Rise: How a House Built a Family(13)

I climbed in the bed next to Roman, expecting to crash fast. But the night noises in the middle of the forest were foreign. Every scrape and scurry made me wonder if Hope had been right, if maybe someone had followed us after all. Recurring nightmares pulled me into a state of semirest with an unwelcome familiarity. The location and small details changed, but I was always inside a house, trying to lock a door that wouldn’t lock. Either the lock would be broken or it would spin back around and unlock itself. With slow, methodical steps, the danger crept closer to my unlockable door. I woke at sunrise in a cold sweat with an irrational level of terror.

I slipped my shoes and coat on and grabbed my car keys and cell. The covered windows and locked doors were making me more afraid, not less. I needed out, even if it was just for a few minutes. Using the residual nightmare adrenaline, I ran full speed up the path, tugged open the driver’s-side door, and sat, tucking my hands under my arms in the cold morning air. Then, to keep from crying, because I hated crying, I started straightening things in the car. Dorito crumbs, napkins, earbuds, I worked over anything out of place—and there was plenty of it to keep me busy.

I ran across the stack of mail I’d grabbed on our way out of town, and the ordinariness of the gas bill and preapproved credit-card applications first calmed and then angered me. I didn’t want same-old, same-old. We needed something new. Something big. Something that changed the way we saw ourselves. We needed to replace the victims we’d become with heroes. No matter how hard I tried to see that possibility as the truth, it felt like make-believe, like another lie I would start and the kids would dutifully repeat.

I threw open the car door and jumped out, snowing bits of napkin and Doritos onto the leaves and gravel. Slowly, I walked back to the cabin. By the time I reached the porch, the idea had grown larger. We’re free. We can do anything.

But before I went inside, I still checked the window to see if I could see in around the shade. It was sealed tight, and I left it that way. The door was unlocked, which reminded me of my nightmare even though I knew I was the one who had left it unlocked. Okay, so we were on our way to being free, but we weren’t there yet.

Jada was awake. I could hear her cards slapping the coffee table in a game of solitaire. She would cheat and win every game, and Hope would be shocked every time. I joined her, happy that Roman was sleeping in. We worked together, tossing cards in place like it was a timed, world-record-setting event. “Hope is afraid,” she said, illegally sliding an upside-down card out from under a king.

“When we don’t understand what someone is thinking, it can scare us,” I said, hating my pretending after vowing that I wouldn’t cover up for anyone anymore. But what could I do? You can’t ever unlearn a thing. I was still pretending that it wasn’t too late, that I could protect her. It was one of the last big lies I ever told myself.

“What are you thinking, Mommy?”

“I’m thinking after breakfast we should go for another treasure hunt while Thanksgiving is in the oven.”

“I want cookies,” Roman said, scooting backward down the stairs and stopping every other step to push Peek-a-boo, his ratty, one-eyed, stuffed cat, down ahead of him.

“We’re having pancake cookies,” I said, holding my arms out. He climbed into my lap and melted against me in the way only sleepy two-year-olds have mastered.

The blueberry pancakes woke the teenagers—or maybe that was the bacon—and they made adjustments and repairs to the stick house while they crammed maple-syrup lumps in their mouths so fast they had to be swallowing them whole.

For the next two days, we ate, built, walked, and then started the cycle over on repeat. We scrapped our plans to go hiking along the Buffalo River. Everyone was content to stay in with the project and go on occasional forest excursions for more twigs, nuts, and forest scraps. It was the most thankful Thanksgiving I could remember.

Saturday night, our last at the cabin, we packed most of our things, pretending all the while that it didn’t really mean we were going back to our house. I climbed into bed feeling completely safe for the first time in years. The curtains and shades were all tucked down tight, the door was triple-locked, and the newspaper was still taped over the kitchen window. But hey, whatever it takes.

I sank into the too-soft mattress with a smile while the idea of being all the way safe wrapped around me. In the morning I wouldn’t have to tiptoe around any man, or test his mood. I no longer had to weigh each word or send warning looks to the kids: Careful, it’s one of those days. Stay clear. Don’t rock the boat. I could sleep straight through until morning. No one would wake me with telltale breathing, wild yelling, or frantic whispers about the corporations pursuing his patents. No hands around my neck.

I rolled onto my side, covering my ear with the blanket like my mom had when I was little. She had tucked her dad’s wool army blanket between two thinner, softer ones, telling me that wool was not only the warmest sort of blanket but the only sort that made people dream brighter dreams. I still slept under a wool comforter in the winter, and now more than ever, I believed in dreams.

Only a few experiences in my life felt so profound while they were happening that I consciously tucked them away as a permanent memory. This was one of those moments, feeling safe in my bed for the first time in … Geez, how long was it? Eleven years? More? For the rest of my life, I would pull out this moment every single night when I climbed into bed. I would smile and remember that I was safe, that I could sleep straight until sunrise without fear, and I would also remember the thousands of women and children who hadn’t made it that far yet.