N. John Shore Jr.

Special to the Citizen-Times

"Ashes to Asheville” is an ongoing, real-time serial novel set in Asheville. A new installment of the story is written each week, and published every Thursday morning.

A summary of our story thus far: When Tammy’s husband of twenty-two years, Ryan, leaves her for a younger woman, Tammy, a junior college art teacher recently laid off, flees San Diego to live with her half-brother, Charlie, and his partner, Todd, who live together in Asheville. There she becomes friends with Todd’s sister, Maggie, and her friend Samantha (“Sam”). She also learns that Ryan has left her penniless. When Todd and Maggie’s father, Frank, has a heart attack, Charlie and Todd decide to have him, too, move in with them.

Tammy, Todd, Maggie, and Leslie, Todd and Maggie’s mother, meet a former student of Tammy’s, Laurel, when she drops in unexpectedly at Charlie’s house, accompanied by her boyfriend, Wyatt. After Laurel and Wyatt leave, the group worries about Laurel. They were right to.

For a more detailed synopsis of each chapter, clickhere.

To read the chapters themselves (recommended!) clickhere.

Listen to the "Ashes to Asheville" podcast, oniTunes or via the podcast’s website. Each chapter has embedded at its conclusion the podcast episode of that story.

Support this unique revival of the great American serial novel by liking the "Ashes to Asheville" Facebook page.

* * * * *

Dear Mom,

I am very sorry for how long it’s been since I wrote or called you. I never should have allowed so much time to go by without reaching out to you. How could I do that to my own mom? I won’t let it ever happen again, I promise.

The reason it’s been so long since you’ve heard from me is because (and, believe me, this isn’t easy for me to write) I somehow allowed a horrible person — Wyatt, who I’m sure you remember — to basically take over and control my whole life.

You always told me that you didn’t like Wyatt, and you were right not to. I’d give anything to go back in time to when you told me to stay away from him, so that this time I could listen to you. If I had listened to you back then, I wouldn’t be sitting where I am right now, waiting for someone to come get me and bring me to a place where, hopefully, Wyatt can never find me.

The reason I didn’t contact you for so long was because Wyatt wouldn’t let me write or call anyone, not just you. If I got in touch with any of my friends, he would just go nuts. So, even before he took my cell phone away from me, I gave up using it. It was just so much easier and safer not to.

I’m so ashamed, Mom, of how I surrendered my life — everything that I had, that I was, that I wanted to be — to a guy who only wanted to destroy me.

I honestly do not understand how I could have done that.

But I can definitely tell you one thing, Mom: I’m going to figure out how I could have done that, so that I never do it again.

The good news is that I’m not going to have to figure that out by myself. The place where I am right now — the place I ran to when I escaped from Wyatt this morning — has this woman, a “case manager,” who I’m going to start meeting with. Her name is Phyllis. From the second I met Phyllis, I started feeling a lot better about everything. She is going to help me work out everything in my life that’s getting in the way of my leading a normal, happy life: my job situation, where I’ll live, any resources that I might need in order to either leave Asheville, or to make it here on my own. All of it.

Maybe the best thing Phyllis will do for me is to sign me up for these classes they teach here on domestic violence.

Mom, talking with Phyllis, just for the few minutes that I did, made me realize how long it’s been since I felt any hope.

Living without hope is the worst thing in the world. What’s even more terrible is when you don’t even realize you’re doing it, when you’ve been without hope for so long that pretty soon you’re just going through your life without it. Because then you’re not living at all. A life without hope is just … death that hasn’t happened yet.

That’s what my life has been like for the last two years.

But no more. Now I feel like that long nightmare of my life is over — and that I’ll never have to go through anything like that again. Because now, amazingly enough, I have a whole team of people who will work with me to make sure that I don’t.

But, obviously, I need to back up a little.

Mom, I haven’t told you this yet, but I’m not in San Diego anymore. I moved all the way across the country. I’m now in Asheville, North Carolina.

The reason I didn’t tell you that I was moving so far away is because I didn’t want anyone to be able to tell Wyatt where I was. I was already at the point where I wanted to get away from him — really, REALLY away.

