Never Let You Go(14)

I remember how hard it was to explain to her that her father had gotten into a car accident when he’d been drinking and someone died so he had to go to jail. She would still ask to visit, no matter how many times I told her it wasn’t a safe place for a little girl. I’d shielded her so well from his drinking, his anger. She only knew him as a loving father and she missed him. Finally I told her she could write letters and draw pictures and give them to him when he was released.

When she was old enough, I told her more about our marriage, how jealous and controlling he’d been, how many chances I’d given him, but that he was an alcoholic and violent and nearly killed me. That’s why running away was the only option—because I was scared. She stopped asking about him. When I was putting clothes away in her closet one day, I found the box with her letters pushed all the way to the back. I hated how relieved it made me feel.

“It’s been so many years, though,” she says.

“He’s still dangerous.”

“What if he’s changed?” Something about the way she says it stops me cold. It’s the hope in her voice, maybe even a little doubt, as though she’s not sure my concerns are real.

I think for a moment. She knows what prison he was in, so she could have written—or even gone to see him. It had never occurred to me that she would do something so important without telling me. But she’s a teenager now and might have been curious.

“Have you talked to him? If you have, it’s okay to tell me. I won’t be upset.” I’ll be furious, but if I share that, she won’t tell me anything.

She shakes her head. “I just feel bad you’re so scared of him.” Meaning she isn’t. My heart is twisting and turning on the end of a sword. I don’t want her reassurances. That’s my job. But she’s not afraid. I can see it in her face, and that means she could make a mistake. I need her to be careful. If Andrew sees that there’s a crack, he’ll turn it into a window.

“I don’t believe a person can change who they are at their core,” I say. “It doesn’t matter how many years it’s been—he hasn’t forgiven me for divorcing him. He’s angry, and probably dealing with a lot of problems and emotions now that he’s out of prison. That means he’s unstable.” I think of him sending that message through his lawyer, how he must have sat in his cell so smug and satisfied, knowing that he’d yet again managed to fool me.

“I know you’re upset,” she says, fiddling with her pens. “It just seems like if he was really mad at you, he’d do something else. Not, like, stalk you or whatever.”

“Sophie, look at me.”

She raises her head, meets my eyes.

“Your dad loved to scare me. It wasn’t just about him hurting me. Making me afraid is exciting for him. It gives him a powerful feeling. I’m hoping that he’ll go away now that he’s made his point, but we need to keep an eye out. You’ll tell me if you ever see him, right?”

She nods. “Yeah.” Then picks up her pen and starts to draw. I watch her fingers. They seem hesitant, unsure, but I don’t know if I’m imagining it. Her strokes become more confident, her expression smoothing out, her body relaxing. I sink down onto the pillow.

It’s going to be okay. We’ll get through this together, just like we always have.





CHAPTER SEVEN


SEPTEMBER 2003



“Daddy parked the truck in the mailbox again.” Sophie was standing by the front window, still dressed in her pink Barbie nightgown, her hands and face pressed to the glass.

I stood beside her. The wooden post was sticking out from under Andrew’s front tire, the wood splintered, our cheerful red metal mailbox knocked partway across the lawn. The first time it happened, he told me he just took the corner too sharp. The second time it was because I parked in the wrong spot in the driveway, didn’t give him enough room.

“Come on, baby. I’ll turn on the TV, okay?”

“When’s Daddy getting up?”

“Soon.” I glanced at the clock. I couldn’t let him sleep too long—he liked to spend Sunday mornings with Sophie, but I liked the peace and quiet. It had been a hard week. He lost a couple of workers, had problems getting permits, got outbid on another project.

Sophie jumped onto the couch, burrowed under her blanket. “Can I have milk, please, Mommy?” The word came out “Mulk,” which always made me smile. Andrew thought we should correct her when she mispronounced words, but when it was just the two of us, I never said anything, wanted to keep my baby a little longer. She’d started preschool that week, only half days, but I missed her terribly, would watch the clock until it was time to get her.

I brought her milk, set it on the coffee table. Sophie was digging around in the couch cushions, pulled out my silver charm bracelet.

“Oh, no, Mommy! It’s broken!”

“It’s okay, baby. It just fell off.” I kept my smile in place, my tone upbeat. “Thank you for finding it.” I took the bracelet from her, tucked it into my housecoat pocket. The bruise wasn’t too bad, should fade in a few days, but I’d have to wear long sleeves. I should have known better, should have remembered to text him in the afternoon to let him know we were okay. I’d just gotten so busy, taking Sophie to a birthday party, making all those cupcakes.