The Lucky Ones: Rachel's Story

In the days before cell phones, a young woman's good deed could have easily turned deadly.

The Lost, the Missing, and the Lucky Ones: Stories of Brutality Against Women

By Rachel B. Anson

I am a true crime nut. I know we are a dime a dozen these days, but my fascination with true crime stems back over 30 years, throughout which I was obsessed with shows like Homicide: Life on the Street, Law & Order, and CSI. My adult career path has included time as a military paralegal, a criminal defense investigator, and a correctional officer at the only maximum-security prison in Alaska. These experiences have provided me with direct knowledge of the criminal world and more exposure than most to a variety of criminals. With that in mind, I watch true crime (or murder TV as my kids call it) with particular interest.

While watching true crime TV recently, I saw a few episodes on women who had been brutally attacked and assaulted. In some cases, the women were found murdered and endured a tragic ending. These are The Lost. In other cases, the women just disappeared without a trace, whereabouts still unknown. These are The Missing. Finally in some cases, the women survived and lived to tell their tale. These are The Lucky Ones. As I contemplated my own personal experiences, this led me to wonder "How did I ever survive the horrible decisions of my youth?" Sadly, I realized I had multiple examples of where I should consider myself one of The Lucky Ones. Here is one.

The Lucky Ones: Rachel's Story

In the spring of 1997, I worked as a waitress at a massive entertainment complex in Wilmington, Delaware. I had recently moved back to town after a few years away for college. The Kahunaville restaurant was filled with animatronics, water features and all the video games you can imagine in a tropical oasis setting. The facility also had an outdoor riverfront bar/restaurant known as The Deck with a large stage where they would host concerts in the summer. For partying in the winter, there was the more traditional Big Kahuna Night Club. The whole complex was easily identified by the large volcano structure on the outside of the building. In Wilmington in the 1990's, this was the place to be.

One night, I was waiting on a table with two cute guys who were about my age. I remembered them because I had waited on them once before. One of the guys had been heavily flirting with me and asked if I would have a drink with him at the bar in the restaurant once my shift ended. He was extremely attractive, and we had a good rapport, so I agreed to meet him for a drink. Most of that evening is etched permanently in my brain, but the one thing I do not remember is his name. For the sake of this story, I'll call him Eric. I wrapped up my shift, cleaned up my station, and excitedly headed to the bar to meet Eric.

Although it has been nearly 30 years since that night, I can still remember pieces of our conversation. I was young and nae. I didn't see the red flags that were staring at me in the face. The conversation began mundanely enough, and we talked a lot about hockey. I was a serious Philadelphia Flyers fan, and they were Stanley Cup contenders that year. We talked about the season and the team. I don't recall how it came up, but I also mentioned that I was Catholic. This became a particular focus for Eric. He kept rambling on and on about how much his mother was going to love me. I found it odd, but I was flattered. Most guys my age weren't as focused on their family, so I thought it was sweet.

RED FLAG!

After we finished at the bar, he mentioned his friend had gone over to the nightclub side of the facility and asked me to join him. Keep in mind, this was in the pre-cell phone era. We headed over into the nightclub and saw it was a sparse crowd. Eric "realized" his friend must have ditched him. He said it was a joke his buddy would play on him occasionally when he met a girl he liked.

RED FLAG!

Eric knew the bar his friend would go to and asked me if I would please give him a ride. I was annoyed but also felt bad for him. He appeared to be genuinely embarrassed about the whole situation. The worst part was that the bar his friend headed to was in Newark, about 25-30 minutes away from us. I really did not want to drive him there. I wasn't nervous about him or the situation, I was only tired after a long shift and ready to go home. But I didn't feel right about just leaving him there either, so I thought that giving him a ride was the right thing to do.

During the half hour car ride to Newark, I became keenly aware that Eric's alcohol intake was starting to have serious effects on him. I did not drink before I turned twenty-one, so I had not been very exposed to the ways alcohol could impact people differently. In this case, it was as if a switch had gone from sober to wasted in an instant. When I met him at the bar earlier, he tried to get me to drink shots with him, but since I knew I had to drive, I limited myself to one beer. Thank goodness for that.

As we finally got to Newark, I started to realize exactly how late it was. Delaware stops serving alcohol at 1am. I knew it wasn't last call when we left Wilmington but didn't consider how long it would take to drive to Newark. Suddenly I could tell the public end of the night was upon us and I still had no idea how to get Eric back to his friends. Eric announced he had the perfect solution. He said that I would just have to take him home to Maryland but refused to tell me where until I agreed to stay the night there.

RED FLAG!

Eric said he was concerned about me driving so late. I already knew there was no way I was going to stay the night with him, but he wasn't taking no for an answer. I was at a loss for what to do. I knew I needed to think, but at this point, I was beginning to recognize there was at least some level of risk, so I attempted to be deliberate in my actions. Newark was not an area I was familiar with; however, I had a male friend from high school now attending the University of Delaware who lived in the area. The strip of apartments he lived in was known by locals as "Skid Row." These apartments were directly across the street from a fire department and had a parking lot behind them that was well-lit and adjacent to a popular local bar. I thought this would be a good area for me to stop the car and think about what my next steps should be. I found an empty spot and parked the vehicle.

By this time, Eric was extremely intoxicated and still demanding I stay at his house. I continued to refuse. He returned to our earlier conversation and talked about how lucky he was to find such an amazing, good Catholic girl and how much his mother would love me.

