I jumped out of bed when someone knocked on the door so forcefully that my heart raced. The window was still dark and heavy at five in the morning. This wasn’t a courteous knock on the door. The knocking was urgent and furious, as if someone’s life depended on it.
“Mom, let me in!” Please, Mom!
It was Emily’s voice. My daughter was shaking and crying.
I hurried to the door barefoot, putting on my robe as I went. When I opened the door, the sight before me made my stomach drop. Emily stood in the doorway with her hands on her large, nine-month belly to protect it. There was a small line of blood running down from a split eyebrow. Her lip was twice as big as normal, and the fear in her eyes was the same type I had seen when I worked with trauma patients and treated car crash victims.
“Emily,
“Max did it… He hit me, Mom. “He hit me,” she said through a flood of tears, and something dark, old, and ferociously maternal came up in me. The need to protect and the much stronger need to punish.
I’m
“Come here.” Stay put.
I raced to get the first-aid kit and grabbed iodine, peroxide, and bandages. My hands didn’t shake, which is something that happens in my line of work, but I was boiling inside. “Tell me what happened,” I continued as I worked on the eyebrow cut, attempting to keep my voice quiet.
“We fought… about money, as usual.” I told him we needed to get a crib for the baby, and he claimed I spend too much money and waste it all the time. I told him that this is our money and that I work too. She lost her voice. ” And he… he just lost it. He slapped me in the face, then pushed me, and I collapsed. Emily cried even harder and held her stomach.
“Does it hurt?” Does your stomach hurt? I went into medical gear right away.
“No, I don’t think so.” I was just really afraid. I thought he would never stop.
Max Daniels. That’s what my son-in-law is called. Thirty-five. A manager for a large construction company. Always wearing a tie and a flawless, polished smile. I knew something was wrong immediately when Emily brought him home to meet us three years ago. Maybe he was too charming, too proper, or too slick.
“Charlene, you look so young!” He had impressed me at our first meeting by saying, “I thought you were Emily’s peer.” But I noticed how he silently looked about my flat, figuring out how much the furniture and photos on the walls were worth. Emily was in love, though. Just saying his name made her eyes shine and her cheeks flame. “Mom, he’s so caring and pays attention,” she would have said. I didn’t say anything. I didn’t want to make her unhappy.
And suddenly, here she was, in front of me with a shattered face, nine months pregnant.
I added firmly as I put a bandage on her eyebrow, “You’re not going back to him.”
“Mom, but the flat… our stuff… and maybe he’ll come to his senses.” Say you’re sorry.”
“Emily Reiner.” I only used her full name when I was grave. “A man who hits his pregnant wife won’t change and won’t come to his senses. That’s a fact that is both medical and statistical. “You’re staying here.”
She nodded, but I could tell she wasn’t sure. It’s a pattern that happens a lot. Abused individuals often justify their abuser’s actions, seek explanations, and occasionally place the blame on themselves. “Maybe I do spend too much,” she said at first.
I stopped her. “Even if you lost all your money at the casino, that doesn’t give him the right to hit you. That’s it.
I put Emily to bed in my room and gave her a light sleeping pill. After that, I sat in the kitchen with a big cup of coffee. It was 5:20 AM, two hours before my shift, yet I couldn’t sleep. My mind was full of dark, frigid thoughts. What should I do? Do you need to file a police report? Emily wouldn’t do that. I know her. A divorce? Max would fight it and make it last. And the baby was going to be born any day now. Talk to him? Not helpful. People like that only know one thing: power.
Then I had an idea that was as clear and frigid as a scalpel’s edge. I am a doctor. I can get medicines. I know things. I’ve got tools. No, I wasn’t going to hurt him. I’m not a bad person. But I was going to teach him a lesson that would stick with him for the rest of his sad life. Why not?
The strategy came together quickly and accurately, like a surgery. I could get many different pharmaceuticals at the hospital, including strong sleeping pills and muscle relaxants. Some of these drugs could make me paralyzed without being life-threatening. The effect, on the other hand, would be terrifyingly spectacular. I would also require tools for surgery. Of course, these tools would not be used for actual surgery, but rather to enhance the spectacle on stage.
I proceeded to my home medical office, which was somewhat of a study where I stored medical books and some tools for emergencies. I took out a little surgical kit that had sterilized scalpels of different sizes, clamps, and needle holders, all in their packages. I thought about it for a minute and then added some saline ampules and syringes. The scene had to be believable.
I contacted my job at 7:00 AM and told them I had urgent family affairs to take care of and would be taking the day off. Neil, my supervisor, was a kind guy and didn’t ask. He only told her, “Charlene, please let me know if you need anything.”
