Three Years Ago

 

Earlier today—or maybe it was yesterday, I’m not really sure as the days seem to run together—I take a deep breath and gather my courage. Today is the day, I think. No, it has to be today. And once I set my plan into motion, there’s no going back. It’s a huge decision, but I can’t keep living this non-life. My only friend is a computer, and that’s only when my stepfather’s away on business.

I go about the day as usual, doing the laundry, sweeping then mopping the floor, all my daily chores. As I push and pull the soapy mop back and forth, I watch the drops soak into the wood, the smell of Pine-Sol almost making me sneeze. Back and forth I push the mop, knowing this is the last time. My mind’s set. Tonight I will break free of my prison. And that’s what this is. Not the once-loving home I remember, where my mother bakes cookies while I do homework, a smile on her face as she asks me about my day.

Nighttime

It’s dark outside, and if I’m going to go through with it, it has to be now. Leaning around the corner, I peek down the old wooden stairs and spot Frank asleep on his blue, worn-out recliner. He hasn’t been asleep long—the cigarette is still smoking in the ashtray, and a beer is loosely clutched in his hand, the bottom of the can resting on the arm of the chair. Reruns of I Love Lucy play on the 19-inch box television set. “Lucy . . .” I hear Ricky yell in the background as my eyes stay glued to the man on the recliner. He snorts once, but doesn’t wake.

I tiptoe to his room, listening intently. The low voices from the TV drift upstairs. Just as I reach for the doorknob, the wooden floor creaks loudly with my last step. I freeze mid-step, my hand clutching the knob but not turning it. My heart feels like it will explode any minute.

Slowly turning my head, expecting to see his large frame coming up the steps, I swallow hard and silently chant please don’t wake up please don’t wake up. When he doesn’t come, I briefly close my eyes and lick my dry lips. I slowly turn the knob, and the door swings open with an ominous groan, warning me that I’m treading in dangerous territory. I shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be doing this. But I have to. My need to escape is greater than the worry of getting caught.

I step inside.

Dirty floral curtains cover the window, and a full-size bed with a metal-frame headboard is set against the wall. Opposite the bed is a small wooden desk with one long drawer and a plastic chair. If you didn’t know Frank, you would think vagrants resided here with their meager furnishings.

With a gray tattered duffle bag clutched tightly in one hand, I tiptoe over to the corner, quietly drop to my knees, and carefully lift the one loose board that hides his secrets. At least he thinks it does. But I know.

Mother knew.

I never let on that I knew about his hiding spot. His room remained off limits. He told me repeatedly what would happen if he ever caught me or even suspected I had been in his room. Not that I cared. I learned really quick how to be meticulous. It didn’t take me long to find his secret stash, the little leather-bound book that always rests on top that holds names and dates—-all the information needed to blow his entire operation out of the water.

I reach down into the dark space under the floor and take out bundle after bundle of cash, stuffing them into my duffle bag. I work feverishly until the bag is full, crammed with bundles of one hundred–dollar bills. The leather-bound book is staring at me, begging me to take it, and for a moment I consider doing just that.

Biting my lower lip, I clutch the book in my hand, and I want to take it.

I do . . . My eyes squeeze shut as I consider taking it.

But I can’t . . . I can’t take the book. With an inward sigh and shaking hands, I place the book back inside and lower the board back in place. Stealing the money is bad enough. Stealing the book is a death sentence.

The door closes softly as I leave. My plan is now in motion and there’s no turning back. I turn left down the hall and just as I reach my bedroom door, I hear him moving around. Oh God! My heart thunders in my ears. If he catches me . . .

“Belle!” he bellows up the stairs. That’s what he calls me even though it’s not my name but a nickname my mom gave me a long time ago, teasing that she would raise me to be a Southern Belle.

My insides quiver as I hurry into my room. I can’t make him wait long. The duffle bag falls to the floor and I kick it under the bed. Yanking my shirt over my head, I shrug out of my jeans and grab my nightgown. Just as I slide it on, I hear him again.

“Belle! Get your ass down here!” He’s angry. He’s always angry when he drinks, which lately is all the time.

I race down the stairs, taking them two at a time, to where he stands waiting on me. His arms are crossed and he’s tapping his right foot in irritation. Swallowing hard, I say in a hurried voice, “Yes, Father?” I try to look sleepy, like he’s caught me just before I climbed into bed.

He narrows his eyes, the bushy brownish-gray eyebrows pulling close as he studies me. I feel the weight of his gaze as his eyes roam up and down my body. Not in a sexual way, but more of a ‘what are you up to’ kind of way. He may be a drunk but he’s smart. I ball my hands into fists just to keep them from shaking.

In a gruff voice, he says, “Get in there and clean up that mess. I’m going to bed.”

“Yes, Father.”

My relief is short-lived as I slowly turn and watch him walk over to the front door and latch all three deadbolts. He pulls a key from his pocket, making sure the last bolt is still locked. My eyes follow that key, the ticket to my freedom, and I watch as he slides it back into his front pocket.

