Crichton - No way to run: a mother and son story of surviving abuse

2016 Holly Crichton

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Caitlin Press Inc.
8100 Alderwood Road,
Halfmoon Bay, BC V0N 1Y1
www.caitlin-press.com

Text and cover design by Vici Johnstone.
Edited by Barbara Pulling.
Ebook by Demian Pettman
Cover image Lucas Neasi. Sourced from UNsplash under Creative Commons License Zero.

In consideration of privacy, some names and identities have been changed or omitted.

Caitlin Press Inc. acknowledges the Government of Canada, the Canada Council for the Arts, and the British Columbia Arts Council for their financial support for our publishing program.

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Crichton, Holly, author

No way to run : a mother and son story of surviving abuse / Holly Crichton.

Issued in print and electronic formats.

ISBN 978-1-987915-18-1 (paperback).ISBN 978-1-987915-25-9 (ebook)

1. Crichton, Holly. 2. Crichton, MatTrials, litigation, etc. 3. Victims of family violenceAlbertaBiography. 4. Trials (Manslaughter)Alberta.

I. Title.

HV6626.23.C3C75 2016 362.8292097123 C2016-903264-7

C2016-903265-5

No

Way

to

Run

A Mother and Son Story of Surviving Abuse

Holly Crichton

Caitlin Press

Dedicated to everyone who believes that
decency and dignity matter.

September 2008

Sandys bellowing woke me from a sound sleep, despite the audio book droning through my headphones and the feather pillow tucked snugly over my eyes and ears. The walls of our house did little to muffle his shouts.

Caught between sleep and wakefulness, I was swamped by terror. Always the same nightmare: I was trying to escape but unable to move. My shoulders pinched tight as I waited for the inevitable club-of-a-hand to slam onto my back, grab my hair or my jacket, and jerk me down.

In a panic, I flung the pillow off my eyes, pulled the headphones away, and pushed the covers back. The yelling continued. It was no nightmare. I could make out every swear word.

Attempting to bound up, I came fully awake, remembering I truly could not move my legs, or run, or get away. My brain commanded me to bolt upright. To dash outside to see what was happening. But my paralyzed body had different plans.

Sandy wasnt in the house, and it wasnt me he was screaming at, so I knew our son Matthew must be getting it. He and I were the two people my husband reserved his most violent rages for.

Gripping the edge of the mattress with my left hand, I reached my right elbow beneath me and tried to shove myself upward. The attempt at speed, as it always did, threw me into a rigid spasm. Stalled by my frozen body, I waited for the spasm to subside, then methodically pulled myself to a sitting position. Finally upright, balanced by gripping the bedsheet with my right hand, I used my left hand to shuffle my dead-weight legs around and slide them over the edge of the bed. Balancing on my right hand, I grabbed my sliding board from where I had left it and placed it like a bridge between bed and wheelchair.
Then I wedged the board beneath my emaciated butt cheeks and slid myself over.

Finally on my chair, nerves crackling with fear, I raced to look out the glass patio doors to see what was going on.

As I took in the scene at a glance, anger replaced my fear. I could see that Mat wasnt injured, at least not yet. For the moment, he was safely out of the reach of his tantrum-throwing father. But Sandy had cocked his arm and he was darting toward our son, prepared to launch the hammer he had in his hand.

My wheelchair wouldnt fit through our sliding patio doors, so I wheeled through the main entry door out onto the deck. I could see our white Ford Ranger pickup parked in front of the machine shop, about a hundred metres away, with a solar cattle-watering system partly loaded on the truck box. The water tank was on properly, but a solar panel was tilted half on and half off the end gate. It had obviously fallen or been dropped.

Sandys shrieking blurred into one foul roar of senseless obscenity. Crying by now, Mat yelled back at his dad, his words slurred, Why do you have to be like this! Why cant we ever just do a job without you hitting and cursing me? What makes you so crazy?

His bum right leg dragging, his right arm curled against his slim body, Mat buckled at the knees as Sandy lunged at him. Feinting to the right, he nearly fell, but he managed to keep his balance and his distance. Clenching my teeth, I prayed, Come on, Matti. Get out of there. Dont let him catch you.

You little fucker, Sandy bellowed. Come back here and call me crazy. You dont have the guts to, do you?

I clanged my wheelchair against the metal deck railing so theyd hear me and know I was watching. Sandys head snapped around. He dropped the hammer he was holding and stalked toward the house. My stomach churned as I wondered if I was next in line. Maybe hed throw me off the deck like hed been threatening lately.

As he walked through the yard gate, Sandy looked up at me and snarled, Fucking little pansy. Someday hes gonna push me too far!

Hes right, you know. You do act crazy, I said in a deliberately non-confrontational tone. I dont know what gets into you. How you can get so mad over nothing.

I looked down from my perch on the deck, gambling he wouldnt go through the effort of charging up the stairs to catch me.

Youll see how crazy I am someday, Sandy yelled. One of these times you and the suckie boy are gonna push me over the edge. That little prick always has to question me. Im the bull of the woods around here. He couldnt harrow what I plow. You guys would be nothing without me!

Sandy was close to tears, and I knew not to push him any further. I said in a soothing voice, the kind I used on a dog or a horse that was freaking out, I know it can be frustrating working with Matthew sometimes, but its not his fault hes slow. He cant help that hes brain-damaged. He doesnt try to be that way.

You never take my side, do you? he shouted. Its always the poor little retard you stick up for. But youre Holl eeee . Youre soooo wonderful. Youre toooo good for me.

His tone shifted from whiney to harsh. Its no wonder no one likes you. Youll never have as many friends as me. Will you? Huh? Huh? He stood at the foot of the stairs, legs braced and fists clenched at his sides, ready to spring up and grab me. Since hed had his knee replacement, a little barrier like a set of stairs wasnt going to prevent him from attacking me.

Having to be phony was one of the hardest parts of living with Sandy. Agreeing with him in a situation like this went against everything in me.

Youre right. You have more friends, I answered in a flat voice, like I had a thousand times before.

As he turned abruptly toward the entry door downstairs, I rolled back into the kitchen. I could hear him start up the basement stairs. I didnt want to get cornered, so I rolled onto my elevator, quickly pulled the door closed behind me, and headed down to the bottom floor of the house, where my power wheelchair was parked.