When I wake on Wednesday, a silver frost coats the world, reminding me that while the days might be warm, it’s still February after all.
I go to my father’s room and stare at the empty bed, at the side table filled with pill bottles, at the television in the corner, and the chair off to the side. I used to sit in it sometimes and we’d watch movies together in those rare moments he was really there. He wasn’t into the books, like I was, but he was into movies, and sports, so that was the one thing I always made sure he had—that dish on the roof.
And even though he was sick, those times I sat in that chair next to him, were perhaps our happiest. Maybe because he knew the end was coming for him. I think that gave him peace. And sometimes he’d look at me, just staring, and I could see the sadness and the guilt in his tired, brown eyes, and I’d know what he was saying. He was saying sorry. He was saying sorry he hadn’t been a better father. And then there were times he’d tell me to leave and stay away for a while because he couldn’t stand to look at me. He’d say it in his broken voice with his hand covering his eyes. I looked too much like her, you see.
I spend the next couple days clearing out his things. Some of it I give to the thrift store, other stuff I throw out. I keep what means something, like his watch and some reining trophies from when he was a kid. I also go through the kitchen, getting rid of any food I won’t be using up before I leave, then make a list for Ben. I’ve already talked to him about watching the place, but I want to make it easy for him, so just a few things like where the shut-off valves are and reminders like starting up my truck from time to time.
I try to keep busy, because I don’t want to think about what’s ahead of me, but by Friday, I can’t think of anything else.
I wake in a sweat with his words tearing through my head.
I’m going to break you.
I’m going to love making you bleed.
A little bit of victory warms me inside. He won’t have the pleasure of making me bleed. At least not that way. I’d lost that part of me back when I was thirteen, when a drifter tried to take me in a ditch on the side of the road, when I was walking home from the bus stop. He’d gotten his fingers up inside me, tearing me open, before Ben drove by and scared him off.
Strange to be grateful for such a thing.
The morning sun peeks through the crooked, yellow curtains I made years ago, and drifts across the small room, sneaking over the crowded bookshelf, over a few Breyer horses, and a tiny closet with a missing door. I lie under the old, blue comforter, curled up in on myself, staring at it all. The terror that’s been sitting inside my gut for the last five years, builds like a geyser, until tears burst through my eyes and I begin to sob. I sob so hard the bed shakes. Of all the horrors I know are coming for me, the most terrifying is that Shayne is going to be my first. I don’t know why that cuts me like it does. It’s not like I need it to be special or romantic or anything like that. I just haven’t had a say in most things in life, and that seems like the kind of thing I’d want to have a say in. I know I made the deal, but I was just a girl then, just trying to survive. And if I’d known what I was—wait—maybe—
An idea sets in then. An idea that has my wheels turning and my sobs fading. I roll onto my back and stare up at the ceiling through puffy eyes, while the idea grows. But could I really do it? Could I really make it happen? Doubt starts creeping in, but then the anger takes hold, and the more his words echo in my ears, the more determined I become to make it happen. Shayne’s already going to get so much of me. That’s how I justify it anyway.
By the time I have a plan in place, it’s afternoon, and I’m making the walk to Ben’s, carrying a platter of roast chicken surrounded by onions and baked sweet potatoes. When I climb the front steps, I can’t help but think of how many flowers used to bloom around the porch railing when his wife, Helen, was alive. Now there are none. I offered to plant some more the spring after she passed, but Ben wouldn’t have it. But he does let me bring him a homemade apple pie, just like Helen used to make. The occasional lasagna, too, or roast chicken, like now. She taught me how to cook after all. He’s never said as much, but I know he appreciates it. I’ve seen his fridge, and his freezer—it’s filled with frozen dinners.
I’m about to knock on the door, when I hear some clanking coming from around back. I go inside, ignoring the whispers of a time long ago, and set the platter in the fridge, so he’ll find it later, then head back out to the workshop, where I know I’ll find him.
I walk behind the house, past the small barn and round corral, and the large hay shed that’s mostly empty now, then turn the corner of the workshop, to see his wiry, old frame hunched over a tractor that’s as ancient as he is. He’s swearing up a storm, as usual. I don’t know how many times I’ve heard him cursing the thing, or seen him kicking its tires when it’s broken down, but he never gets a new one.
I wait for him to finish what he’s doing, eyeing the tangled mess of junk and tools that have gathered over the years. He used to always be out in the hills, tending to his crops of hay, but it’s hard for him now. So most times, he’s just tinkering in here, with his tractor.
Ben finally stands up and jerks back. “Damn it, Ava,” he says, shaking his head. “Better speak up next time, or you’ll give this old man a heart attack.”
My cheeks get hot and I nod.
“Sorry about your father,” he grumbles, reaching for a rag to wipe his hands on.
I nod again, knowing how hard it must be for him to say those words.
He tosses the rag aside and leans against the tractor tire, looking like he was made of worn leather and barbed wire. They don’t make them much tougher than Ben. He reminds me of a bear who lost his honey jar. And in many ways, he has. First, his son in Iraq, then his wife. Now, it’s just him.
“How you holdin’ up?” he asks.
I shrug.
He studies me for a moment, with keen grey eyes, and I know he sees right through me. “Well, if there’s anything I can do, you let me know.”
“Saturday,” I say.
“That’s when you’re leaving?”
I nod.
“Alright,” he sighs. “I’ll watch the place. Any idea how long you’ll be gone?”
I shake my head, feeling bad I have to lie. But by the look in his eyes, I sense he knows it’ll be a while. I look down at the ground, unable to face him.
He grunts and I hear the shuffle of his boots when he moves to the red tool chest and begins rummaging around.
