Deals openly and candidly with domestic violence; contains a powerful message of hope and healing that can only be found in God’s love, grace, mercy and forgiveness.
Excerpt
Katrina Simmons awoke with a jolt as the car she was riding in slammed into the bridge, spun twice and came to a sliding halt against the concrete. She sat a moment, stunned, her heart banging against her ribs, her breath escaping in ragged pants.
Thank God there was no one around. Reaching over, she shook her husband. “Jack?” He mumbled, eyes rolling languidly, and passed out.
Rage unlike anything she’d ever known roared through her. Fumbling with the door handle she managed to get it open and climbed shakily out of the vehicle. A groan, more anguish than pain, escaped her clenched teeth as she considered the damage to her car.
“Great, Jack! Just great,” she raged at her husband, who reclined in a drunken stupor. “You’ve finally done it! You’ve ruined my car!” she accused, kicking the door.
~ ~ ~
Dr. Scott Hensley settled in for the drive to New Orleans. It wasn’t a long drive, but a trip he wasn’t looking forward to. Mardi Gras in New Orleans was not the place to be.
He slowed his vehicle and pulled over at the sight of an automobile accident. Using his mobile phone he called the police and climbed out of his car to check on the victims.
“Are you all right?” he asked, hurrying toward the young woman pacing alongside the car.
She whirled around with a screech, lunged through the window, and shook the driver. “You drunken idiot!” she raged, punching him soundly on the jaw. She shook him again, winced, and shoved away to continue her tirade.
Being a wise man, Scott stepped back from the raging female as the sound of sirens pierced the air. Showing his I. D., he talked with one of the police officers arriving on the scene while the other officer talked with the young woman.
“Did you see what happened?”
Scott shook his head. “No, I got here afterward. Looks like they hit the wall.”
‘The wall’ was the center median divider on one of the longest bridges in the United States. The Achafalaya Basin Bridge was also one of the longest bridges in Louisiana and the most tedious stretch of highway between Lafayette and Baton Rouge.
They watched as the young woman paced, answering in monosyllables. She turned in an angry whirl, gestured wildly, then cradled her arm against her.
“She seems to be favoring her wrist,” the officer observed.
Scott chuckled. “I’m sure it needs tending. She hit him.”
The cop’s eyes widened. “What? Who?”
Scott laughed softly and shook his head. “Her husband or boyfriend, whoever is driving. When I got here, she was ranting and raving about him ruining her car. She lunged through the window, and punched him. I haven’t had a chance to check on him. I doubt he’s injured too badly. From what I can gather he’s probably drunk.”
“What did he do?”
Again Scott chuckled, feeling a tug in the region of his heart. The fiery little lady reminded him of someone he knew. Two someone’s actually, someone he loved and someone he’d lost.
“He just groaned and passed out,” he answered, walking toward them. Scott presented his I. D. to the other officer, requesting permission to check her wrist.
Katrina balked at the offer. “I’m fine,” she hissed, not caring about her wrist. All she wanted was for someone to drag her husband out of the car and let her loose on him!
Scott reached for her, turning her to face him. “Easy, Sweetheart,” he said, his voice a soft drawl. “I won’t hurt you.”
She looked up at him, her eyes wide and angry, her cheeks flushed, and fainted. Scott caught her as she slumped in his arms. Picking up her small frame he held her as the ambulance that had been summoned arrived. Carrying her to them, he waited as the EMT’s opened the back and retrieved a stretcher then gently laid her there and examined her. Her wrist was broken. Other than that, she seemed to be fine.
Covering her with a blanket from the ambulance, Scott watched as the officers pulled the driver out of the car. Gut-wrenching fury clawed through him as they hauled the huge bulk of a man from behind the wheel. Easily as tall as he, the man was a giant compared to his tiny wife.
Where Scott’s broad shoulders tapered down and narrowed to a slim waist and long, muscular legs, this guy was solid. His chest was easily as broad and thick as his shoulders. He had a solid middle and bulky, muscular legs and hips, the build of a football player, wrestler or body builder. From his belligerent attitude, he obviously took advantage of it.
“You leave me in jail, and you’ll pay for it, Katrina,” he hissed, slurring the words unbearably, obviously unconcerned that his wife lay passed out on a stretcher.
Scott turned toward her as the young woman began to moan and writhe. “My baby,” she whimpered. Clutching her stomach, she curled into a tiny ball and wept as blood seeped from her body. Pulling her against his chest, Scott did his best to soothe the trembling female in his arms. As she quieted, never fully conscious, he lay her back down.
Walking over to the police car, he hailed the officer. “Add murder to his charges. She just miscarried,” he growled, glaring at the man in cuffs.
It took a moment for the words to register on Jack Simmons’s booze fuddled brain. He grunted. “Don’t need no brats anyway,” he slurred. His head rolled languidly, and he slipped into a drunken stupor once more.
Scott’s hands clenched into fists and for one fleeting moment he was grateful to God that he’d taken an oath to preserve life. He could easily kill the man, so obviously unconcerned with his wife and unborn child that he’d driven, drunk, with her in the car.
Domestic violence and child abuse were the two most hated diagnoses in the Physicians Desk Reference and Scott had seen enough to leave little doubt in his mind that she’d had little, if any, say about the situation she was in.
He watched in silence as the police drove off with Jack cuffed securely into the back seat, and the ambulance took her away. Turning on his c. b. radio, he communicated with the ambulance drivers and found out where they were taking her. Using his mobile phone, he put in a call to the hospital he was traveling to and bought some time. Instead of the 7 a.m. to 7 p.m. shift he’d originally been scheduled for, Scott had it switched to the opposite. Pulling in behind the ambulance he talked with the doctors and nurses on staff in the emergency room at Baton Rouge General. Then he waited.
Copyright 2008 Pamela S Thibodeaux. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.
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