5 days till the mission
Her laptop displays the elegant page of a jewelry store that centers on a pair of simmering gold earrings. In the note section, a short sentence reads “9-inch chain, one bracelet, one earring - Amy”.
She quickly closes the laptop when her son comes in. His adolescent sweat stinks up half the room. She tightens her brows, “Take a shower.”
A recording pops up on her phone for review. She has done this plenty of times. It’s amusing how much more you start to learn once you have joined the force. On the recording, a young woman, presumably Amy, whispers to the microphone, confirming the order.
The flowers in her yard are blooming gorgeously on this early summer day. The neighbour waves at her when she comes out to collect the mail. Her phone buzzes. Two addresses pop up in the text preview.
The beauty of the organization is that almost everything is autonomous and anonymous. No one in the organization has access to the information of a pickup, drop-off, or host family. She doesn’t know who started the organization or even who is in the organization besides the handful of host families she has personally met. No one but the algorithm knows that she will have to be at this first address in 5 days, pick up some scared young woman named Amy, and drop her off at the second address.
Her hands sweat profusely when the thought of the mission pops up in her head. She drops her phone by accident. Her neighbour smiles, and she shrugs. Three mindless chatters and a half later, she closes the door.
4 days till the mission
Fifteen years ago, she was in a similar situation. Teenage and pregnant. She wore the baggy hoodie on top of her fragile little body in and out of the rundown apartment to hide the increasingly noticeable baby bump and the bruises. The baby’s father was ten years her senior, with the smell of lcohol on his breath and clumsy body.
She had nobody after her mother passed away. The world was closing in on her.
She usually barely conversed with anybody except the shopkeep while shopping for groceries. One day, the sweet and gentle old lady who always browsed magazines at the bodega stopped her. She was flustered, but the old lady had a voice serene like a jar of marmalade. “Are you in some kind of trouble, sweetheart?” She remembered what the old lady said. She rushed home, hands shivering.
Since that night, every time she went to the bodega, she would be stopped by the old lady for a small chat. Her baby bump started to protrude from even her baggiest hoodie. The man at home was still merciless.
Finally, she told the old lady everything. She remembered they hid under the hood of the tiny bodega while the falling rain poured, the old lady’s wrinkled hand on her recovering bruises.
A month later, closer to the baby’s due date, while the man was snoring after yet another drunken rage, she took everything she owned. She took the leap of faith and got into that white sedan with the hazard light blinking in the middle of the night.
She decides to drive to the first address after work to familiarize herself with the area. The address is near a park in the middle of the city. Nearby some kids are screaming in glee.
She steps out of the car to explore the area. The sky is sapphire blue. She wonders how close this place is to Amy’s house. Her mind wanders back to the shabby apartment with the rusted fire exit. She wonders if Amy is as tiny and clueless as she was, staring out of the window, counting the seconds till the escape. She even wonders if any of the accompanying women in the park is indeed Amy, putting on a fake smile with strenuous effort, pulling up her top to hide any evidence of dismay.
3 days till the mission
Her son is sick today. He locks himself up in the basement. She can hear his loud voice leak through the basement door while squandering another day playing video games. She sighs while putting the coffee cups away and drives off to work.
She still remembers how hard the pregnancy was. She spent a lot of time going in and out of the doctor’s office. She remembers the stern face of the doctor while explaining that the lack of nutrition throughout the first half of her pregnancy may lead to some health concerns.
The host family offered to pay for supplements and bought baby clothes and toys. She cooked and cleaned even though the host family insisted on her resting most of the day. For the rest of the days, she hid in the house, refusing to expose to sunlight. She spent the next five years looking over her shoulder and waking up in the middle of the night in cold sweats. She saw herself a thousand times back in the suffocating room with the man’s snoring.
After the baby turned one, she decided to move out of the host family. She never had a job, nor did she have anybody. The welfare cheque the host family helped her sign up for was abysmal. She had to get a job.
Her elderly neighbour watched the baby for most days while she ran around the neighbourhood looking for minimum wage jobs. The thrifted blouse had lost its original colour and barely fit her body. She had never had a job nor made a cent on her own. So when the first paycheque arrived, she cried.
She arrives at her office. She is an accountant working for a mid-level corporation. The water cooler talks are bland and repetitive, but she feels blessed listening to Debbie complaining about her 20-year-old daughter. She calls her son around noon and remind him of the pasta she left in the fridge. He frequently goes all day without eating.
He has asked her about his father before, but she tells him that she will tell him more once he turns 18. When he was younger, he would always get upset about not having a father. She did all she could to provide for him and comfort him. He is now a respectful teenager with an appropriate amount of pent-up anger and brainless behaviours. He has adjusted well to the world though the first couple of years of his existence was chaotic and brutal. Last year on Mother’s Day, he bought her a bouquet with his lousy handwriting. She still keeps the card in her drawer.
2 days till the mission
The city starts to pour. The drive back home is wet and blurry. She turns off the radio and sits in silence for a bit. The phone vibrates. It’s a reminder of the mission. “A delivery is scheduled for 2:30 am.” The coldness of the message feels almost industrial.
The truth is hidden under the glittery cover of a jewelry delivery. She got involved with the organization by accident. One of her close friends familiar with her experience confided in her and told her about the organization. Over the alcohol scent of the late-night cocktail, she decided to apply through the website.
So this enormous and mysterious web of men and women, who believe in rescuing women in abusive relationships who cannot escape through their means, comes together in this organization, anonymously hoping to save one life at a time.
