Should Have Known Better

“So you believe that? You really think she’d try to drug me?”

“You said yourself you felt like you were sleeping that weekend. Right? And we both know you don’t use ex. I wouldn’t put this past her at all.”

“But it just sounds so crazy. I keep remembering everything and it sounds so crazy. People don’t really drug people,” I said.

“Ask all those chicks who get raped in clubs. It’s real. Happens all the time.”

“That’s different. Those are rapists. Have you ever heard of a woman drugging another woman? Why would she do that?” I asked.

“I don’t know, Dawn. If you wanted to steal someone’s husband, what do you think the best course of action would be? We’re not talking about the most sane person.”

I believe my mouth hung open for two days straight. My mother kept asking me what was wrong. But I couldn’t say it. For so long, I’d felt like I was out of control physically and bodily in my own home. I was losing control in my life. And what was most deceiving about this reality was thinking that it was all somehow my fault. That I should’ve known better. Now I knew that most of the decisions I’d made that weekend and the days following weren’t my fault. That wasn’t how I normally behaved. Yelling at R. J., randomly taking off from work, staying up all night, sleeping all day. That wasn’t me. That was what Sasha did to me.

I was stunned. I felt violated. Cheated. I wanted to scratch her eyes out. I wanted to call the police. But for what? Sharika and I thought that anything I said would be unfounded. I had no evidence. My husband had left me for her. Everyone would say I was just a jealous, angry woman. And I was. And knowing that, admitting that, was the most powerful thing I could do.

I heard someone say one time that “when you know better, you do better.”

Now that I knew Sasha’s game, I had to do better.

I woke up one morning and decided that it was time for me to get back in control. I just had to figure out how.

That next Monday, I got to the meeting at the HHNFH early and ready with my pen and pad. I was ready for old business. I had some questions that needed answering.

“Last week, our ringleader asked us to define our power,” I said. “When we left, I admit that not only did I not want to answer this, but I also think I didn’t know how to answer. Maybe that’s why she asked the question.”

We all laughed.

“Preach, Jennifer,” Madonna said.

“I don’t think I’ve known for a long time if or why I’m powerful. I add up everything I do to just needing to do it. If my husband needs something, I just do it. If my children need something, I just do it. The house. The car. My husband’s business. The people at my job. I step up and I dig in. I never thought for a second that meant I was powerful.” I slid my pad under my seat and stood up like some of the older members had last week when they spoke. “My son has mild autism. I don’t talk about it with many people. It’s hard. Very hard. Most people don’t understand it. They think he’s just bad or spoiled. One woman even asked if he was retarded—whatever that means. I thought my husband didn’t want to be bothered with him. That he was embarrassed by him. But I was embarrassed, too. I wanted so much to fix him. I wanted him to be OK. To be just like the other kids. So he could enjoy life. I pushed him. I pushed myself. I pushed our family. I ignored my other child. I said I was doing it all for him, so he could be better. I thought that was what made me powerful. What made me a good mother. But now I think it was all for me. He’s fine with who he is. And he’s fine with sometimes not having me hanging over his shoulder. I think his sister needs me more than he does. I know his sister needs me more than he does. And I’m going to try to be better. I have faith that things can get better. And that’s what makes me powerful. My faith that things will get better.”

I got a standing ovation and a lot of hugs from famous women.

When my mother came to pick me up, I got into the car and said, “Thank you.”

“Thank you for what?” she asked.

“For reminding me about faith.”

A secret sister from the HHNFH gave me what they called a “Divorce Grant” and I was able to upgrade from the flimsy lawyer my mother had found in the phone book to one who handled most of the cases of the members at the house. I was pretty certain the “secret”

sister was Kerry. She’d called me days before to see how I was doing and to tell me that Reginald had contacted her ex-husband’s company to set up a meeting. She said she’d gotten 50 percent of the company in the divorce settlement and there was no way she was letting her ex do business with Reginald. I told her I had a custody hearing coming up and I was worried about my attorney. The next thing I knew, there was a call from the HHNFH talking about giving me a grant I hadn’t applied for. I was shy at first, but then with everything on the line, I had to take it. I promised myself I’d give Kerry back every dime once I got myself back together. The ringleader said most women just paid back into the grant. In the justice system, a woman without good representation wasn’t likely to see any justice.

After two weekends of me meeting with the twins at the local McDonald’s, my new lawyer filed a petition saying me seeing the children in Sasha’s house could be psychologically damaging for them. I waited in court to hear the judge’s ruling on returning the children to me. My attorney made a special case, noting that I’d passed two drug tests and was in counseling. I’d had no further contact with the police since that night at the roadblock.

“I can’t promise you anything,” my lawyer said as the judge walked into the courtroom after taking a break to read over his notes. “But let’s keep our fingers crossed.”

Cheyenne and R. J. were sitting out in the hallway with Sasha. I growled at her like I’d learned to do from the other women at my HHNFH meetings, but I quickly found my poise when I went to hug the twins. I kept reminding myself that this wasn’t about her.

R. J. wouldn’t stop kissing me and talking about the pink pool, but Cheyenne hardly looked at me. I knew I had to get her back quickly or I’d lose her forever.

In the courtroom, the judge brought down his gavel and proceeded with his ruling after we sat down. Reginald was seated on the opposite side of the room with his attorney. He had on a tailored suit with cuff links and a pinky ring. No wedding ring.

I turned to my mother and she pointed to the ceiling.

“Pray,” she mouthed.

“God help me,” I said, turning back around.