A few minutes pass, but I keep standing there, unsure how to bring it up.
“Go on, ask,” he says, still sorting through the mess of tools. “I know you got something on your mind, but I’m no mind reader—much as Helen liked to think.”
I toss the words around, trying to sort out how best to ask. “The Lexus,” I say, just spitting it out. “I’d like to borrow it. Tonight.”
He looks back at me, but doesn’t say anything.
“I’ll have it back by morning, I promise.” My lungs go tight and my hands get sweaty, hoping he won’t ask questions because I won’t be able to give him answers.
He turns back to the tool chest and seems to find what he’s looking for. “Alright. Don’t see why not. I don’t drive that thing anyway. It’s got too much of that damn electronic shit for my taste. You gotta be a God damn—"
“But you can’t tell anyone,” I blurt out.
Ben turns around to face me. “You want to tell me what you’re up to?”
I shake my head.
He stands there, and I wonder if maybe he isn’t going to let it go, but then he takes his find from the tool chest and goes back to the tractor and sets to work once more.
“You going to go say hi to your friends anytime soon?” he grumbles, his head buried back in the engine. “Wretched things always hollerin’ for ya every time they hear your damn truck.”
I say a silent thank you, then make my way around the workshop until three plump horses come into view. My weakness, as Shayne calls them.
When I whistle, all three lift their heads from the knee-high grass. Sadie, a little bay mare, offers a soft whinny first, then Chester and Jackpot, both big stout sorrels with flashes of white.
By the time I slip through the wooden fence, they’re already making their way over. Soft, warm muzzles graze along my hands. They nudge me this way and that, then I smile when Jackpot reaches his head around and pulls a carrot from the back pocket of my jeans, a proud look in his deep brown eyes. And Chester—well, he just nudges me until I give him one. He’s sort of a goofball that way. Sadie, the only girl in the bunch, takes hers gently, with droopy eyes.
“How you guys been?” I ask, the words always coming so easy with them.
I stroke Sadie’s forelock, smiling when she leans into my hand. But then I get to thinking about what’s coming for me, and that terror takes hold, flooding me inside, and the smile fades. I bury my face into Sadie’s mane and wrap my arms around her neck. Before I know it, I’m crying.
“It’s all going to pay off,” I mutter against her coat. “It has too.”
I can’t help but sob out a chuckle when Chester and Jackpot nuzzle at my back pocket for more carrots.
Some might think it’s weird to have horses for best friends, but that’s what they are to me. I’d die before I ever let Shayne hurt them.
I can still remember the day he made his threat. I was in high school, and he’d already graduated, but he still kept a close watch on me, as we’d already made our deal by then. I was walking with this nice boy, Billy, after school, on the way to the bus, when he made the mistake of putting his arm around me, just trying to comfort me when I was feeling down about my father. A few seconds later, tires came screeching up and Shayne lunged out of his truck and onto poor Billy. Kid didn’t stand a chance. Within seconds his limp body was on the ground, and I was beating on Shayne, swearing I would run away, that he would never have me. That’s when he grabbed me, shoved me against the truck, and with his hand clamped around my jaw, said, ‘If you run, I’ll kill every one of those precious fucking horses you love so much. And I’ll make sure they all die a slow, painful death.’
I knew it wasn’t just an idle threat. He would make good on his promise, I was sure of it. And poor Billy wound up in the hospital with a broken jaw and his eyes swollen shut. But no charges were ever pressed against Shayne though. Imagine it has something to do with the sheriff being a good friend of the McAllister’s. That, and Shayne’s family owned the building that Billy’s parents leased for their bakery.
I let the memory go, and run my trembling hands over the horses one by one, checking them over, noticing how they’re backs are starting to sway, how the hair around their muzzles is turning grey. My heart breaks when I think of the time I’ll have to be away from them, but there’s nothing I can do about it.
But there is something I can do.
“I’ll be back before dawn breaks,” I whisper. “Then after I pay my debt, that place will be mine, and I can make my dream come true. I’ll be able to rescue all the other horses out there that need homes, just like Helen did with you guys.”
I give them all one last hug, wipe my tears away, then make my way back through the fence and over to the little groomed clearing off to the side, surrounded by a small, white picket fence. I walk through the gate and over to the two, grey headstones and pull a few weeds and clear out a few leaves, then kneel between them and place my hands on the grass, over where they both lie. I never knew Paul, their son, but I feel like I did. Helen would talk about him sometimes. She’d pull out the old photo albums and show me pictures, pointing at him with her knotted fingers and saying in her soft, gentle voice how much he looked like his father. Then her eyes would get all teary and she’d have to put the albums away. It was hard for me, seeing her like that, and she knew it too, so afterwards, she’d always pat my leg and say with a smile, ‘Let’s go make some cookies,’ or ‘Let’s go play with the horses.’
Helen.
I’m not sure how I would’ve turned out if it wasn’t for her. I wish we’d had more time together. She passed on in her sleep, when I was twelve. I often wonder what she’d think of me, given all I’ve done, and all I’m about to do. In my heart though, I know she’d understand. It still doesn’t make the hurt go away. Her words come to me then. Something she told me once, not long after my mom left. ‘You can kick, and scream, and cry when no one’s looking, but don’t you ever give up, Ava. Never give up.’
I swallow the lump in my throat and say my goodbyes, then close the little gate behind me.
When I walk past the big house, I catch Ben watching me from the upstairs window, but he disappears out of site, the lace curtain Helen hung years ago, falling back into place.
On my walk home, with the sun peeking out from behind a dark, cloudy sky, I make plans to disappear myself, but only for a night. My last night as a free woman.