He grabs the rail, but before he takes a step, he looks at me over his shoulder and says, “What are you waiting for, girl?” His voice is angry, so I quickly turn and head toward the kitchen.

A lone bare light bulb hangs from the center of the ceiling, a few dirty plates litter the metal sink. I head over, turning on the water and letting it run hot as I wash the two plates and one fork in the sink. It doesn’t take long before I’m hanging the dishtowel on the stove handle to let it dry.

When I’m sure he’s gone, I peek around the door, making sure the coast is clear before I head into the living room. Frank’s a mean drunk and anything can set him off. I learned that the hard way.

Walking over to the small TV, I switch it off, empty the ashtray into the trash, and throw away the beer cans. I need to take my time and give Frank time to go to sleep.

As I methodically work, doing every chore on automatic, I remember Mom.

~~~

 Mom took off about three years ago, or so Frank says. That was the same time I overheard the huge argument they had about his work. They had a bad fight, and I heard yelling, crying, breaking glass. Mom didn’t like Frank smuggling drugs across the border. Drugs one way, cash the other. She wanted a better, less dangerous life for me and wanted Frank to stop, but he wouldn’t. They argued all the time about it, but never as bad as that last fight. After that night, I didn’t see Mom anymore, and I often wonder if Frank killed her. Maybe the drug people, like Davie, killed her.

After that, he locked me in the house. Said it was for my own protection, which is why I wonder if something happened. He started drinking more, and after a few smacks across my face, smacks that knocked me clear across the room, I learned very quickly to do as I was told and never talk back.

And I didn’t.

But I can’t take living like this anymore.

~~~

An hour or more passes. I stand at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at the darkness as I grip the wooden handrail tightly. I listen, trying to decide if he’s asleep or not. When the sound of light snoring drifts down, I close my eyes briefly in relief. Time to go.

I quietly tiptoe upstairs, change back into my clothes, and grab the duffle bag. Once I leave, there’s no turning back. Just holding the bag full of money almost puts me at the point of no return. Davie’s coming tomorrow to collect his money, just like he does every other Tuesday, and even if I change my mind, I can’t get it back in the hiding spot in time. Frank would know what I did.

Dressed in a long-sleeved black T-shirt and a pair of dark denim jeans, I grab my black combat boots and slide them on, then tuck my long blonde hair under a black ball cap. Just before I leave the room, I spot the picture of my mom in the thick heavy frame on the nightstand. I scoop it up and secure it in the duffle bag. I don’t want to leave that behind.

Creeping downstairs, I check every window, hoping . . . praying . . . one will open. Nope. Frank has nailed them all shut. I head upstairs and find the same thing. Silently, I curse as I jerk the cap from my head and run a frustrated hand through my hair. There is only one thing left to do, and it’s dangerous. If he catches me in his room, he’ll leave a few bruises on my face and back, reminders that I broke the rules. But I can’t stop now. I just need to be extra careful.

Outside Frank’s bedroom, I drop quietly to my knees and grab the doorknob. The door slowly cracks open and I hold my breath.

Light snoring again.

Shew. I let out a shaky breath and peer around the corner. His trousers lie crumpled on the floor by his bed. Dropping my chin to my chest, I try to give myself a little pep talk before I look farther and see Frank lying on his left side, facing away from me. That makes me feel a little better. But not much. Trembling, I crawl on my hands and knees until I reach the discarded trousers.

As my hand slides into one pocket, I glance up at Frank, making sure he hasn’t moved.

Not in that pocket.

Turning the trousers over, my fingers wrap around the metal key and my heart pounds with anticipation.

When Frank mumbles in his sleep, rolls over, and snorts a couple of times . . . I freeze, nothing moving but my eyes.

A minute later, he settles down and starts snoring again. I think my heart actually stopped beating. I need to get out of here before he does wake up. Not making a sound, I slowly crawl back out of the bedroom and quietly close the door behind me.

Sitting in the hallway with my back plastered against the wall, I take a deep breath and blow it out slowly. The hardest part is over. I hope.

Back in my room, I tuck my hair back under my hat, grab the duffle bag, and slowly head downstairs. This is it and I don’t want to chance waking up Frank, not when I’m this close to freedom.

Three years I’ve lived as a prisoner in this house. Ever since my mom disappeared. Or died. I’m still not sure. I have a hard time believing she would just leave me here. Alone. And now I am escaping this lonely hell I live in. At almost seventeen, I know I can find a job. Survive. I’ve basically been on my own anyways.

Heading for the front door, my hands shake with excitement.

With fear.

With nervousness.

I’m a jumble of emotions as adrenaline fills my veins. I’m so close! My heightened senses are on overload, and every turn of the bolt sounds like a gunshot firing in the distance. I just know the old man will come running down the stairs any moment. For good measure, I look back over my shoulder and up the stairs.

Empty.