Then it happened.

Eric leaned over and tried to kiss me. I pulled away and he grabbed me by my throat with both hands, still attempting to kiss me. The more I pulled away, the harder he squeezed my throat. I realized how dire this situation was at that moment. In a panic, an array of thoughts flashed through my mind:

My family will be so sad if I die.

How long until I pass out?

I was never nice enough to my sister.

Is he going to rape me?

I hoped to someday be a mother.

Where will they find my body?

Back then, there was not much focus on the safety of women. I never learned any self-defense tactics. I had never even been concerned about my personal safety. I didn't know for sure what to do, other than to say a prayer and let God and my instinct guide me.

Will I ever see the sunshine again?

Will someone take care of my dog?

Will the fury in his eyes be the last thing I see on this earth?

After a brief period of reflection, I realized I had to play along with him. The more compliant I became, the less aggressive he was. I began to kiss him back, gently at first but then aggressively. He finally loosened his grip completely and asked me again to take him home. This time, I agreed.

My plan (weak as it was) was to tell him I was going to stay at his house, even though that was never my intention. Once we got there, I was going to ditch him and drive off. I know that was a terrible plan and have since thought about the various horrible scenarios that still could have transpired. But that was the best plan I had at the time.

Eric started giving me directions of where to go. Anyone who knows anything about northern Delaware, northeast Maryland, and southeast Pennsylvania knows there are tons of back roads. The roads are narrow, dark, wooded, and full of twists and turns. They are the prime setting for horror movies and unfortunate events. I am deeply familiar with many of these areas. But this part of Maryland was unfamiliar territory for me. Before long, Eric passed out in the car next to me. Hard. I shook him and yelled his name, asking him for directions. He would not wake up. There was nowhere to pull over. I continued driving down this unfamiliar road in the middle of nowhere. After miles of sheer nothingness, a light emerged from the darkness.

It was a police station.

I immediately engaged in a visceral emotional battle for the ages. Despite everything that had happened, I still couldn't bring myself to stop. As many victims and survivors do, I explained his behavior away:

He's not a bad guy.

I don't want him to get in trouble.

He wouldn't have really killed me.

I was probably leading him along.

He just had too much to drink.

I'm overreacting.

I know, I know.... I'm a mom now with three daughters. I know. What makes it worse is I did not even really know the guy and I was STILL explaining his behavior away. I fought that battle internally as Eric lay passed out in the seat next to me. Debating whether I should turn around and go back to the police station, convincing myself that doing so could ruin his life. Never for one moment considering the full impact of what horrible things he could have done to me. By this time, I arrived at a major thoroughfare that was familiar enough to me so I could find my way home. And that is exactly where I headed.

I lived in my parents' home in downtown Wilmington. The area was filled with 3-story row homes and on-street parking, and by this time of the morning there was no way I would have been able to park near my home anyway. I decided my best course of action would be to drive home, park around the corner, and leave him passed out in the car. Due to a recent car accident, I was driving a rental and had no personal belongings in the vehicle. I removed the rental contract from the glove box, leaving no evidence for him to be able to track me down. He didn't even know my last name. Eric was still passed out, so I left him there and got out of the car. It was now nearly 3am.

I had not made it far up the street when Eric woke up, got out of the car and started screaming at me, asking me where we were. I told him we were back in Wilmington. He flipped out asking why I had taken him 45 minutes away from his home and brought him somewhere he was not familiar with. That's rich...I told him he was welcome to sleep it off in the car, but that he brought this upon himself, and he was lucky I had not driven him to a police station. I also made it clear our area had a highly active neighborhood watch program (not true, to my knowledge, but he didn't need to know that) and if he attempted to follow me, I would scream bloody murder calling for help. I watched as I walked around the corner and ensured he did not follow me, then I entered my home, locked the door, and burst into tears.

The next morning, my dad came upstairs to my room to tell me Eric was there to see me. I can only assume he went to every single house on the block until he found the right one. My dad is one of those men who will not just let you avoid someone. If you don't want to take a call, you better hope he is not the one that answers the phone because he is going to make you face the problem. When he told me Eric was there to see me, the fear in my face told my dad this was a different scenario. He told Eric I didn't want to see him and to leave and never come back. Eric also showed up at my work a couple of times too. Fortunately, due to the size of the facility, we had a large security staff, and they were told to keep an eye out for him. They also walked me to and from my car at work for weeks to ensure my safety.

In the days and months that followed, I was keenly aware of how lucky I was in that situation. In those moments when Eric was squeezing my neck, for the first and only time in my life, I visualized the true potential of my death. Despite that, it took me years to understand the gravity of the situation. What if I had drunk a little more alcohol and let my own inhibitions slide? What if I hadn't started kissing him and I lost consciousness? What if he had not passed out and I had driven to his house in the deep, dark woods of Maryland?

I often wonder what ever happened to Eric. Does he even know what he did to me? That he held his hands around my neck and began to squeeze? Yet despite everything, I just couldn't bring myself to take him to the police station when I had the chance because he was just drunk. Why do women who are in the position of being a victim of violence continue to make excuses for those seeking to harm us? This is something that haunts me to this day. I would never forgive myself if I ever found out Eric had gone on to hurt another woman. That is the most frightening thing for me. I now know there were so many red flags that should have been obvious to me. I just didn't see them.

I know I am one of The Lucky Ones.