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Monster at the table

George was about to put an end to those brave family smiles for good...


Published by: Clare Stone & Sharon Ward
Published on: 11th August 2011

It was a Saturday morning and, Elvis Presley blaring from the radio, I handed my daughter Denise a duster. ‘Just like the good old days,’ she smiled.
‘I knew this would cheer you up,’ I winked.
When she was little, we’d done the housework to rock ‘n’ roll music, along with her younger sister Louisa, every weekend.Giggling, the girls would wiggle their dusters to the beat.
Now, though, it wasn’t just her duster that Denise, 23, was wiggling – she had a baby bump, too.
But sadly, she’d broken up with her husband, which was why she’d come to see me.
‘Do you think I’ll be a good mum?’ she asked, dusting off a photo of her and Louisa sandwiched between their brothers Michael and Tommy.
‘Of course,’ I smiled.
‘It’s just, I want to be the best, like you,’ she smiled shyly.
I’d been 15 when I had Denise. I’d married her dad and we’d had Michael, Tommy and Louisa.
But the marriage hadn’t worked out. Aged 20, I’d found myself a single mum of four.
‘You’ll be fine,’ I told her. Still, I hoped Denise would find a man to love and raise her baby with – her own little family.
A few weeks later, dusting and singing along to the radio, Denise came to visit again. ‘Fancy polishing?’ I smiled.
‘I was wondering if we could have a chat,’ she said nervously.
Switching the radio off, she led me to the sofa. ‘What’s wrong?’ I panicked. ‘Is the baby okay?’
A big grin spread across her face. ‘I’ve met someone,’ she giggled. ‘He’s called George Hartwig, and he’s 27.’
‘That’s great,’ I beamed.
‘Would it be okay if I brought him home for dinner, so you and Louisa can meet him?’ she added.
Our family had Italian roots, and big family dinners were a massive part of our lives. ‘Of course,’ I nodded. ‘Can’t wait to meet him.’
A few days later, a tall, stocky, handsome guy was sat at my dinner table. ‘You have a lovely house,’ he smiled nervously, tugging a strand of his shoulder-length brown hair behind his ear. ‘And this food is delicious.’
‘I can see why you fell for him,’ I nudged Denise.
‘What a gentleman,’ whispered Louisa, giving her sister a wink.
Denise was smitten and, before long, the smile on her face only grew wider when her son Christopher was born and she moved in with George.
It was obvious she was happy, she wasn’t worried about shifting her baby weight and, like in most new relationships, she started to put on weight. Over the next few years, she went from 8st to 18st.
Me and Louisa would meet her for lunch, and she’d happily munch through three courses, while chatting about her job at the Salvation Army.
By now, Louisa was mum to Josh and Mark, so they’d swap parenting advice, too.
When Denise and George finally tied the knot, I didn’t think things could get any better.
And maybe I was right.
My son Michael had been battling lung cancer when he sadly died, aged 41.
The whole family was devastated and it really rocked Denise, made her look at her own health. ‘I’m having a gastric band fitted,’ she told me. ‘If I carry on like this, I might not see Christopher grow up.’
Over the next 18 months, she lost 10st. But one part of her just wasn’t shrinking. ‘There’s this swelling in my stomach,’ she told me one day. ‘It’s really hard and sore when I prod it.’
‘You should see the doctor,’ I worried.
‘Will you come with me?’ she asked.
‘Of course,’ I promised. ‘But what about George?’
‘Oh, he’ll be working,’ she said. ‘And I don’t want to worry him, it’s probably nothing.’
But it wasn’t – it was ovarian cancer. Sat in the doctor’s surgery, Denise’s eyes filled with tears.
‘My poor baby,’ I sobbed, taking her hand. I’d buried one child, was I going to be outliving Denise, too?
But she shook her head. ‘I’ll beat this,’ she croaked.
With me, George and Louisa to support her, though, she’d have a whole army battling this cancer with her.
‘We’ll beat this,’ I corrected her.
Yet, when I met
her for her first chemotherapy session, George was nowhere to be seen. ‘Why isn’t he here?’ I asked Denise.
‘He’s busy working,’ she sighed. ‘I think it’s his way of coping.’
I suppose he thought he was doing the best for his family, providing for them. But it seemed like every time I met Denise at hospital, she had an excuse ready for George. ‘He thought it would be nice for us to spend some time together,’ she’d say.
‘He wanted to get the house tidy,’ she’d shrug.
Still, I was there to support her and, two years later, she was in remission. ‘Oh darling, thank God,’ I said when she told me.
‘Now you can go away,’ she smiled. Some friends had invited me on a trip around America for the summer.
‘Are you sure?’ I asked.
‘Mum, do it,’ she said.
I had the best two months, but missed my girls dearly. So, back home, I was furiously unpacking so I could see them when my phone rang. It was my friend Kate. ‘How are you holding up?’ she asked.
‘Well, I’m jet lagged but…’ I started.
‘I-I mean about Denise,’ she said, sounding confused.
‘What about Denise?’ I asked, stomach lurching. Was the cancer back, had she not told me so I could enjoy my holiday?
‘It’s George, he’s in jail,’ explained Kate.
What the?!
‘Jail?!’ I blurted. ‘I-I’d better go…’
Confused and frightened, I raced round to Denise’s.
When she opened the door, I got the shock of my life. She was gaunt, her skin sallow and a row of stitches ran across her forehead.
‘My God,’ I breathed. ‘What happened?’
‘Oh Mum,’ she said, bursting into tears. ‘George attacked me with a claw hammer.’
I felt like I’d been punched.
‘A-attacked you?’ I stammered, trying to make sense of what she was saying.
‘He has been since we met,’ she sobbed. The room began to spin. Was I hearing her properly?
