A gentle grasp on my arm violently jolts me off the bench I’d been perched on. I come up swinging, heart racing so hard I can barely breathe. For a few seconds, I can’t tell where I am.
“Woah, woah!” The older gentleman backs away with his hands in the air, showing he means no harm. “I’m sorry miss, I didn’t mean to startle you. The bus you purchased a ticket for is now boarding.”
He points in the direction of my bus and when he turns back around I notice his name tag says Ernie and recognition sets in. He is the man who sold me my bus ticket.
Crimson colors my cheeks as I mumble my apology and my feet carry me toward freedom. The sun still hides behind the horizon as I board. Soft LED lights line the walkway casting a faint glow, and it resembles a tiny airplane runway. The irony seems to fit my current situation. I’d love nothing more than to fly away from it all. Once planted in the electric blue seat straight out of the 80s, the reality of what just happened comes crashing down on me. I can’t let that happen again. I need to stay focused. It’s only a matter of time before he finds me, and I can’t risk it. Not this time.
For the first few hours of my trip, I stare out the window in comfortable silence. Against my better judgement, I allow my mind to drift. Ghosts from my past haunt me; memories I rarely grant permission, come to surface. Moments like this make me question what life could have been like if I had been born to a different family. If my mom were different. If drugs didn’t exist. Momma loved me. I know she did. But she was sick.
Living in the Bible Belt, teen pregnancy wasn’t accepted as a youthful mistake. It was a damning sin. My father abandoned her, and her family rejected her. She couldn’t fathom the idea of aborting me. And to be honest, in Oklahoma, that would be a fate worse than murder. Not making excuses for her actions, but what more do you expect from a fifteen-year-old girl, scared and alone in the world? As I grew, so did her desperation.
Over the years, people took us in. Each one more wicked than the last. By the time I was five, momma was heavily addicted to methamphetamine. I didn’t understand what was wrong. Why she never ate, why her eyes never looked clear. About that time, momma’s boyfriend Clint, took a special interest in me.
One night, momma was passed out, he came into my room. I clenched my dirty stuffed puppy, terrified. I didn’t know what he wanted, but momma wasn’t with him and he scared me. I pretended to be asleep when he lowered himself onto my tattered Strawberry Shortcake sheets. His dirty hands felt like gravel as they traveled up my thigh. I knew no one was supposed to touch me there. Momma told me to scream if someone touched me. So, I did.
I let out a scream so loud my throat burned. Momma scrambled into the room a little disoriented but aware enough that she understood the situation.
“You little shit!” He screamed, slapping me across the face. The metallic twang of blood filled my mouth. Momma lunged at him, my t-ball bat clutched in her thin hands. She swung until his body lie limp on the floor and blood trickled from his ears.
Sobs and apologies are all that filled the air as momma rushed to pack us a bag. I couldn’t move, just sat there, squeezing my now bloodied puppy. Momma took us to a motel. She sat me down and told me that I would probably be taken away from her. Her words filled me with panic. She was all I knew. I loved my momma. But she continued to talk. She told me I would get to go live with a new family for a while. There would be other children and plenty of food. She made it sound so glorious. When the time was right, she would come get me and we could be together again.
Those were the thoughts swirling in my little mind as I drifted off to sleep.
But none of those happy dreams became reality. Momma overdosed the day the State took me. She left me to conquer the world. Alone. And foster care—it was not the happy place momma thought it was.
Wiping the warm tears from my face, I shift in the seat trying to pull myself together. The pain in my abdomen screams but I manage to breathe through it. Pain has a purpose. It’s telling you something—you are still alive. The question is, am I still listening?
My thoughts have dampened my mood, so I simply people watch. I enjoy thinking up a story for each person who catches my attention. I often have too much time to think, which is admittedly never positive. As terrified as I am for what may happen if he finds me, I refuse to allow him to further control my life. Starting today, I am the old me. Scratch that. The new me. I am no longer going to be the woman who chooses to wear blinders and make excuses. I square my shoulders, preparing myself for the journey ahead and pride settles deep in my heart. Right now, I figure I am as safe as I can be on a moving bus. Might as well rest while I can. This is a luxury I might not be able to afford in the near future.
