Sobs threaten in my chest; they have been waiting in the wings, gathering themselves for their predictable time in the spotlight. This is the second stage. After the surprise and the quickness of the attack comes the childlike reaction to pain and fear, the quick hysteria at an unjust act. I hold my fist to my mouth and will not let the sobs come. I will not give him the satisfaction of hearing me cry, will not hear his contempt at my "weakness," at my "pathetic mewling."

I curl my legs beneath me and withdraw deeper into the closet. I will not cry and I will leave no vulnerable part. My husband's fist has sent me into myself; it has scattered me and I hide, fight familiar panic as my shattered pieces struggle to reintegrate, to get me back to my solid self who stood just a few moments ago, getting dressed for work.

I listen to my small children ask for me and I hear the deep rumble of my husband's voice as he answers them, but I cannot hear his words. My dazed brain rejects his sounds, refuses to acknowledge them; he is nothing but a shadowy animal growling in the distance. But it is the thought of my small, sleepy-eyed children that spurs me to get up, to begin the business of fixing the damage. I will remain in this weepy stage for a while, but I must move, must try to get back to myself.

I pull myself to my feet, feel the ache in my lower back from contact with the floor and the knot on the back of my head from contact with something. I don't remember hitting my head, but I know these pains will stay with me now for days. My fingers trace my face lightly, try to gauge the damage done.

At least the skin isn't broken, I think, knowing that blood is much harder to deal with, both physically and psychologically. There is something deeply shocking about seeing one's own blood spill, something primitive and base about blood.

"At least you are not bleeding," I whisper, and the sound of my own voice grounds me the tiniest bit. "Not bleeding," I repeat, a little bolder.

I cannot face the mirror yet, so I turn again into the closet. The dramatic flowered dress will attract too much attention; now I need the opposite. I must wear something nondescript and neutral. My separate and practical brain, the part of me that deals matter-of-factly with this aspect of my life, thinks ahead: maybe 10 days of being marked this time, of wearing my husband's brand.

I pull black slacks from a hanger, a black sweater from the shelf, and dress quickly, pulling clothes on without removing my robe, until I have dressed, covered myself.

"Leave Mom alone!" I hear my husband's clear shout. "She's getting dressed!" And I know he does not want the children to see me until I have pulled myself from my undignified position in the closet, until I have hidden what he has done. I try to readjust my face as I hear my daughter's small disobedient feet padding down the hallway toward me.

"Mom!" Grace is 4 and breathless. "Mom!"

"Hey, darling girl," I answer, turning my face away to search for earrings. "Have you had breakfast?"

"Yep! Do I have school today?"

"This afternoon." I nod and approach my daughter quickly, hug her to my chest, do not show my face. "Mommy has to use the bathroom; why don't you get dressed?"

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