My plan was to drive across the country, to Asheville, and then to call you once I was here and safe. (One of the main reasons I chose Asheville was because I knew that my old art teacher, Mrs. Dulton, had moved here. Do you remember Mrs. D.? She is so great. I saw her when we first got here! She seems really happy. She cut her hair super short.)

My plans for getting away from Wyatt once and for all didn’t work out like I’d planned, to say the least.

What happened was that Wyatt caught me packing for my escape. My suitcase was already full when he shocked me by coming home at least three hours before he was supposed to. I was so afraid of him that I just started talking before I even had a chance to think. I said something like, “Honey, I was thinking that you and I should leave San Diego. There’s nothing here for us anymore. Let’s go some place where maybe something good can happen for us. I’m only packing because I wanted to surprise you by showing you what a great idea I think this is. I was going to pack your stuff next, even though I don’t really know what you’d want to bring. I thought it’d be so much fun to just be, like, ‘Yay! Let’s go!’”

The next thing I knew, Mom, I was on my way to Asheville, just like I planned — only with Wyatt right next to me in the car, which was the opposite of my plan.

When we finally arrived in Asheville, we didn’t have anywhere to stay. Wyatt had this big plan about him and me staying at Mrs. Dulton’s — about us moving in with her, basically. But that didn’t work out. So we ended up staying in a motel so crappy even we could afford it.

Wyatt was more abusive to me in our motel room than he’s ever been to me before (and that’s saying something). So this morning, while he was passed out drunk on the bed, I ran away from him. There was this one moment, right before I opened the front door of our room, when I was sure I had woken him up, and that he was coming to get me and pull me back into the room. I think that was the most afraid I’ve ever been in my whole life. But he was only shifting in his sleep.

The second I was out of the room, and had closed the door behind me as quietly as I possibly could, I took off running. Once I was on the road of the motel I put out my thumb. I was so scared to be hitchhiking, but didn’t know what else to do. If Wyatt had come out of the motel, and found me, I know he would have killed me, probably right there on the street. So I figured I’d take my chances hitchhiking.

I had just stuck out my thumb when a really nice lady stopped to pick me up.

A few days before, when Wyatt and I had gone to Mrs. Dulton’s house right after we reached Asheville, a friend of Mrs. D’s was there, a woman who could tell that Wyatt had been hitting me. This woman managed to get me alone in a back room of the house, where she gave me a little pamphlet on domestic violence. She also told me to memorize an address: 35 Woodfin Street. She told me that if I ever ran away from Wyatt, that was the place I should go.

So that’s where I told the lady who picked me hitchhiking up to take me: 35 Woodfin Street.

And that’s where I am right now.

When I first got to this place, I couldn’t believe the size of the building. It looked like big court building, or a city hall, something like that. But once I’d made my way up the stairs outside, and gone through the big double glass doors, a woman named Maggie came out right away from her seat behind this glass enclosed area in the lobby, and held my hand.

She was immediately so good to me, so caring. I’m crying right now just thinking about Maggie. She was just … well, for one, someone I knew right away I could trust.

The first thing that Maggie wanted me to know was definitely the first thing I wanted to know, which was that I was safe.

Finally, truly, and for the first time it what felt like forever, I was safe.

In the reception area with Maggie was a really friendly policewoman—which made me feel doubly safe.

What Maggie was also very clear about making me understand was that everything we said together was 100% confidential.

I was so grateful for that.

I don’t even like saying this, Mom, but the truth is that so much of what’s happened to me is almost unbearably embarrassing. It’s absolutely nothing that I want anyone to know about. So the whole thing about our conversation being completely confidential was a gigantic relief to me.

Maggie walked me out of the lobby area, and through this super-locked door leading into a nice hallway. Then we went through another door, and into a kind of den — a little carpeted room, where there was this really nice couch and chair and everything.

And that’s where Maggie sat down with me, and just started TALKING with me.

