The police were just moments away. Brad couldn't possibly hurt her in that amount of time.

Brad took Lindsey and started for the stairs to the front door. I started, too, because I felt an intense need to run to them. As I put my first foot on the top step, Brad turned around and growled, “Don't you fucking move. You stand right there. Right where you are, and don't you fucking move. You got it? You're not that stupid that you don't understand what I'm telling you, right? Don't. Fucking. Move.”

I had a moment of satisfaction thinking that Brad was going to run right into the police. That he would reach the front door and be hit with the shock of his life. The police would be waiting for him.

What I heard instead was laughter. It was Brad who had called the police.

Laughter...

Brad was at the front door, holding Lindsey in his arms and I could hear him talking to the officer. The second officer was walking up behind the first. After every four or five words, Brad gave them a humble chuckle. His voice was jovial, calm, and seeking camaraderie with these older officers of a small town.

“Yeah, man, I'm soooo sorry to have to call you, but my wife is totally out of control and I'm afraid she is going to hurt our daughter. Man, can you believe this? She took a swing at me and then actually clocked me. When she started acting like she was going to hurt Lindsey to get back at me, I figured I better call you and get someone out here to help me.

“Sorry, man, it's kinda embarrassing that I have a wife like this. We've only been married for about a year and a half, and turns out she's crazy. She's just some control freak. Used to be an airline pilot and she must think I'm one of her flight attendants she can boss around (insert laughter here). You know how wives can be, right?”

I was struck with such a wave of nausea that I had to draw in my breath and hold it. My vision narrowed, as I reached out to hold the wall. He called the police and set the scene. He held our daughter in his arms with a smile on his face. He was humbly telling these officers that
I
was abusing
him
. I had never even thought of abusing anyone. I'd never even honked my car horn at anyone, never spoken up if my food was cold or the wrong order, I let people cut in line in front of me—I'd spent a lifetime of trying to please everyone. I had taken shit my entire life to keep the peace, toed the line to do the right thing, so I simply couldn't wrap my head around the surreal situation that I had become.

“Are there any weapons in the home,” I heard the officer ask.

“Nah, just my wife!” was Brad's reply.

Both officers found this hysterical. He did a masterful job of being the poor husband, standing at the front door holding his baby girl while his crazy wife must be foaming at the mouth at the back of the house.

I hadn't been able to move. I was still standing where I was told to stand. The officer was startled to see me standing at the top of the stairs. Sure, I did look insane at that moment.

His face went from smirk to taut as his hand reached over the top of his gun. “Ma'am, I need you to back away from the stairs and stand over by the wall.”

I silently do exactly what he says.

“Do you have a weapon?”

“I've never held a gun in my life.”

“Guns aren't the only weapons around, why do you assume I'm talking about a gun?”

“I'm sorry. I don't know. I don't have a weapon. I don't have anything.” I have cotton mouth and I'm having trouble simply getting the words to squeeze out.

“Your husband says you're threatening to hurt him and your daughter. He claims that you hit him. What are you doing? What's going on here?”

“I don't know.” That's all my brain could answer to. It truly couldn't accept what was happening. I was ashamed. I had never even gotten a speeding ticket or been called to a principal's office. I had never done anything outside the realm of legal, and suddenly I found myself standing in front of an officer for the first time in my life being accused of something I didn't do—and I can't defend myself. I didn't know I even needed to defend myself.

“Well, what do you mean you don't know? Are you on medication?”

“No.”

“Then how can you not know what's going on? Your husband says you're an airline pilot. Says you're some kinda control freak and that maybe you'll hurt your child if you don't get your way about something. Are you an airline pilot?”

“Yes. No. Well, I am, but I'm not flying right now.”

“What? You don't even know if you're a pilot?”

“I do know, but it's a long story. I am a pilot. I will always be a pilot, but I'm not flying right now.” The officer tips his head slightly and says, “Did you get fired?”

“No, of course not. My husband asked me to quit, so I did.”

“Are you mad at him about that?”
Actually, yes, I am.
That question focused my thinking for a moment. It was a new question that had never been asked, and I was surprised at my own internal answer. It distracted me. I was a little mad about that, but I was pretty certain that was not what he wanted to hear right then.

“No, I'm not mad at him about that. I'm still a pilot I'm just not flying right now, but I will again soon.”

“You sound awfully confused.”

“I am. I am totally confused. I just don't understand what my husband is doing...”

“Well, he seems pretty calm and knows exactly what's happening. Did you hit your husband?”

“No, I didn't hit my husband.”

