For A Good Time, Call... (21 page)

I
could have just taken another bus back to the city. Been done with
the town I had tried desperately to escape from. But as I sat down on
my bed, slipping my feet out of my shoes, I had to admit that things
didn't feel finished. I didn't know why even as I slipped out of my
shoes and under my covers, but I knew I couldn't leave yet.

–

I
woke up the next morning, and before my eyes even opened, I knew what
I had to do. I had to go back. To the woods. To the shack I grew up
in. I had to face the nightmares that were caused by living in those
walls. I needed to look at it from the eyes of a survivor, not a
victim.

I
dressed in a pair of high waisted jeans and a tight blue crop top,
slipping into a pair of low boots, and tying my hair back. My phone
had remained stubbornly silent throughout the night and I couldn't
bring myself to be the one who called first.

Before
I set off, I sat down on the bed and took a few work calls. It
wouldn't do me any good to lose clients because I was on some tour of
my past. Besides, it distracted me from the fact that Hunter still
hadn't called. Even though I knew he was always up before six and it
was well after eleven.

I
grabbed a cab, giving them the address to my grandmother's house. It
looked like I remembered: big, white, full of secrets. My grandfather
had died young and left my grandmother sitting on a boatload of money
and a massive family estate that had been in his family for
generations. It sat on a fifty acre plot and I walked up the driveway
on the right side and slipped into the woods. It had been so long and
the trees and bushes had matured beyond recognition, but I still knew
my way back. I could probably walk it in my sleep.

It
was a good twenty minute walk before the trees started to clear and I
saw the outline of the house that built me. Plain. Still as simple as
I remembered. And smaller. If I thought my apartment in the city was
a shoe box, this was a matchbox.

“Isaiah,”
I called, but knew there would be no answer. He wasn't going to leave
our father's side when he was so close to the end. My grandmother had
never stepped foot into the house. She had always been more than a
little embarrassed that it was on her property, but she had always
indulged every whim of my father's. Which was probably why he was so
screwed up in the first place.

There
were flowers dying in the front beds. Flowers my father had always
told my mother were frivolous and unnecessary. I remember her
insisting that god wouldn't have given us plants that were useless if
he didn't mean for us to enjoy them. I walked over, kneeling down and
picking a few. Then I got up and turned away from the house, walking
further into the woods.

My
grandmother hadn't given me a lot of details about it, but I remember
her saying something about a lilac bush. And there was only one on
the entire property. I came upon it a few minutes later, a simple
white cross right in front of the old unruly lilac bush. I felt a
tightness in my throat and struggled against it as I walked closer. I
knelt down in front of it, feeling more than a little angry at the
lack of care that was put into her grave.

Deena
Mary Meyers. No date or birth or death. No mention of her being a
beloved mother or devoted wife. Just a name. In death, that was all
my mother was worth to my father. I put the flowers down at the base
of the cross, touching her name with a sort of reverence I didn't
know I was capable of.

“I
don't know if I believe in an after life. Or that you can hear me,”
I said, feeling awkward but bold. “I'm sorry I wasn't here.
That I didn't mourn you the way I should have when I found out. And
I'm sorry that you suffered for so long just because of me. I was
never grateful enough for everything you did for me. If you hadn't
been brave enough to defy my father, I never could have had the basic
skills I needed to start my own life. And I'm just...” I
trailed off, blinking away the tears. No tears. She was free. She was
where she wanted to be. There was no use crying over her decision.
“Thank you, Mom,” I said, touching the cross once more
and getting to my feet.

I
felt better as I made my way back to the house. I felt like I had
finally been giving the chance to pay my mother her respects. I felt
the years of guilt slowly start to slip away.

Opening
the front door, I stepped into the darkness I had grown up in. The
literal darkness. The light only from the few windows my mother used
to scrub mercilessly but now were covered in a layer of film and
filth. Everything was the same: the dirt floor, the worn sofa, the
wooden furniture, the plain walls. I ran my hand over the dining
table, coming away with dust, as I made my way into my old bedroom.
Now Isaiah's room.

It
was his now. The curtain gone. My old bed missing. But there was a
small chest in the far corner and I walked over to it, remembering it
as a Christmas present one year. We got one gift and it was always
handmade by one of our parents. One year it was new heavy knitted
blankets for out beds. Blankets that I had never seen her working on
so she must have done late at night or early into the morning.
Another year it was a hunting knife for Isaiah and a rag doll for me.

The
chest was probably the only thing my father had ever actually taken
the time to make me. The year I was born. When there was still hope
for me, I guess. It was small. Two feet long and a foot wide. It had
always been more than enough room to store my meager possessions. It
was made of light wood and the top had a big cross burned into it.
The front had Proverbs 29:15 burned in: “Whoever spares the
rod, hates his son, but he who loves him is diligent to discipline
him.”

Why
he even bothered to put that there when he had no intentions to teach
me to read was completely beyond my comprehension. I ran my hand
over the lid, wiping the dust away before opening it. Inside smelled
like the dried lilacs and mint my mother had always kept inside. To
keep the moths from eating our clothes or blankets.

Nestled
neatly on top were my knitting needles, and a circle of embroidery I
had been working on when I left. There was a collection of fabric
headbands I had made from scraps of clothing material, an indulgence
I was allowed only because my father didn't like anything to go to
waste.

I
pulled out the bible resting there, meaning to throw it on Isaiah's
bed when I noticed it felt weird. The spine was loose and the pages
felt like they might fall out. Curious, I flipped open the first
page, to find all the bible pages had been pulled out and replaced
with small scraps of paper. Ones with my grandmother's watermark on
them. Ones that my mother must have stolen when she went over there
for holidays.