She asked if I wanted anything to eat, or if I was thirsty, or wanted some coffee or tea. She asked me how I was feeling, what had been happening with me lately, why I was there. During this great conversation we started having, she asked me all kinds of questions — and then really, really listened to my answers.

It was always about what I wanted, what I needed, what I was feeling.

It made me realize how long it’s been since I felt that someone was really listening to me, Mom. The way you used to. Just being listened to by somebody who cares about you is such a simple thing. But it felt like the whole world to me.

I told Maggie everything that had happened to me, everything Wyatt had done to me, everything I’d been through with him.

At one point, she asked me if I wanted to see a nurse, just to look me over, to check and see if I’d been hurt maybe more than I even realized. I was pretty unsure about doing that, but then Maggie asked if I’d like to just meet the nurse. I said sure.

And that, Mom, is when I met Carol.

Another amazing, amazing woman.

After I met Nurse Carol, I wasn’t afraid of having her examine me. I don’t think anyone who’s met Carol could ever be afraid of anything again. She’s that great.

Maggie and Carol walked with me down the hall to another cozy little den room, where Nurse Carol and I sat and talked for awhile. She asked me a lot of questions, which I guess helped her get a better overall view of what was happening around all the stuff that Wyatt had been doing to me.

Then Carol said, “I’d like to take some pictures of different places on your body where I can see that you might have been hurt. Would that be okay with you?” But I wasn’t sure I wanted that.

Carol said, “It’s a good idea to have that visual record of the state of your health when you arrived here. Especially if you think you might want to file a police report against the person who did this to you.”

So I said okay, let’s do it. She has a little examining room right next to her office and the room we were in, so that's where she looked me over and took the pictures.

I thought having photos taken of places all over my body where Wyatt had hurt me would be extremely uncomfortable and embarrassing for me. But it wasn’t. In fact, it turned out to be one of the most positive experiences of my whole life. Because being with Wyatt — being trapped by him, and being treated by him the way I was for such a long time — created a situation in me where, in a weird way, I was kind of totally disconnected from everything that was happening to me. It’s like I’d gone crazy, or something.

I don’t know the right words to say this.

What happens, when you don’t have anyone to compare your experiences to, is that you start to think that any crazy thing that happens to you is normal. Pretty soon, being smacked across the face for not putting enough sugar in your boyfriend’s coffee seems NORMAL to you.

But then, to have a nurse — a woman who is obviously smart, confident, caring, and extremely UNcrazy — take photographs of all the places on your body that she’s concerned about, because clearly you’ve been HURT in all those places, makes you realize, kind of all at once, that what’s been happening to you is really, really NOT normal or okay. That punching, kicking, and hitting a person is nothing but every last kind of wrong. That that’s just not supposed to happen, ever, to anyone, under any circumstances.

And it’s SURE not supposed to happen to you at the hands of someone who’s telling you, as they’re hitting you, how much they love you.

It felt like every click of Carol’s camera was pulling me further and further down to earth from the black cloud I’ve been floating around in for the last two years. That’s what it was like.

After we were done with the exam and the photos, I hugged Carol so hard I was pretty sure I was never going to let her go. And that seemed okay with her.

After my time with Nurse Carol, Maggie walked me back to the den we’d been in before. She talked to me about what I wanted to do next. She asked if I had a safe place to stay tonight, what my financial situation was, if I wanted to set up visits with a case manager. (That’s when I met Phyllis — who I already have an appointment with!)

Maggie also asked if I wanted to file a police report against Wyatt. I wasn’t sure. When she asked if I wanted to just talk to a policewoman, so that I could better understand what my options around that were, I said yes.

I’m so glad I did, Mom. Because, guess what? Officer Hazlett, the awesome policewoman who came in to talk with me, did a police report to help me file criminal charges against Wyatt. It takes my breath away just thinking about a warrant being issued for Wyatt’s arrest. But that’s what’s happening next.

The charges against Wyatt will be (I think) “assault on a female,” and “communicating threats.” My guess is after the warrants are issued, the police will go pick up Wyatt right at the motel, where he’s probably still lying on the bed passed out.

And then I’ll be safe from him.

Me!

Safe!

FINALLY!

