Anne Page 5

  My mother lost a child, who was just five years old. I thought about how hard that must have been for her as a parent. Is there a bigger pain in life a parent could endure? And my mother adored children.

  As a matter of fact, she was the nursery coordinator at our church for twenty-five years, and she rarely was able to attend worship service, but she was doing what she loved. She also worked with the State Department of Human Resources, which she retired from after thirty-two years. I can remember her coming home completely exhausted and heading into the kitchen to cook dinner.

  Anne was having trouble sleeping. More from the pain, she realized later, than the trauma at that point. The pain turned out to be much more severe than she had originally thought.

  “I could not walk—I had to relearn how to walk because I had gotten so weak being in that coma for two weeks.”

  Within three weeks Anne lost a lot of weight. She was frail. Boney. Could barely lift up her arms for more than a few minutes without the burning throb of fatigue setting in. Food didn’t seem all that appealing to her, either, and she had a hard time eating anything other than ice chips. Nurses had to force Anne to eat. Doctors continued with IV fluids and nutrients. Her entire body had been traumatized and sent into severe shock.

  Anne was alive—but not yet living.

  “Jell-O and ice,” Anne recalled. “I couldn’t really eat anything else.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Predators play on the vulnerabilities of prospective victims. Near the time she reconnected with Jimmy Williams, Anne was feeling completely isolated and alone, having been through that divorce and losing what would have been her second child. Though she had a few close friends to lean on, she had mainly suffered in silence, trying to get on with her life best she could.

  Jimmy picked up on these feelings almost immediately after talking to Anne that first time on the telephone. He saw an opening and began to work on filling it through manipulation. He also knew Anne was the type of forgiving person who would jump right in to help an old friend or someone in need, especially if he said the right things.

  The fact that he was wearing that ankle monitor, and the alarm bells went off when I walked into his house and saw it, well, I should have known better. And yet Jimmy had a way of explaining all of it away.

  He told me it was nothing, just some old charges he had never answered to. What did I know? I thought: He couldn’t have done the things they were saying he did. He’s a good man. He’s never done anything wrong to me or even hinted at being violent. So he explained it all to me and, of course, I believed his story.

  As they rekindled the old fire, the attention Jimmy showered on Anne was welcome. She’d been upset and depressed, licking the wounds of her soured relationship. But here was an old boyfriend, someone she had parted on good terms with, expressing praise, giving her compliments and showing kindness.

  “So I went with it.”

  * * *

  The first indication that something was off with Jimmy happened about two weeks into their renewed relationship. By the time Anne had reconnected with Jimmy, she had a child who was in his third year of high school. Anne had raised the boy herself ever since he’d been born.

  My son’s father, my first marriage, the guy never had anything to do with him. So I had to take on two jobs. I’m not complaining or looking for sympathy; it’s just the way it was for me. My son was my world.

  Jimmy talked lovingly about the child, almost as if he would be an excellent role model if he and Anne ever hooked back up seriously. More than that, Jimmy seemed fine whenever Anne stopped over. He’d make jokes. Horse around. They’d laugh. Cuddle on the couch. Eat a good meal. Watch videos. It seemed as though they were getting along and the relationship was moving in a positive direction.

  “Take this ring,” Jimmy said one night. “This is my ring, but you wear it.”

  It was an old worthless stone. It wasn’t the value of the jewelry Jimmy wanted Anne to be mindful of; he wanted Anne to wear the ring as a token of his dedication to her, as if they were back in high school and “going steady.”

  “I thought it was a little strange, but really sweet and innocent at the same time,” Anne said. “So I put it on.”

  Anne was in Jimmy’s kitchen a few nights later, mixing hamburger in a bowl with her hands. Not wanting to get the ring dirty or lose it in a bowl of raw meat, she’d taken it off and placed it on the counter behind her. As she mixed, Anne heard a loud crack. It startled her. So she turned around.

  “What in the name . . . ?”

  Jimmy had taken a knife and stabbed it into the wooden counter through the center of the ring. He had an angry, faraway look about him.

  “You don’t ever take that ring off again,” Jimmy said. He was cold. As serious as cancer. He stared Anne in the eyes. Said nothing more and then walked out of the room.

  One might think Anne would have been scared of Jimmy after that. Why stick around? The guy had just shown how unstable he could be.

  No. That’s what was so weird. I thought, Oh, it’s the ring. He just didn’t want me to take the ring off. It’s nothing. He got a little mad. He’s over it.

  A few days after that, Anne stopped over at Jimmy’s again, willing to forgive and forget what had happened. Jimmy had a momentary lapse of reason, likely born out of stress, and he’d lost his composure. It’s no big deal, Anne surmised. She was actually feeling pretty good about Jimmy and where things were heading. He’d apologized for the ring incident. Said he’d lost his head after a few too many beers. Anne was okay with it. She could move on.

  As she got out of her car, the sun shone bright in the blue sky above Jimmy’s ranch house. Anne took note of how beautiful a day it was. Mid-April in the South can be especially gorgeous. Anne walked into Jimmy’s house. She felt pretty good.

  As Anne entered the foyer, it appeared that Jimmy wasn’t home.