Blowing out a quick breath, I focus on the deadbolts once again. When I get to the last one, the one that takes a key to unlock, my hands shake so much it takes two tries to hit the hole, but I finally manage to push it in and twist. The sound, the click, is music to my ears. My heart thunders with anticipation as I grip the doorknob and pull the door open.

A warm night breeze brushes over my face. I automatically close my eyes and inhale the scents of outside. It’s been so long since the sweet smell of the Texas mountain laurel fills my nose. A tip of my lips as I remember playing outside while Mom weeds the garden. I savor the taste of outdoors for a few seconds, then I glance up at the full moon in the cloudless sky. Stars dance and twinkle overhead, and with a smile on my face, I step outside.

I’m free.

Quietly, I pull the door closed behind me, and take off in a dead sprint across the field, heading for the nearest road.

My stepfather keeps us secluded, mostly for business reasons, he says, but I still remember. I know we are just a few miles outside of the nearest town, and that will be the first place he looks. So I head in the opposite direction, walking over a grassy field, stepping across a small bubbling stream until I near the dirt road. The entire time, I never look back at the old two-story farmhouse with its peeling white paint and drooping wooden porch. Once my home, once my prison.

I walk along the dusty path, the moon casting just enough light for me to see the gravel. Every so often, I glance over my shoulder, expecting to see Frank driving up behind me.

I walk, looking down where each foot lands on the road, kicking the occasional rock. The crickets stridulate, singing their songs of the night. I’m thinking about the next step of my calculated plan when headlights suddenly appear behind me. My heart races as I grip the handle of the duffle bag so tight, my knuckles turn white.

I know he’s found me.

Just as I’m about to dive for the ditch, I see a pickup truck.

The relief is instant.. Not Frank. He owns an old beat-up blue Cadillac. I turn, taking slow steps backward as I thrust my thumb in the air.

The truck slows, and I can tell he’s going to stop. I’ve never hitched a ride before, but I know it’s dangerous. Not as dangerous as getting caught. The driver, an older man with a gray beard, sticks his head out the window.

“Where you headin’?”

A local. He has that same country drawl in his voice, just like me.

“Bus station. Give me a lift?” I grip the handle of the duffle bag tightly and try to act nonchalant as I impatiently wait for him to answer.

“I’m headin’ to the stock market. I can at least get you that close. Get in.”

I take a breath and smile as I walk around the front of his dark-colored Chevy and slide into the passenger’s seat. “Thanks,” I say as I click the seatbelt in place.

“No problem, little missy.” He pulls out, driving at an old man’s pace. There’s an old Hank Williams song blaring on the radio. I lean back against the seat and relax my shoulders. As dangerous as it is to hitch a ride, the relief of putting distance between me and Frank is overwhelming. I know I’m not safe yet, but I will be.

Eventually.

Hopefully.

The driver keeps glancing at me from the corner of his eye. It’s making me a little uncomfortable and I try to ignore him. Finally, he says, “I’m Ed.”

I turn my head toward him and smile. “Hi Ed, I’m Ariel. Thanks for giving me a ride.” That’s a lie. Ariel is a character from one of my favorite Disney movies, but I am starting over and I can be anyone I want. A new life and a new name. Frank always calls me Belle, so no way I’ll use that name.

“You’re awfully young to be hitching a ride.”

I hide my smile when I notice worry lines crinkling his forehead. “I’m almost nineteen,” I lie, again.

He nods, then directs his attention back to the road. “Like I said, you’re awfully young to be hitching a ride.”

I smile, a true genuine smile. I like Ed. He seems like the grandfatherly type with his kind, worried face and soft voice.

We drive in silence for about an hour, maybe two. I drift off to sleep a time or two, unable to fall into that good sound deep sleep. When he pulls into the stock market, he cuts the engine, turns his gaze on me, and says, “This is as far as I’m goin’. The bus stop isn’t too far away. Are you sure you’ll be okay?”

My lips curl up at the older man. I’m thankful that he stopped to give me a lift. “Thanks a lot, Ed. I really appreciate it, and don’t worry about me, I’ll be more than okay.”

“You’re welcome, little missy. You be careful out there.”

“I will.” I unclick the seatbelt, step out of the truck, and give him a little wave. I grab the duffle bag by the handle and head up the road.

The sun streaks across the cloudless sky, and I tilt my head up, feeling the first warmth of the day on my face. I smile . . .

 The bus station is up ahead, and I follow an older woman inside. “Thank you,” I say as she holds the door open for me.

Plastic chairs line one wall, self-service kiosks line the other. A balding man with wire-rimmed glasses sits in a booth behind thick glass. A couple with a young boy strolls by, pulling two suitcases behind them.

I head over to the kiosk, fill out the required information, and insert cash. It isn’t very hard. With my printed ticket in hand, I walk over to one of the plastic chairs and wait for the hour to pass so I can be on my way.

When it’s my time to board, I keep my head down until I’m safely snuggled away in my seat in the back of the bus.