That drop you see on the page below is one of my tears. I am feeling so many emotions right now, Mom. And all of them are good. It’s like all the positive emotions that I was supposed to have felt over the past two years—that I WOULD have felt if I’d been leading a normal, healthy life—are rushing through me now, like a bunch of wild horses let loose from the pen they’ve been locked up in.

I’ll be lucky if this whole page doesn’t end up being too wet for me to even be able to send it to you.

It’s so incredible to think of this big place I walked into this morning. Maggie and Phyllis work for an organization called Helpmate, which (since I have the brochure right here) “provides free and confidential services to victims of domestic/intimate partner violence in Buncombe County.” Nurse Carol works for Mission Hospital here in Asheville. Officer Hazlett is with the Asheville Police Department. Also in this one building is an organization called Our VOICE, which helps victims of rape and sexual assault. There’s also another group here, Pisgah Legal Services, which, if I had needed any kind of legal advice, they would have provided me.

And all of that is available to me, right here, for free, just for walking in the door.

As you know, Mom, I’m not a very religious person. But I have to say: Thank God for this place. Thank God for what it’s already done for me.

You know what’s been maybe the most powerful part of what’s happened to me today? Just the fact of meeting the strong women who work here. Maggie, Nurse Carol, Phyllis, and Officer Hazlett have made me remember that being a woman doesn’t mean that I have to be weak, or act stupid, or be out of control of my life. These women aren’t out of control of their lives. Not even close. Nobody runs their lives but them. Period.

Somewhere along the line, I forgot that women don’t have to just survive. We can thrive. And that “we” includes me. That’s what meeting these women here today has made me remember. I don’t know how I could have ever forgotten it. But I won’t ever forget it again.

Right now I’m waiting for a ride home from one more strong and powerful woman. She is going to let me live with her for a little while — which is another thing I can barely believe.

When Maggie asked if I had anywhere to stay for the night, or even anyone I just wanted to call, I called Mrs. Dulton. She told me that a lady I’d met when Wyatt and me visited Mrs. D. at her house wants me to come live with her. This lady, Leslie, has a farm way back in the mountains around here, and I guess could use a little help taking care of the place when she’s down here in Asheville, where she works and spends a lot of her time.

As you know, Mom, I don’t know anything about living on a farm. But to say that I’m willing to learn is one big understatement.

Me, feeding chickens! And maybe even MILKING COWS!

If it ever happens, I’ll send you a picture of me milking a cow, so that you can stare at it, and, along with me, totally not believe that it’s real.

But it will be. Because that’s the kind of stuff I’ll be doing on Leslie’s farm.

I would stay at Mrs. Dulton’s, but Wyatt knows where she lives. And if Wyatt escapes from the police, or whatever, he’ll go to her house looking for me. (Where, hopefully, he’ll also get his ass kicked by the two big guys — and one of their dads, I think — who live in the house with Mrs. D.)

So I’m waiting now for Leslie to come get me. I talked with her on the phone about twenty minutes ago. She sounded exactly as nice as when I met her. She’s super down-to-earth, and just really sweet. I kind of can’t get over that she’s just going to let me live in her house. She’s saving my life, basically. And she doesn’t even know me.

Whoops: there goes another tear. I’ll just write around it. See?

Okay, Mom, I’m going to go now. As soon as I get a new phone, I’ll call you (and send you pictures of me on the farm!). I love you. Sorry again that it’s been so long since I contacted you. But that phase of my life is over now. I’m back.

Love,

Laurel

(P.S. I just realized that I haven’t even told you the name of the place I’m at right now—that is, the name of the big organization that holds Helpmate, Our VOICE, Mission Hospital, and Pisgah Legal Services. It’s called the FAMILY JUSTICE CENTER. And it’s at 35 Woodfin Street.)

* * * * *

Family Justice Center - 828-250-6900; https://www.buncombecounty.org/law-safety/family-justice-center/

24-hour hotlines:

Helpmate - 828-254-0516; http://helpmateonline.org/

Our VOICE - 828-255-7576; http://www.ourvoicenc.org/