The driver’s voice over the loud speaker pulls me from the depths of slumber. We finally made it to Miami. A sinking feeling starts to settle in my gut, but I force it back. I can do this. I’ve been homeless before. At least this time I will have a car. Not to mention, the wad of cash Manny gave me. I still have not counted the roll of bills to see how much I have to live on until I can find a job.
SHIT.
My purse! It’s still on the floor at the house or so I assume. I won’t be able to find legal employment without some form of identification. I am more screwed than I thought. I breathe deep trying to calm my frenzied nerves. It’s okay Teagan. You can figure this out. Won’t be the first time you’ve had to seek out less than legal employment.
Standing, I stretch the kinks out of my aching body and hiss when the fire ignites at my side. Counting through the pain, I grab my belongings and shuffle awkwardly. I can feel other passengers’ stares as I make my way to the front of the bus. My cheeks redden and burn with embarrassment. I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help internalizing the looks on their faces. Pity shines in their eyes and it eats at me. Making sure my aviators are in place, I pull my hood tighter. I just need to make it out of here.
Walking out to the passenger pick up area, I scan my surroundings, grappling to find my bearings. The air is warm and thick, and the sounds of loved ones being united surround me. The atmosphere brings with it a bittersweet throb. I am not exactly sure who I’m looking for, but Manny assured me that he would be here. Whoever “he” is.
Glancing around, I pause when I see a large tan-skinned man standing next to a faded black early 2000s Honda Civic. I can’t contain the smile that takes over my features as I walk over to the man holding a sign that reads simply “Baby Girl”.
As I get closer, I can see the man is probably in his late forties. With his gold chains, silk shirt and chest hair, he looks every bit the part of cheesy Mafioso.
“Aey, you must be the Teagan Manny has convinced ‘em self is his daughta’,” he observes with a heavy accent I can’t place. I can’t help the glow that radiates through me, knowing Manny thinks of me in such a way.
“Well, I couldn’t think of a better father to have so, yeah, that’s me,” I beam.
I can pinpoint the exact moment he notices the marks on my skin. My stomach tightens as his mouth flattens, and his previously harsh eyes soften just a bit before he speaks.
“Emmanuel told me some about your situation. I’m real sorry that happened to ya, miss. Men like him, they get what’s comin’ to ‘em.” His sincerity surprises me.
“Thank you for the help and for meeting me here. Now I can focus on moving on with my life.” It’s all I can honestly say. I don’t want to discuss Mark, or that life any longer.
“Anything for Manny. Here.” He hands me a large manila envelope. “This should be everythin’ you need. There’s a prepaid phone in there too. Manny wants you to call him when you get where eva’ it is you’re goin’.”
I open the envelope and see a phone, driver’s license with my picture on it, Social Security card, and keys which I assume are for the car. The photo on the ID is old. It is the picture from the last driver’s license I had before I married Mark. I don’t even know if I can wrap my head around this. There is clearly more to Manny’s past than I realized.
“Thanks again. I uh, do I even want to know how you got a driver’s license with my picture on it?” I pull it out to reveal the name listed on the card—Taryn Sullivan. I smirk realizing that this is the third last name I’ve had in my twenty-nine years.
“No ma’am, ain’t something you should be askin’.” His voice is stern but the small smile on his face reflects the levity of our interaction.
“Well, I guess I’ll be on my way. I think I’m going to stay in town for at least tonight. I’m pretty worn out. I need to unwind a bit and work some things out before I decide on where to go.” I don’t know why I’m telling him all this, nor do I realize how true those statements are until I voice them.