Fiona,

I
wish I could find the nerve to be less of a coward and tell you these
things... like all mothers do while raising their children. But I
couldn't take a chance that you might slip up and say something in
front of your father. The punishment would be beyond your
comprehension as a girl. But if you are a woman reading this, you
know what I mean. And you never get used to it. And I can't bring
myself to risk it.

I
hadn't wanted to marry him you know. I was just shy of eighteen and I
was planning of running as far as fast as my legs could carry me.
Away from my father who was fond of the rod himself. Fond of making
me feel like I was inconsequential. Then, as if sensing my growing
departure, he handed me over to John like a prized sow. I was bought
and sold, Fiona. My father got two deers a year for the first five
years, and your father got me.

He
wasn't such a monster then. Your father. He was still young,
uncertain. Insecure. I think having me to boss around and discipline
gave him confidence, gave him purpose. And, oh, how he enjoyed that.
Your brother was born ten months after we married. A huge, squirming
baby boy that your father had cried over. For the first year after
him, I was the beloved wife. I was the woman who gave him a son. Then
I got pregnant again. I knew you were a girl, I was carrying
different than I had with Isaiah, but I dared not tell your father.

I
named you Fiona after my own mother. Someone I hoped you turned out
like. Someone I hoped I had turned out a little bit like. Someone
with her silent rebellions. Someone who got away with things the
abusive men in her life never found out about. That's why I knew
enough to start teaching you things: reading and writing... some
math, some history. I knew because she defied my father. You know
because I defied yours.

My
greatest hope in life is that you never have to know what that is
like. My greatest hope is that you can break free from this pattern
of subjugation- that you bow to no man.

• Mom
  

I
had to rest my hand against the wall to keep from falling over. My
mother had destroyed a bible to finally get the chance to tell me her
story. My mother must have been writing and hiding these letters for
years. She must have piled them in with all my possessions the day I
left. Right before she went out to the woods and finally got away
from the men she had needed to bow down to for her entire life.

I
slipped the first note back on top of the pile and flipped the book
to reach for the last one.

Fiona,

God,
I hope you're gone. Good and gone. Miles and miles away. I know your
stubborn spirit. I know your pain. And I know you would rather die
out on the street than live another moment in this house. I hope that
drive keeps you warm and keeps your hungry for your independence.
You're resilient and you're smart. A few weeks or months of hardship
will be nothing if it leads you to a better life than you had here. I
pray you'll be happy in whatever life you build for yourself.

And
I hope you can forgive me. For what I am going to do. I hope you'll
understand. You needed to get out. And I do too. Isaiah is a grown
man now. He doesn't need his mother. And he never really did. It was
you I had always worried about. And now my worry can transform into
hope and I can finally let go. Please don't think of me as a coward.
I have endured so much. Much more than I would ever tell you. This
has been something I have been planning since you were born- the day
when we could both be free in our separate ways.

I
love you. I love you more deeply than I thought my rotten bones ever
could. You are everything good and right in this world. I hope you
found that out for yourself before reading this. And I hope some day
we can meet again. Goodbye, Fiona.

• Mom
  

PS:
The Lilacs are beautiful this time of year.

I
closed my eyes. Not because it was, essentially, her suicide note.
But because of how calm it sounded. How free of sadness or anger or
regret. Her handwriting was perfect. Neat. Not rushed. There were no
tears smearing the ink and warping the paper. She had very
deliberately sat down just hours after I ran away and wrote the last
thing she would ever write, knowing she was about to go into the
woods and take her own life.

I
looked down at the last sentence. The lilacs are beautiful this time
of year. Maybe she was worried that my father would move her. Would
put her body somewhere other than where she had chosen to die. She
wanted me to know, just in case.

Slipping
the page back into the book, I closed the cover and put it down on
the floor. I pulled everything else out: my old rag doll, handmade
mittens and a matching hat made by my mother for my seventeenth
birthday, and finally, that knitted blanket that had kept me warm
every night for most of my life. I laid it out on the floor, putting
all the other items inside, and
wrapping
it back up. I wouldn't leave them behind. They were the proof that my
mother existed, that she had always loved and taken care of me and
they belonged in my life. The chest, however, could be torn apart and
used for firewood for all I cared.

I
paused in the dining room, reaching into my purse and pulling out the
glossy magazine. I smiled as I placed it on the dining room table and
flipped it open to a particularly scandalous image.

Opening
the door, I screeched, flying back a step and almost falling over.
Isaiah was in the doorway, his arm perched high on the doorjamb. I
had a sudden and frantic surge of panic seeing him that I quickly
pushed away. He was slumped forward, his head hung.

“Isaiah?”
I asked, trying to draw his attention.

“Fiona
Mary,” he said, not bothering to look up. Like he knew I was
there. “He's gone,” he said, looking up at me. But there
wasn't just grief there. It was there, in the redness to his eyes.
There was more, though. A lack of tension in his shoulders, in the
slackness to his jaw.

“Good,”
I said, but not with as much anger as I felt.

Isaiah's
eyes shot up to mine. “That is extremely...”

“I
know that you loved him, Isaiah. But I know that you feel a sense of
relief too. And that's okay. It's not wrong.”

“Yes
it is,” he said, shaking his head at himself.

I
felt myself reaching out, touching his arm for the briefest of
seconds. “Grieve. Bury your father,” I said. “but
then move on. Okay? You need to have your own life outside of all of
this,” I said, waving a hand toward the house as he moved
inside and past me, looking around. He reached a hand up to run
through his hair and my mouth fell open. “Isaiah,” I
said, my breath a whisper. “what is that on your hand?”