“Did you touch him in any way?” I am from the Midwest. I reflexively tell the truth without giving the rest of the story. I never think for a moment of what the officer is implying or getting at. I simply tell the truth and say, “Yes, I pushed his face away from me when he was yelling at me.”

“Okay, I'll make this easy. Who touched who first?”

“Well, I did. I pushed his face away from mine because he was yelling swear words in my face.”

“Swearing at someone isn't illegal, but hitting someone is.”

“But, I didn't hit him. I just pushed him away from us.”

“Us?”

“Yes, he was yelling swear words in front of our daughter, and I got mad about that.”

“Your daughter is a baby. She doesn't understand swearing. Why would you get mad about that? Do you get mad easily?”

“NO!” But now I really was getting mad. He wasn't letting me tell him what happened so I skipped the story and just showed him my arms. I thrust my arms out and showed him how they were covered in angry red marks and some had already turned strange colors because blood vessels were popped. I was so embarrassed to be showing this stranger my arms, my shame, my life.

“Feel the back of my head! There is a huge goose egg where he smashed me into the wall.” The officer walked up to me and I smelled his underarm deodorant as he reached to the back of my head and started pressing. It took two presses before the third one found its mark. When he pressed on it, the pain sent a wave of nausea through my stomach, and I reflexively sucked in a deep breath of air that mixed in with the smell of his deodorant. The violation to my sinuses caused more pain to my brain.

The officer looked down at his fingers and they were coated in blood. He walked to the sink and washed his hands, but couldn't find the paper towels, so I told him there was a dish rag hanging on the stove handle.

The officer looked at me and said he'd be right back. He turned and went back downstairs to where I could hear my husband laughing and talking with the other officer. All the voices mingled and the rise and fall of questions faded as both officers walked up the stairs.

Both officers approached and stood on either side of me. “Well, the story both of you gave are extremely different, but the one event that you both confirm is that
you,
Mrs. Armstrong
,
were the one to start the physical contact. Whatever happened after that doesn't matter because you started the aggression. It's a matter of who-touched-who first, so we're arresting
you
for assault, battery, and domestic violence. Since you used your daughter in the argument, this could be a felony charge for you. Do yourself a favor and remove your wedding ring and any necklaces you might have on because they will confiscate it at the jail. Also, go find your driver's license for identification. It makes the booking process go faster.”

As they helped me remove my necklace and rings, I saw Brad sneak up onto the lower steps. Just his head was visible and I could see his smirk. He then pressed his lips to his teeth in victory and kissed Lindsey on the cheek while watching an officer fumble with my necklace—the necklace he gave me on our first Christmas together.

Lindsey.

“Please. I am still nursing Lindsey. You can't take me away from my daughter! She needs to be nursed. Do you know what Brad did to me? Doesn't that matter? How can this man push me into a wall and down the stairs and hit me repeatedly, and you're arresting
me
? He doesn't have a single mark on him and I have blood oozing out of my arms and out the back of my head. I never hit him. You can't do this! ” The officers looked at each other and for the first time, I saw some hesitation in what they were about to do. The officer who first heard my allegations looked at Brad.

“Mr. Armstrong. Do you think you might have someplace to go tonight? Is it possible for you to leave the residence this evening and let things cool down awhile?”

“No. I don't have any place to go. This is my home. Lindsey doesn't need to be nursed. She's eating oatmeal already, so she can just go without nursing. You can take Erika away. She's just trying to manipulate you.”

That was all they needed to hear. Once my rings were removed, they asked me to turn around so they could place a zip tie type of handcuff on me before escorting me out the front door.

At the sight of my departure, Lindsey started to cry at the top of her lungs. The sound sent daggers to my heart and I sobbed so loudly I was startled by the strength and emotion of it.

My neighbors lined the end of their driveways at the sight of two cop cars in my driveway. They watched as I took the walk of shame, handcuffed, from my front door to the back of the squad car. Brad stood in the doorway, bouncing Lindsey while both of her hands reached out to stop me from walking away. Brad allowed her to watch the entire process. As the two men in uniform walked me away while my baby was being held by a monster, I could feel the thread that tied Lindsey and me together being pulled to its limits, and the pain was beyond imaginable. Lindsey had twisted her upper torso so both of her arms were stretched out to bring me back. In agony, she screamed at the top of her lungs. Brad ignored her while holding his smirk as the frantic creature in his arms watched her mom being taken away. Scooting into the back seat of the squad car, I saw Brad look up and acknowledge the neighbors at the side of the road by waving and giving them a thumb's up not to worry. Everything is okay here.