  “Jimmy?” Anne yelled. “You around?”

  No answer.

  “Jimmy?” Anne said, going from room to room.

  Finally, after not finding Jimmy anywhere inside the house, Anne walked out the back door. She thought she might have heard Jimmy out in the backyard walking around.

  Outside, looking around, Anne came upon Jimmy’s boat. She stopped. Thought she heard a rustle of brush in the back of the boat.

  “Jimmy? That you?”

  Just then, Jimmy jumped out from behind his boat. He was decked out from head to toe in full camouflage, face paint and all, Rambo-style.

  Anne could not believe what she was looking at.

  What in the name of . . . ?

  Jimmy had a rifle pointed directly at Anne’s head, two feet away. He stared through the gun’s sight at Anne and did not speak.

  Anne was frozen in fear.

  “I don’t know how, but I pretended not to be scared,” Anne recalled.

  I told myself, The way out of this is to act real calm, cool, and collected. This is going to pass. I started thinking: I am the type of person who believes the best in people. It’s going to be okay. Jimmy would never hurt me.

  Anne stared at Jimmy, who stood, looking her in the eyes, the barrel of his weapon pointed at her head, his finger on the trigger. The moment was tense. It lasted only a minute; but to Anne, of course, it felt much longer.

  “You’re not scared, Anne?” Jimmy asked. It was a direct question, almost as if he were mocking her. “This does not scare you at all?”

  “No, Jimmy, I am not.”

  Anne had no idea where that statement had come from.

  This impressed Jimmy—the idea that he was holding a gun to Anne’s head and she would not flinch (or so she made him believe).

  “I could not act like I was scared. It was the best way out of it. But I was trembling inside, frightened to death.”

  Jimmy put the gun down. Anne took a deep breath. She was able to talk to Jimmy. Calm him down. Once she felt Jimmy was back at a place where he’d not act out, she convinced him to allow her to l
eave.

  “I’ll call you tomorrow, Jimmy—I have to get home and cook dinner for my son.”

  “You promise you’re not mad, Anne? I’m sorry.”

  “Promise, Jimmy.”

  Anne sat in her car, took a deep breath. Got the hell out of there. She pulled over down the road from Jimmy’s house and cried, shaken to her core. The guy had pointed a weapon at her head. One slip, one moment of indecision, he could have blown her head off.

  * * *

  The next day Jimmy sent Anne flowers. “I’m so sorry. I lost my head. Not sure what’s going on with me. I’m drinking too much.”

  This is when I started really thinking about things and my brain started to function, but it was also saying to me, “Well, he did send you roses . . . and he normally doesn’t act like this. It was likely just because he was drunk.”

  Anne decided she would not visit Jimmy again. It was time to listen to her instincts, learn from his recent behavior, and take a step back from this relationship. She decided to stop by on her way home from work and explain to Jimmy that she couldn’t do it anymore. Those two incidents: the kitchen and this latest one outside by the boat. Things had taken a strange and violent turn, and Anne realized she needed to put some space between them.

  Guy shows you who he is, and you either believe him and react accordingly, or pay the price for staying.

  As she drove, Anne contemplated how she would sit Jimmy down and tell him how she felt. End it properly. No hard feelings. The guy had issues, obviously. She felt he needed professional help. Maybe she could convince Jimmy to go see someone. Then, perhaps, after he pulled himself together, they could talk.

  “Just come back over,” Jimmy had pleaded the previous day, after Anne expressed a desire to end things during a phone call. “I am so sorry. I was drinking. It will never happen again.”

  Anne agreed to stop by on her way home from work.

  “But not for too long, Jimmy.”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  If I tell somebody something, I am the type of person who follows through, even if I don’t want to do it.

  Thus, against her better judgment, Anne found herself driving back to Jimmy’s on the evening of April 17, 1998. She was determined to poke her head in, say hello, explain her feelings, and leave. She felt Jimmy deserved a personal visit. Doing it over the telephone was improper. In no way was it Anne’s style.

  Something inside was telling me not to go. But I did not listen. A decision, in the end, that turned into a night of torture like I would have never imagined possible. A decision, in fact, that nearly cost me my life.

  CHAPTER 9

  It is rare in life to be graced with a true best friend. Someone who is willing to do anything for you. Good or bad times. Drop his or her life to be there, without any personal expectations. Nothing can replace the warm touch, kind embrace, or simple gestures best friends lavish on each other.

  As Anne lay in her hospital bed thinking about when she was going to be allowed to go home, she looked up and saw Vickie Taylor, one of her two besties. She’d met Vickie in the early eighties while working for the city, and now she was coming around the corner and walked into her room.

  “Vickie,” Anne said, her spirits immediately lifted.

  “Anne—how are you, honey?”

  Vickie brought an immense sense of joy and ease just by showing up. As Vickie stepped into the room, Anne could feel all of the fear she’d been harboring evaporate. It was as if her world was okay now.

  Vickie had a McDonald’s Coke in her hand.

  “Yes,” Anne said, taking it.

  “For some strange reason, I love the taste of a McDonald’s Coke,” Anne recalled.