I said thanks and hung up. Emily was still asleep, her breathing steady, and her face was finally tranquil. Give her some time to recover. I had to get some work done.
The flat where Max and Emily lived was half an hour distant in a new complex with a fence and a concierge at the entrance. I had keys because Emily had handed me an extra one. Mrs. Baker, the concierge, was a fat woman in her sixties with a friendly face who knew me.
“Oh, Charlene, are you going to see the kids? I haven’t seen Emily yet today.
I said, “I brought her to my house because she wasn’t feeling well last night,” attempting to seem calm.
“Oh, but she’s going to pop! Has she started to give birth? Mrs. Baker was worried.
“No, no, false alarm.” I’m just here to pick up some things for her.
Mrs. Baker nodded and went back to her TV, where a morning chat show was on. I climbed to the seventh floor and opened the door silently. There was no noise in the flat except for snoring coming from the bedroom. Max was sleeping. Great.
I went into the kitchen. There was a half-full bottle of whiskey on the table. It appears that once Emily left, he tried to drown his remorse in drink, assuming he had any regret at all. I found his favorite mug, the one that said “Best Boss,” in a cupboard. His coworkers had given it to him. I took the midazolam out of my backpack. It’s a medicine that makes you sleepy during procedures. I drew a small amount into a syringe. It wasn’t harmful, but it was enough to put me to sleep for two to three hours without dreaming. I took the syringe out of the mug and filled it with fresh coffee from the machine. The fragrance of coffee would wake him up. Emily had informed me that he couldn’t start his day without a strong espresso.
I did hear footsteps coming from the bedroom after approximately 10 minutes. Max walked into the kitchen wearing only his underpants and a vest. His hair was messy, and his face was furrowed from sleep. When he spotted me, he froze. “Charlene? What are you doing here?
“Good morning, Max.” I came to talk about my kid. “Coffee?” I pointed at the cup.
He frowned but took it and drank a lot. “Where is Emily?”
“With me.” And she is going to stay there.
“Why is that?” She is my wife.
“Your wife is who you hit.”
He flinched and was going to say something when I raised my hand. “Don’t even try to deny it.” I saw the marks. Max, I’m a doctor. I know the difference between a bruise and an injury that happened by mistake.
He sat down at the table and drank some more coffee. “It’s her fault.” Nagging her with what she wants. She says, “A crib for five hundred dollars.”
“And that’s why you should hit a pregnant woman?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “I didn’t hit her.” I just… gave her a little nudge.
The midazolam was beginning to work. I could see Max yawning and wiping his eyes. “I want to go to sleep.” He whispered, “Maybe I went too far last night.”
“Why don’t you lie down?” I said in a sweet voice, “I’ll wait.”
He gave me a skeptical glance, but his eyelids were already heavy. “Maybe we’ll talk later.” He rose up, swayed, and went back to the bedroom. I waited for fifteen minutes before going to check. He was totally out.
This is when the fun part started.
I went back to the kitchen, cleaned up the dining table, and wiped it off with alcohol. First, make sure everything is clean, even for a play. I put out my tools: clamps, scalpels, scissors, and needle holders. In the dawn light, everything shone with a cold, metallic sheen. I put the ampules and syringes in neat rows. Then I took clean towels from the bathroom and put them all over the table. The sight looked spectacular, like someone getting ready for a big surgery.
That was just the start, though. I got a piece of paper and a pen out of my bag. I wrote in huge, clear letters:
Max Daniels,
In an hour, you will wake up. You will have an option.
Option One: You file for divorce freely, claim no rights to the child, pay child support, and disappear from Emily’s life forever.
Option Two: I utilize my professional skills to ensure you can never hit a lady again. You have the choice.
P.S. This isn’t a joke. I have been a surgeon for 25 years. I can do things to you that you won’t even know about until it’s too late.
P.S. If you touch my kid again, I won’t be so nice next time.
I put the note right next to the instruments so everyone could see it. That wasn’t all, though. I went back to the bedroom where Max was sleeping. I slowly took off his vest, and he didn’t move. I drew lines with iodine on his chest and stomach, which is what doctors generally do before surgery to show where the cuts will be. It appeared very real and scary. Then I put on the complete equipment from my bag: surgical gloves, a mask, and a cap. I waited in a chair next to the bed.
About two hours later, Max started to wake up. He grumbled at first, then opened his eyes and tried to focus. He muttered, “What’s going on?”
“You are waking up.” “Good,” I responded without taking off my mask.
He turned his head, saw me in full surgical gear, and jumped. “What’s going on?” He tried to stand up, but I put my gloved hand on his chest.
“Stay still.” You need to look at something.
He looked down and noticed the iodine lines going all over his body. He turned pale. “What did you do to me?”