Suddenly, it was like the floodgates had opened, and Denise couldn’t stop talking. ‘He’s addicted to drugs and alcohol,’ she whispered. ‘He was trying to get my pain medication from me, but I’d hidden it – so he attacked me.’
This couldn’t be happening. I spent nearly every day with my daughter – how had I not noticed something was wrong?
I felt like a failure. I’d always been there for my daughter, yet I’d missed the fact her husband was abusing her. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ I begged.
‘Because he threatened to shoot me or Christopher,’ she cried. ‘He threatened to blow your brains out.’
That sick man had used her as a punchbag, even when she was fighting cancer. She’d been too scared to say a thing and had suffered in silence for 23 years.
It all made sense now, though – why he was never at her hospital appointments, the excuses she always had ready for him.
But this time things had gone
too far, and she’d reported him to police. ‘We can get through this,’ I promised her. ‘You and Christopher can stay with me and…’
‘Mum, there’s more,’ she added. Taking my hands, she looked into my eyes, and bit her lip.
‘I-I’m dying,’ she whispered.
Pain ripped through my heart.
‘No, no, no,’ I shook my head.
‘Doctors don’t know how long I have left,’ she said gently.
I felt like I couldn’t breath, my world was spinning out of control.
To discover George had been attacking Denise, and now that she was dying… I couldn’t make sense of it all. I’d have time to get my head around everything but, right now, Denise needed me.
George was in jail. She’d told police he needed to go to drug rehab before being released, so I became her full-time carer.
Three months after George had been jailed, I was round her house cleaning, she was on the sofa napping. I was just remembering how we used to do it together, singing along to Elvis, when I heard the front door slam shut.
‘Honey, I’m home,’ called a voice. I froze… It was George.
Jolting awake, Denise looked at me, eyes full of fear.
Sauntering into the living room, he stood in the doorway. ‘They let me out,’ he sneered. ‘And I need the airbed, where is it?’
Denise looked from me to him. ‘Get up you lazy woman and find it…’ he snapped.
But instead of fear, I felt anger. He was treating my dying daughter, his wife, like she was worthless. I wasn’t about to let him carry on.
‘Get out,’ I hissed.
Suddenly, he lurched at Denise. She flinched, but he reached behind the sofa, not for her.
He snatched up a pillow smeared with red stains and held it like a trophy. ‘See this blood?’ he screamed. ‘It’s where I cracked her skull open.’
‘You think you’re a big man, taking a hammer to a dying woman,’ I yelled. ‘Well, you’re not.’
George’s eyes widened. ‘Mum,’ Denise whimpered.
‘Get out,’ I screamed to George.
He must have been so shocked someone had finally stood up to him because he turned on his heels and left.
‘I’m sorry honey,’ I said, taking Denise in my arms. ‘I couldn’t help it.’
‘It’s okay,’ she said.
Still shaken, I put Denise to bed. But I’d been invited to a party and she was insisting I went. So I called Louisa to come to look after her.
Worried George would return, though, I called her every hour until 7pm. ‘We’re fine,’ she insisted. ‘Enjoy yourself.’
Dropping my phone into my handbag, I forced myself not to reach for it again. But at 9pm, It rang. It wasn’t Louisa, though, it was my son Tommy. ‘Hello love…’ but I didn’t get to finish.
‘Mum, come quick, Louisa’s been shot,’ he blurted. I felt my legs go, as I leaned against the wall for support.
‘W-what?’ I croaked.
‘George came back,’ he explained. ‘When Louisa called 911, he shot her in the head. Denise was asleep, and woke up when she heard the gunshot.’
‘Oh my God,’ I gasped.
‘You need to get to hospital, they don’t know whether Louisa is going to make it,’ he said.
I raced to hospital, terrified of what was waiting for me.
I’d lost Michael, I didn’t know how long I had left with Denise, was I about to lose Louisa, too?
She’d been shot in the face, her head was swollen to the size of a bowling ball. ‘It’s my fault, I shouldn’t have argued with him,’ I told Tommy.
‘It’s no one’s fault,’ he told me. ‘He was a controlling monster. Right now, Louisa and Denise need you to be strong for them.’
Now my time was torn between both my daughters.
Louisa, so I could will her to live, Denise, so I could be there when she died…
Amazingly, after being in a deep coma for seven months, Louisa regained consciousness.
However, she was permanently brain-damaged and had to be moved into a care home. Sadly, Denise never got to visit her.
Three months after the shooting, she woke up, turned to me and smiled. ‘I saw Michael in my dreams last night,’ she whispered.
I knew this would be the day she’d leave me.
Climbing into bed beside her, I sang lullabies as she took her final breath, aged 43.
She’d battled through so much but, finally, she was at peace.
Denise was cremated with photos of me and Louisa. Her ashes were buried with Michael’s.
‘I’ll look after Louisa,’ I promised her.
Nearly three years on, and Louisa can’t speak or walk. But she loves banging on the piano, and I’ve taught her sign language – one finger for no, two for yes.
But I’ve lost the real Louisa forever, and it’s down to George, who’s still taunting me.
He’s in jail, but his lawyers have offered us a plea bargain, which means he’ll admit to attempted murder if he’s guaranteed a 15-year sentence.
But I want him locked up for good. I’m suffering a life sentence, so should he.
Once upon a time, I used to enjoy dusting with my girls, dancing to Elvis. Now George has left me trying to sort through the tattered remains of my life.
BettyJean Downing-Kling, 63, Shippensburg, Pennsylvania, USA