“You should definitely find a safe place to sleep tonight. I know havin’ a drink is probably not on the top of the to do list, but it looks like ya’ could use one. Or ten.”
I take a second to think about his words.
He’s not wrong.
“Yeah, I’ll think about it.” We exchange smiles and he helps me load my bags into the car.
“Now, get outta here!” he yells over his shoulder with a nod as he walks away. I laugh a little as I start the car’s engine. I’m surprised at how clean the car is despite her age and apparent overuse. She’s perfect.
I pull out onto the street not really having any idea where I’m going. What I do know is that I’m starving and my side hurts like a son of bitch. I pull into the first grocery store I see, looking for a private location to evaluate my situation and figure out how much money I have to live on. Growing up as I did, you learn quickly not to let anyone see how much of anything valuable you have. If they do see, you won’t have it for long. I scan the parking lot to see how much privacy I have. The lot seems empty and the windows are thankfully tinted. I pull the cash out of a small backpack I brought and unroll it. Five hundred dollars. Not a lot, but like I said, I’ve had a lot worse. It should be enough to house me for a little while. Hell, if anything, I can sleep in the car.
Gathering my new ID, cash, and key, I head for the store. The big red bullseye over the door mocks me and I instinctively tense. I make my way up and down the isles gathering a few snack items I know will last me, along with some bread and cheap lunch meat. I am grateful that I grabbed all the toiletries from my bathroom back in Tallahassee. One less thing to worry about.
Rounding a clearance section, I realize I need to replace my purse and wallet. Quickly looking through the items, I find what I need. A black faux leather hand bag and matching wallet are on sale for sixty percent off. Perfect. It seems a little frivolous to spend what little money I have on a purse, but the bag represents more than just an object to hold my items. It carries a sense of normalcy. As minute as it may be, it’s another piece of my life, collected from the ashes.
After making my purchase, I head back out to the car.
Thankfully, the prepaid phone I was given is a smart phone. I do a quick google search and pull up a list of motels. Selecting directions for the one closest to me, I pull back out onto the street. Fifteen minutes and homicide-inducing traffic later, I pull into the parking lot of a rundown motel. I don’t have a credit card and this place definitely looks like a cash, pay-by-the-hour, kind of joint.
The front desk clerk doesn’t even make eye contact. The middle-aged woman with painted eyebrows and scary long fingernails did nothing more than bark the price at me and throw a key my direction. A-Okay with me. I’m appreciative that she is the first person not to notice or react to the bruises on my face. Not sure how long I intend to stay, I go ahead and prepay for three nights.
The room is every bit as run down as you would expect but it appears to be surface clean. I set my bags on the green shag carpet next to the bed and store the meat in the outdated mini fridge. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I take a moment to simply breathe. The last several hours have been grueling and, to be honest, I haven’t taken the time to let my situation really sink in, to grieve.
Everything in this room from the dingy drapes to the smell permeating the air is both familiar and foreign. While the expensive furnishings and fancy sheets were nice, I don’t miss them. In all my time with Mark, I have never felt this content. The strings of uncertainty still loom over my head, but I do not fear starting over. This is my chance to become the person I want to be. I can finally make decisions for myself. The knowledge brings a calming peace that I have never felt before.
My stomach growls audibly, breaking my train of thought. It’s time to feed the beast. I scarf down a sandwich in the most un-lady-like manner possible. Just. Because. I. Can. I’m not sure I even tasted it.
While I know I needed the fuel for energy, the sandwich doesn’t sit well. The pain in my ribs combined with the traveling have taken a toll on me. Deciding its best, I rest my eyes a bit, I gingerly lie back on the floral stained bedspread and close my eyes. Thoughts of what life could be chase me into dreamland.
Several hours later, I wake slightly rested and a little less sore since I’ve been able to spread out. I dig through my bag and grab my toiletries. I really need a shower. The lukewarm water feels like heaven on my aching body. I take my time washing my hair. The movement makes my injuries tender, and honestly, I never want to leave the cocoon of this shower.