  They did not talk much. It was Vickie’s presence that Anne appreciated more than anything else.

  “Is there anything I can help you with?” Vickie asked. “Something I can do for you, Anne?”

  When you are in the midst of dying, nobody thinks about your hair, or that your legs need shaving. Or any of the other common, everyday things we all take for granted. Especially for a woman.

  Vickie got Anne out of bed and into a wheelchair.

  “We’re taking you downstairs, honey.”

  “Okay,” Anne said, putting her hand on Vickie’s in a simple, loving gesture.

  Anne’s hair was shoulder-length and twisted into a “massive knot.” Vickie wheeled her good friend down to the beauty parlor inside the hospital.

  “They could not get those knots out, so I wound up getting a ‘real’ haircut.”

  Back inside Anne’s room later on that day, Vickie made sure Anne got herself a hot shower for the first time in nearly a month.

  “You appreciate the things you take for granted every day, especially when they are taken away from you,” Anne said.

  * * *

  Anne and Vickie considered themselves “partners in crime.” They’d worked together and had always been there for each other. One thing they’d bonded over was, unfortunately, tragedy. Vickie had lost her son in an accident. So an unspoken wound of losing a child existed between them, which they both knew would never heal. And as Anne sat in the hospital and Vickie learned of the details behind how her best friend had wound up there, it brought back that trauma with her own boy.

  “I have to give Vickie an ‘atta girl,’ ” Anne said through tears, recalling how Vickie had come to support her, even though the pain she was going through from the loss of her son just a few years before was being dredged up all over again by being in a hospital.

  When they did have a chance to talk later on, after Anne felt clean and fresh for the first time since she’d been admitted, Anne asked, “How did you ever find out what happened, Vickie? How did you know I was here?” After all, Anne was registered under that fictitious name, Marsh.

  Vickie explained that she was in a neighboring town attending a crawfish festival. While she was there, Vickie ran into a law enforcement friend. He explained what happened to Anne, without giving away any of the details. They were all close because they worked for the city.

  Vickie broke down right there amid the festival and had to go home. Still not believing it, Vickie called another law enforcement friend. He confirmed.

  After that, Vickie began calling Anne’s sister two, three times a day to keep up on her friend’s progress. Only family was allowed to visit Anne during those early days, when no one knew if she would live or die.

  “That’s what friends do,” Anne said. “Vickie is special. What a person she is to be there for me like that. I am overwhelmed by her humanity.”

  The day after Vickie took Anne down to the beauty parlor and helped with her shower, she returned for another visit. They were talking as Anne’s doctor walked in.

  “If I could interrupt a minute,” he said.

  “Sure,” Anne responded.

  “You’re doing fantastic. I think if you eat all of your lunch today, I will allow you to be discharged. You can go home, Anne. How would that feel?”

  Anne was ecstatic. She wanted nothing more than to get the heck out of that hospital and be around familiar surroundings. She’d been through so much. She’d battled for her life and won. It was time to heal and be around those who loved her and whom she loved.

  “I wanted to go home so bad,” Anne said with a laugh. “I ate what I could, and then Vickie ate whatever I wasn’t able to finish.”

  Vickie helped Anne pack. The hospital supplied Anne with a walker because she could not get too far without it. They drove to Anne’s sister’s house. Anne could not stay home alone, or even begin to think about taking care of her boy by herself.

  The longest road Anne Bridges faced was ahead of her. But she was grateful to be alive.

  CHAPTER 10

  Anne Bridges had always been a “firm believer” in the idea that God speaks to us through what we call instinct, that gut feeling, or He whispers inside our heads. Anne always felt that was God sending directions for our lives. Yet, on the other hand,
it’s up to us to interpret and either follow or take another road.

  Free will.

  There you go.

  “Something in the back of my mind was telling me not to go back over to Jimmy’s on April seventeenth—but I got into my car and went, anyway,” Anne recalled with a bit of personal dissatisfaction about the decision.

  Another sign happened along the way that early evening. Anne was driving down the main road leading toward Jimmy’s house when she saw her ex-husband driving toward her in the opposite direction. They passed each other. Both looked.

  Anne pulled over. Her ex kept driving. For a brief moment she thought about turning around to see if she could catch up to him and have a conversation.

  “I really should go and try to talk to him,” Anne said aloud to herself, sitting in her car, thinking of her ex. But after that brief flash of reflection, Anne decided to continue on toward Jimmy’s.

  Anne pulled into Jimmy’s driveway. Paused a moment after shutting off her car. Looked up and stared. The house felt quiet, as if nobody was home. She got out. Smelled some food cooking as she walked toward the front door.

  Jimmy must be out back grilling.

  Coming around the corner of the house, spotting Jimmy on the porch by the grill, Anne took one look and immediately could tell he was intoxicated. Jimmy had this glossy-eyed stare about him. He swayed a bit while tending to the grill, a beer in one hand, barbeque utensil in the other.

  I don’t know what he took, if he took any drugs at all. But he was wasted, that much I could tell. He never did drugs around me. When a friend of his came over, they’d go into another room. He knew I was raised in a law enforcement environment and I had no tolerance for it.