Someone experiencing domestic violence can choose to purchase a 9-inch chain, one bracelet, and one earring. It stands for 911. The system will first confirm the order or that there is indeed a woman in need by calling the number provided. The confirmation will be replayed to multiple participants of the transfers to ensure authenticity. Then the system automatically schedules a series of transfers to avoid having the victim being tracked by the abuser. A woman in need may go through 3 to 5 host families before settling down in one family. Another transfer may be scheduled anytime if the woman feels like their safety is compromised.
She didn’t have such an organized support system back in the day. The driver who picked her up was the son of the elderly lady, and the host family was his friend’s. They did the best they could with the limited recourses, but she has always been grateful. These people who were strangers risked their safety and sacrificed their security to protect a woman whom they barely knew.
Though the host family is more than 100 miles away from where she used to live, she spent most of her first year tiptoeing around the world outside of her basement.
She remembers the day when a familiar face popped up near her host family during her walk with her son. One of his friends was in fishing attire, wandering around the street. The small-town summer attracted a lot of people from the city.
She panicked, dragging the stroller down the street. The horror was indescribable. Suddenly, she was once again sitting quietly in that smoke-filled room, not daring to make a single sound.
She ran and ran and ran. The stroller slowed her down. She couldn’t remember how many people she ran into or how long she was running. She stopped at the back of a construction site with sweat dripping down her face. Inside the stroller, her son was crying hysterically. A construction worker walked past her, “Ma’am, are you alright?”
The next day she started to pack up. Within a week, she stepped onto the platform of a train south.
The map on her car GPS slowly turns from red to yellow. The traffic in front of her starts to dissipate. She puts down her phone and brings her thoughts back to reality.
1 day till the mission
Thunders once again surround the city. After cooking dinner, she feels a bit nervous about the pickup tomorrow. It is not her first time, but she understands the risk never diminishes no matter how experienced she becomes.
Tomorrow is the day. She clenches her fist. Her son is quietly on his phone at the kitchen table. His rare presence at the dinner table is amusing. She raises her eyebrows and asks what the special occasion is. He shrugs.
Nobody knows that she is a part of the organization, not even the friend who initially introduced her to it. It is one of the rules to keep each mission as secretive as possible.
After dinner, she leaves to top up gas. While she is pumping gas, a man comes up to her and asks for direction. She suspiciously answers with a brief description. Doesn’t everyone have a google map on their phone these days?
Eventually, he asks, “May I have your number?” She politely rejects while stating that she has a boyfriend.
Obviously, that statement is a lie. She has barely dated since the escape over a decade ago. Besides the stress of being a single mother, she has trouble navigating through the dating world. Her brief period of therapy has been cut short due to the lack of money and time. She hasn’t had a chance to fully isolate herself from the nightmares that still revisit her.
While studying accounting, she did meet a gentle young man at school. She was working and studying full time, leaving her son all day with the babysitter and the neighbour. He would come over after school and before the end of her shift and look after her son.
Her son enjoyed every second of his company. They would play soccer in the park next to her apartment. On the weekend, he took him to bbq while she spent all day cleaning. So when he decided to end the relationship, her son was devastated.
Things went downhill once the conversation on next steps started to come up. He was eager to push the relationship to the next level, while she refused to rush into anything. Suddenly, the only father figure her son had ever had exited out of his life.
She was called to school to pick up her misbehaving son after he got into a fight. The sun was shining down brightly on the dusty park swings. She sat next to him with the clenched fists and tears running down his bloody nose.
After that relationship, she’s been more careful with letting her guards down with anyone new. The next thing she knows, she is approaching her 40s, her son is almost an adult, and she is still alone and fragile in the world, scared to commit. How can she risk another incident that can lead to another devastation?
She pulls up in her driveway. The LED light in her son’s bedroom is changing colour gradually. Tomorrow is the day. She is ready, yet when is she really ready?
The day of the mission
She tiptoes downstairs. The moonlight spills all over the front of her front yard like milk. Cicadas sang vibrantly. She gets in her car. The sound of the engine floods her ears. She takes a deep breath.
At the designated spot, she parks her car and sits in complete darkness. She has to wait 30 minutes before aborting the pickup. She looks around the area. It’s 2:30 am. Every house on the street is sleeping on this peaceful night.
Suddenly, a tiny shadow on the corner scratches and breaks the silence of the night. A young girl appears under the street light. The girl is dragging a large duffel bag while wearing a baggy T-shirt, looking fragile and scared.
She turns on her hazard lights. The girl’s eyes brighten up. The girl walks a little faster now, but the bag slows her down.
She comes out and walks out of the car. “This is for the jewelry delivery?” The girl nods timidly and fixes the collar of her T-shirt.
They drive off. She looks at the girl in the trunk. The girl, presumably Amy, is looking out the window nervously with her hands awkwardly placed on her tiny thighs. She hears Amy’s little voice in the back of the car, “Thank you.”
They arrive at the drop-off location. She opens the trunk and takes out Amy’s duffle bag. She turns around, and Amy is standing next to the car door with tears all over her face. “I am scared.” Amy can barely mutter a complete sentence, " I have never been alone before. I don’t know if I can make it… I don’t know how to survive on my own…"
She cuts her off sternly, “You will make it! You have to.”
She takes Amy’s hands in hers. She sees her younger teenage self in Amy’s sniffling. “You’re stronger than you can ever imagine. You have to believe it. Today will be the beginning of the toughest battle you’ll ever face, but you will make it. You have to tell yourself that. Now, go on and ring the doorbell.”
Amy looks down for a minute and then nods. She watches Amy dragging the oversized duffle bag to the front door and ringing the doorbell. Someone comes out, confirms the details, and takes Amy in.
She stands in the walkway that is blossoming with tulips. It’s a beautiful summer night. Another girl’s life is forever changed.