My thoughts involuntarily drift toward Mark. Part of me knows I need to find out his status, but the rest of me either doesn’t care or is terrified of the answer. Pushing the situation from my mind, I grab a towel and step in front of the mirror. For several minutes, all I can do is stare at my reflection. The person looking back at me is someone I never want to meet again.
She is a broken woman.
The blonde hair taunts me. It’s not me. Fuck this. I may not be able to do anything about the bruising right now, but I sure as hell can do something about my hair. The woman looking back at me is the Teagan he wanted me to be. That woman is dead. It’s time to meet the new Teagan. I square my shoulders and smile as the determination kicks up my heart rate.
After wrapping the towel around myself, I curl up at the end of the bed and grab the remote, needing background noise to break the silence. Then nothing. I unhelpfully shake the remote and try again. Nothing. Growling to myself, I try the knob on the TV. Still no luck.
“Of course not,” I mumble to myself in frustration.
Damn, I might go get a drink after all. May ease the pain, at least.
I hurriedly put on some makeup and try to mask what bruising I can. There is simply nothing I can do about the purple stains on my neck. Sighing, I throw on a pair of distressed denim shorts that hug me just right, a white V-neck Beatles tee and my Chuck Taylor Converse. I haven’t been allowed to dress this way in years. Wearing my own clothes brings a sense of pride I’ve been missing. But even with this new-found attitude and attire, it isn’t enough to conceal my identity. Grabbing my purse and glasses, I head for the door.
The drugstore isn’t too far from the motel. Its nice out and parking’s a bitch, so I decide to walk. As I stroll through the city, I take in all she has to offer. The warm tropical breeze and cultural diversity make it feel like home. Even the smell of food from beachfront food trucks gives me a feeling of contentment.
Before long, the store comes into view. The chilly store air hits my skin as I enter. It’s a stark contrast from outside but welcome nonetheless. Not sure where to look, I scan the aisle headings. Finally locating the hair dye, I stare blankly at the boxes, unsure. I have never dyed my own hair before. This could be a disaster.
Finally deciding to go as close to my natural color as possible, I reach for my selection.
“Stop and put your hands where I can see them.”
My entire body freezes and goosebumps mark my flesh. Panic washes over me as my heart begins to race. I slowly do as I’m told and raise my arms. What the hell am I going to do?
“Step away from the terrible decision and no one will get hurt.”
Wait, what?
Confusion replaces panic as the woman’s words sink in. I turn my head slightly to find a beautiful petite woman with raven hair and bright green eyes, pointing a banana at me. She begins to laugh hysterically, and despite my utter confusion, I begin to laugh as well. What in the world is going on?
Lowering my arms, I cautiously eye the person responsible for the “stick up”. As soon as her eyes make contact with the condition of my skin, she gasps. A combination of shame and irritation have me turning away as fast as I can. Forget the dye, I just want out of here.
“Please wait.” The pleading in her voice causes me to pause, my back still facing her.
“I uh, I need to go.” I don’t really have an excuse and I can tell she isn’t going to believe a word I say.
“Please, don’t rush off. I didn’t mean to offend you. I was just caught off guard. I cannot in good conscience allow you to commit such a heinous crime.” Her choice of words causes my body to stiffen. As if sensing my tension, she continues. “It’s against my religion to sit back and do nothing when some good-hearted soul decides to use drugstore hair dye. Lucky for you, I know just how to remedy this situation. Drink three Bloody Mary’s and come to confession.”
She hands me a business card when I turn to face her.
Curl Up and Dye. She owns a hair salon. This is most definitely a comical “face palm” moment. I couldn’t control my laughter even if I tried. I can’t remember the last time I felt this relaxed. Something about her banter is comfortable. I can’t place it exactly but, in this moment, the vise on my muscles loosens just a tad. The name on the card reads “Celeste Martinez”.
