Love, Hate & Other Filters(56)
“I’m changing,” I lie.
“Your dad called. I need to go in. Emergency tooth extraction. Will you be okay?”
“I can manage.”
“If you need anything—”
“I’ll call, and you’ll rush right home.”
My mom bites her tongue on the other side of the door. It’s a sea change. An ominous one. I hear her deliberate and heavy steps as she walks away and down the stairs. There has to be a clever way to turn the tide, but to my besieged brain there’s only one way out: the front door. I stare at the ceiling, my neurons on rapid fire.
Later, I text Violet telling her I need rest and will see her tomorrow. I call my dad’s cell. I know my mom is with a patient, so this is my best shot. “Dad? Yeah, yeah. Everything’s good. Listen, I’m going to spend the night at Violet’s. It’ll be fine. Yes. Her dad’s there. I … I want to relax a little, to take my mind off things … and … I don’t want to fight with you guys anymore. I’ll call you tomorrow, okay? Thanks, Dad. Khudafis.”
I slip the phone into my pocket. I smile, a plan taking seed.
World News Today Interview: Charles Richmond, Branson family neighbor
Ethan was a quiet kid. You’d see him playing in the yard and so forth, usually alone. Always looked kinda … blank. Felt sorry for him with a dad like that. You’d hear him shouting at the boy and his mom. Stumbling from the car to the door, drunk. Never seen a man so full of hate.
One time, it was fall. I guess Ethan was late coming home for dinner, and the dad locked him out of the house. Kid couldn’t have been more than eight, nine years old. He was crying and knocking at the door. The dad yelled at him to cut it out, that he needed to learn his lesson. Show some respect.
That boy just sat there. Probably a few hours. A neighbor brought him a blanket and a sandwich. And someone must’ve called the police because when a couple squad cars came to the house, the dad stormed out. Yelling at the police to get off his property. That they were trespassing. Screaming at the neighbors to mind their own damn business. Then he turned around and walked right up to his own son and slapped him so hard the boy fell over. When the police tried to subdue him, he took a swing at an officer. They had him handcuffed and in the back of a squad car before the boy was even up off the ground.
They moved away the next month.
I duck out of the backyard and through the neighbor’s lawn and onto the street, my elbow wrapped tight in a cloth bandage. My hair is tucked into a baseball cap; my old-school Wayfarers cover half my face. Resting my left hand on the handlebars, I grimace through the pain. Pedaling down Main Street, I figure I’m in the clear when I take the turn onto Old Route 72, heading straight to the Fabyan Forest Preserve. A few cars whiz by. I gulp the air as the breeze hits my face. Despite my loaded backpack, I’m light, free from gravity’s anchor. I cycle faster into my freedom, tiny beads of sweat popping up on my upper lip and brow, first hot, then cooled by the wind. I try not to think about what will happen when my parents discover I’m gone.
My whole life is thinking. I don’t want to think anymore. I push ahead, pedal harder. The wind blows off all my old, scorched feathers, and my new wings let me soar.
The NO TRESPASSING sign in front of the Japanese Garden eases me to a stop. I walk my bike around the skeletons of dead trees and desiccated vines onto the dirt path into the woods.
Coming up on the stone cottage, I inhale the mossy loaminess, and my muscles relax for the first time in weeks, maybe months. I approach the entrance slowly. The door creaks on its hinges, opening to a dishearteningly empty room. I came here to be alone, but was secretly hoping I wouldn’t be.
It’s early evening. The inside of the cottage is dusky as the fading light rests at the tops of the trees. I fling my backpack onto the La-Z-Boy and pull out its contents—a towel, my swimsuit, dry clothes, the sling for my stupid arm, a couple sandwiches, a book, charger, disposable contact lenses and saline, my glasses, a toothbrush, toothpaste, antibacterial gel, and my meds. But no camera. The police still have my mini-cam, and the other one adds too much weight.
Sweaty from the bike ride, I dare myself to a quick solo swim. My arm throbs as I undo the bandage on my elbow and struggle into my bikini. The woods are more menacing than I remember. Of course they are. I’ve never been here this late before. Or alone.
Tiny waves flutter over the surface of the pond. Phil’s little blanket of beach awaits me. I leave my towel and sneakers on the sand and wade in up to my waist. Besides the slight stirring of the wind through the leaves, there are no sounds. I’m alone. Literally. Metaphorically. And in all the other ways I don’t know quite how to name. I inch forward, urged on by the pond’s lovely coolness against my bruised and tired skin and a curiosity to see how far I will let myself go. The water ripples in arcs around my body as I creep forward. Swimming isn’t an option with an injured elbow, but I might be able to float with my left arm resting on my stomach. I shouldn’t drown. I’m ninety percent sure the odds are in my favor.
With the water chest high, I push myself up and onto my back, my right arm bobbing at my side. Letting my neck relax, I open my eyes. I float in the delicious stillness of the world around me, briefly forgetting every moment that brought me to this one.
A branch cracks in the distance. I pull myself to standing. Goosebumps cool my skin. The encroaching gloam calls me to shore. As I rush back to the cottage, the towel pulled tight around me, an imagined series of newspaper headlines appear in the air in front of me, light bulbs flashing and popping like in a 1940s black-and-white crime scene, Humphrey Bogart smoking in the background.