Never Let You Go(13)

“I don’t even know what he looks like anymore.” She was annoyed, frustrated with my anxiety, and I hoped that she was right and my worry was for nothing.

Now I know Andrew had just been waiting.

I grab a pillow from the couch and lie beside her. “How was your walk?”

“It was okay.” She glances at me. “How was work? Is your back sore again?”

“I took an Advil.”

“You need to do yoga. It will help.” Sometimes she pours me a bath or massages my feet with lavender oil, nags at me that I need a different job. She doesn’t understand that I enjoy cleaning. I let my mind drift as I scrub and wash and sort. Everything calms down inside me and I feel content and satisfied, proud as I close my client’s door behind me. I like that I have my own business, that I’m independent and can support myself and my daughter.

I tried to tell Sophie that cleaning gives me the same feeling she has when she’s painting, but she just said, “What are you going to do when you’re old? You need to think about retirement, Mom.” I told her that she was my retirement plan and she just laughed, then gave me a hug. Some people would probably say we are too involved in each other’s lives, too enmeshed, that we lack boundaries, but to hell with them. I need it this way.

“I have to tell you something,” I say. We’ve had a lot of hard conversations, more than any child should have had to endure, but I don’t know how to start this one.

She glances at me. “Did you and Greg break up?”

“What? No.” I notice she looks upset about the idea and tuck it away for another time. I can tell she likes him, but Greg and I are only casual. I hope she isn’t getting too attached.

“Something happened today,” I say.

Now I have Sophie’s full attention. “What?”

“I had to call the police because someone broke into Mrs. Carlson’s house, but it doesn’t seem like anything was stolen.” I take a breath. “I’m pretty sure it was your dad.”

She looks shocked. The pen rolls out of her hand. “Why would he go there?” Then she meets my eyes and I see the awareness settle in. “You think he wanted to hurt you?”

“I don’t know what he wants.” Yes. Yes, I do. “Did you notice anything out of the ordinary today? See any cars driving by our house or parked nearby?”

She shrugs. “Everything was normal.” She stares down at her drawing, notices where there’s an ink splotch, blots at it with her finger.

Normal. Such a simple word, and something our lives will never be. I get up and look out our front window, check the shadows under the maple tree. I turn around, pause for a moment to take in the comforting sight of our cozy living room, the sagging couch we found at a garage sale and covered with a multicolored afghan, the coffee table we made out of driftwood we dragged home from the beach, the paintings we collect from secondhand shops, our choices based solely on whether they make us smile—from a bright bouquet of paper flowers to a group of whimsical owls perched on a snow-covered branch.

After Sophie and I ran away, we waited in hiding for a year before Andrew’s case went to trial. We lived in cheap hotels all over BC, surviving on loans from Chris and some money I earned doing cash jobs. I couldn’t risk him finding us while he was still out on bail. We even stayed on the border of Alberta for a few weeks. I’d wanted to cry every time Sophie packed her little suitcase and asked, “We’re moving again?” It was even harder when she stopped asking and packed silently.

When Andrew was finally convicted, we took the ferry from Horseshoe Bay up the coast until we reached Dogwood Bay, a tight-knit community built on a hill facing the ocean. I fell in love with the quaint shops and pubs down in the city center where you can see the dark blue ocean and coastal mountains stretching for miles, taste the salty mist in the air, then order crab pulled up from the water and watch the float planes land, white froth spraying out from behind.

Sophie and I needed a home, needed to be close to the ocean, and a couple of hours from my family. The only way to Dogwood Bay was by float plane from the island or an hour-and-a-half ferry ride from the mainland. We could be happy here, I thought. We could be safe.

I come back to sit beside Sophie on the floor. She’s drawing, her face still. She has that ability, same as Andrew, to tuck everything far in behind her eyes and disappear for hours. The difference is she’ll come dancing out again, with the right touch or question, blinking as though she’s emerged from a dark cave and wondrous about where all the time has gone.

“What are you thinking?” I say.

“Dad. The night of the accident. Do you really think he would have killed you if he found us?” She turns to look at me, her eyes searching my face.

“I think he would have tried, yes.”

“But why would he want to hurt you now? You said he’s stopped drinking. He didn’t hurt you when he was sober.” I thought I was doing the right thing by sharing everything Chris had heard through the grapevine about Andrew’s life, but now I have serious regrets.

“He didn’t hurt me physically when he was sober, and I know this is hard to understand, honey, but it’s like drinking was just an excuse for him. Even when he was sober, he was jealous and cruel and threatened to hurt me if I ever left him. I was terrified.”