Catching my breath, I finally speak through the face-splitting smile. “Well Celeste, I can honestly say it’s been nice meeting you, but I won’t be able to come to your salon.” My mood already starts to dampen as the words leave my mouth.
“Well…” She pauses, waiting for me to fill in my name.
“T-Taryn.” I manage to spit the name out. I have got to get better at this.
“Well Taryn, it’s been nice meeting you as well and you had better have a damn good excuse for skipping out on Confession.”
“I think Paul Mitchell will forgive me.” I chuckle. “Anyway, like I said, it was nice meeting you.” I give a small wave and turn to leave again.
“Don’t you dare leave without at least filling me in on the cocksucker who did that.” She points to my face and neck. At first, I’m taken aback by her bluntness; however, it eases the tension I didn’t know I’d been holding on to. She continues. “I’ve had a pretty rough week and it looks like you have too. I could use some girl talk. Plus, I just really enjoy imagining what it would be like to cut a man’s balls off. You know, the ones that don’t deserve them.” I can’t help but like this chick. I smirk slightly as I turn to face her yet again.
She appears to read something on my face because her expression turns into one of utter determination.
“I’ll tell you what, you tell me your story and I’ll do your hair for free.” She sticks out a perfectly manicured hand. My hesitation is obvious, but I shake her hand anyway and we make plans to meet at her shop. I just agreed to tell a complete stranger part of my story.
What the hell is wrong with me?
“Well, I can guarantee you don’t have the time for my story, but I can give you a condensed version if you like. For the record, that cocksucker is my husband. But he did this for the last time.” The words flow easier than I expected as I slide into the chair. I don’t have time to examine my feelings before Celeste cuts in.
“EEEWWW, tell me you killed the bastard!” Her eyes are big as saucers as she waits for my response.
“Unfortunately, no. Last I heard, he survived.” The look in the other woman’s eyes fills me with a sense of pride. Not because I shot Mark but rather, I fought back. I stood up to him. I shouldn’t be ashamed of what I’d done. It feels good to talk about the situation in this manner. Therapeutic almost.
I need to remind myself that saying too much is dangerous, and as much as I like this woman, there are facts I will be keeping to myself. His family is too high-profile.
“Well Tea, what look are we going for today?” I hope she can’t see the emotion lacing my eyes in response to her using the nickname Martha calls me. It’s a bittersweet feeling. The universe sometimes has a way of providing exactly what you need at a certain moment, and right now, a girlfriend is exactly what I need.
After two hours of girl talk, dodging a few questions, and laughing harder than I have in years, I feel like a new woman. If Celeste noticed my constant shifting, trying to take the pressure off my sore ribs, she didn’t mention it. I take in the reflection of my once again dark auburn hair. It’s amazing how simply changing the color of your hair can change the way you feel inside. The woman looking back at me is finally familiar. It’s so hard to hide the emotion brewing inside me. With tears in my eyes and a lump in my throat the size of Texas, I turn toward Celeste.
“Thank you so much. This is one of the kindest things anyone has ever done for me. I feel like a new woman.” I run my hands through the long silky strands.
“You’re more than welcome. That feeling is exactly why I love my job,” she replies, a sense of gratification coating her words. “The card I gave you has my cell phone number on it. If you decide you want to try something new or just need a friend, hit me up.”
“Thanks, I’m not sure how long I’ll be in town, but maybe we can get together for lunch before I go.” I’m surprised at how sincere my invitation is. I haven’t had any real friends outside of Manny and Martha in over five years. Friends that weren’t Marks friends, that is.
“Sounds great, chicka!” She smiles as I head out the door.
The sun is setting, the air slightly cooler than before but still warm on my skin. The smell of the ocean surrounds me and, for this one moment in time, I am truly happy. A glowing sign draws my attention across the street. Well, how about that? Blind Luck is illuminated above the door of a dark building. The aching in my side makes the decision for me. What the hell? Guess I could use a drink after all.