My pulse beats in my ears as the judge looks over his glasses at me then back at the paperwork in front of him. My social worker just finished testifying how I can afford the rent for the studio apartment, which Marshall has agreed to cosign for. She also detailed how, with the fact I am turning eighteen soon and won’t be bound by the Graduated Driver Licensing program, I’m working toward earning my driver’s license, and how I’ve lined up a very used car that probably shouldn’t be driven longer than fifty miles. My lawyer also laid out that I seem to have a good understanding of the responsibilities of living on my own.
The underlying theme: yes, Scarlett is aware, for the foreseeable future, she’ll be eating ramen noodles for every meal, will learn to wear layers and work by candlelight to save on energy costs, and will be shopping at Goodwill in the desperate scenario that she has to purchase something.
My lawyer, Susan Adachi, covers my hand with hers. She’s a rock, she’s a queen, and I love her even more because she’s taken me on as a favor to Marshall and because she believes in me. This is family court, and in theory, the room is closed, but all the people who have spoken on my behalf are behind me: Marshall, Glory, Pastor Hughes, the police officer who handed me a tissue as I cried and told him what happened between my mom and dad, and then there’s Jesse.
Strong Jesse. Beautiful Jesse. A lighthouse in the midst of my storm. I peek over my shoulder, and he sits as if he’s the most carefree person in the world. He’s not watching the judge like everyone else, but me. Our eyes meet and he winks. A flurry of butterflies in my chest, and I force myself to focus.
It’s going to be okay. Everything is going to be fine.
My parents aren’t here. They sent in signed statements with their lawyer, stating that they don’t agree with my choices but that they will respect the decision of the court. I’m not sure how I feel about that—a bit empty, a bit relieved, a bit sad that they aren’t here begging for me to give them another chance. Even if they did, it wouldn’t change my mind. It’s just that every child wants their parents to want them. There’s this ache inside me that is begging for me to be loved—by them.
I still see Pastor Hughes once a week, by my choice, and I asked him during one of our sessions if that ache would ever go away. He didn’t answer me directly, but I saw the honesty in his eyes—children always want their parents to love them and he told me that his Father, his God, offered the type of unconditional love that heals all wounds.
The judge takes a deep breath, nerves overtake my stomach, and with a few words of encouragement, the judge announces that I’m free.
“We also asked for visitation for her sister, Isabelle,” Susan says.
“I’m also granting the visitation.” And my entire world is right.
* * *
Dad is in the basement, Mom is in her room crying, Isabelle is watching cartoons and I’m wondering for the millionth time if I’m making the right choice. I’m leaving. Tonight. I’m terrified, and I want to puke. Across the street, Jesse and Marshall are sitting on the front steps of Jesse’s trailer. They’re there in case something goes wrong.
Jesse wanted to come in with me, but Marshall had worked it out with my parents for them to give me space to pack. Marshall believes that we should handle everything with as little emotion and confrontation as possible. Problem is, I don’t know how to stop feeling.
Hot and clammy, I fold another shirt and place it on top of the others in the suitcase. I’m taking my clothes, some items like makeup and then some personal things like my favorite stuffed animal as a child and a photo of me and my sister. Marshall told me to only take things that I can prove were given to me as a gift—otherwise Dad could claim I’m stealing from him. Is he that bitter? I don’t know, and I don’t plan on finding out.
“You don’t have to do this,” my father says in his deep, sad tone.
My stomach sinks, and I briefly close my eyes before turning to look at him. He stands in the doorway with his hands in his pockets, looking so regretful. A slow throb starts in my head—and the merry-go-round starts up again.
“Yes, I do,” I say.
“You can stay, and we can try again.” Dad rubs the back of his neck, reminding me of the conversation we had in front of Glory’s booth back in August. “I was wrong to get so angry that night, and I was wrong to hit your mother. It’s just that when we came home and found you gone, it terrified me. I thought of how I lost my sister and—”
“Stop!” I hold out my hand, and I notice that it has a slight tremor. Standing up for myself is terrifying. In my back pocket is the prepaid cell I bought for myself last night, and it’s my only security blanket in this horrendous situation. One call to Jesse or Marshall, and they’ll be here in a heartbeat.
“You don’t get to do this anymore,” I say. “You don’t get to excuse away your behavior. Something horrible happened to you, but that does not give you the excuse to do something horrible to Isabelle, Mom or me.”
“I know,” he starts, “and I’m truly working on this. I’m still in counseling. I’m attending several times a week now. I just need more time—”
“That’s great, but you should be figuring this out away from here. You should be giving Mom space to figure out why she’s okay with how you treat her, and you should be allowing me and Isabelle space to heal from our wounds. But you aren’t. You’re staying here so I have to leave. I’m no longer going to allow your problems to be my problems.”
Dad’s face and posture crumple, but while I hurt, while I feel sorry for him, I also feel sorry for me. He’s broken, and I can’t fix him. That’s not my job anymore. It should have never been my job to begin with.
“I don’t want to lose you,” he says. “I love you.”
I feel sick because I still love him, too, but I’ve decided to love me more. “I hope you stick with the counseling, and I hope you get better.”
“Is that it?” Dad pushes. The tears in his eyes are real and the wetness in my eyes burn. “You’re just going to leave? You walk out the door and you’re no longer my daughter?”
I’m still his daughter. He’s still my father. That’s why this hurts. I wish I could wave a wand and be gifted my fairy tale. That Dad is magically healed of his issues and that we could be a happy family, but that’s not how the real world works. “Please take care of yourself. Mom, Isabelle and I deserve better.”
It’s an empowering sensation as I zip up my suitcase, pick that one up and then the other, and walk past him and out the door.