Keep Your Eyes Open

Walk along the walls where the floors don’t creak. Get your bag and take just what you need. Don’t turn the lights on. Don’t use the toilet. Pad the stairs, silent as shadow. Look in the mirror; get a good look. Memorize your face: the cut above your brow, your swollen eyes, the gash on your lip.

Now slip into Julia’s room. Fill a bag with diapers, pajamas, her favorite bunny—whatever fits. Scoop her from the crib. Take the blanket too. Rock and sway as you leave. Don’t trip over the blocks on the living room floor—the ones you didn’t get the chance to put away before he came home late and smelling like someone else’s perfume.

Grab the keys—one at a time. Don’t let them scrape the counter or clatter against each other. Open the door, only as wide as you need. Those rusted hinges will rat you out.

Keep rocking as you walk. Don’t let her wake up and cry. Sing to her, something low and familiar. Strap her into the car seat. Watch her head, it’s bobbing. Where’s the pacifier? Quick! Find the pacifier. She’s stirring, beginning to thrash. If he hears her...

There it is—in the flower bed, next to the hostas. Run; pick it up and wipe it on your shirt. A little dirt won’t hurt. There, she’s happy now, already drifting back to sleep. Now get in the car and start it up.

Don’t turn the lights on. Back out quickly but watch out for the trash cans—the ones you dragged to the curb while he watched the game, nursing his beer, acting like everything was fine.

Now ease onto the road. Turn your lights on and go. Slow down, that’s the Peterkins’ cat in the road. Let’s not kill anyone’s pet. Don’t speed through the neighborhood; just blend in. Turn onto the highway and set your cruise. Go the speed limit. You don’t want to gain attention; you just want to get out of town.

Don’t stop for gas yet, there’ll be time for that later. People know you here; people talk, and word will get around: I saw Ty Judson’s girl. Middle of the night at the Shell station. In some kind of hurry—and she had their baby in the car.

Keep your eyes open. Just focus on the road.

It’s okay to be afraid. Last night was rough—maybe you shouldn’t have said anything, shouldn’t have pushed it. But then you wouldn’t have known the truth—of what he’d done and how sorry he wasn’t.

Then the night dragged on, one hour stumbling into the next, your mind alive and racing through all of them. And when you slipped from the bed, out of the house, and onto the open highway, adrenaline cheered you on and did most of the driving. But he’s gone now, and you have to do this alone.

The sun will come up soon. Just keep going.

You’ve crossed the state line. Stop for gas, but don’t go inside. It’s too late—or rather, too early. Unsavory characters are loitering around the station, no one looking like they’re actually here for gasoline. Pull your hood over your hair. Now get back in the car. Go.

Breathe now. You’ve got a full tank, Julia’s still asleep, and you’ve only got a couple hours left to go.

Adjust into your rear-view mirror. Look at your daughter—just an angel, her face all squished and creased from sleep. She’ll be safe now. You’ll both be safe now. She’ll never hear you screaming from the other room, never watch from the playpen as he yanks you by the hair.

Some man he turned out to be.

You thought you got a good deal with him: a friend and lover all in one. He made you laugh, made you happy—made you a mother then stuck around to see it through.

But those happy days were so fleeting. Was it your roller coaster moods? Julia’s midnight wails? What flipped in him? What made him turn on you? Turn to someone new? Maybe someday you’ll understand it all but not today.

Today, you drive.

Don’t swerve. Relax, focus on the road. Acknowledge her cries, but don’t let them rattle you. Talk to her calmly. There’s an exit just ahead, and the sun is awake now. Pull off and find somewhere to park. Somewhere clean and well-lit—somewhere with coffee. Take a deep breath and shift into park. Stretch your legs.

Undo Julia’s straps and hold her tightly against you. You both did good. Now grab her bag and your wallet and go inside. Use the restroom; change her diaper. Splash some water on your face. Try not to think about how rough you look right now.

Weave through the isles and nod your head to the old truckers filling 20-ounce travel mugs with hot coffee. Stand in line behind them and get yourself a cup too. Ignore their stares; your face is none of their business.

Head back to the car and take a moment to breathe the morning air. Listen to the birds and let Julia climb on the seat for a moment. She’ll want to eat, want to stretch. Take your time.

The sunlight is comforting, warming you as you merge back onto the highway and head South. Not too much longer.

In the passenger seat, your phone explodes with a cheerful jingle, and the sound is an icy knife to your insides. A glance at the screen confirms it’s him—that face you once adored now looks hard and hollow in the caller photo. The coffee in your belly threatens to come back up.

Silence it. Ignore his calls. He’ll be full of shame and regret and sweet words laced with sleepy tears, but will you be fooled again?

No, you’re no fool. But there will be a reckoning. He’s not going to let you just slip away—not with Julia—but right now, you just need some space to breathe, to collect yourself.

The vibrating continues undaunted. Focus on the road. Follow the GPS. You’re almost there. A few more miles, a few more turns.

There—that’s her house, just around the curve. It looks the same as it did when you used to visit as a kid: red brick, big hydrangea bushes out front, barn in the back full of tools and gadgets—likely all untouched since Uncle Harvey’s passing. A cat basks in the sunlight on the front porch, blissfully unaware of anyone’s woes.

You’re here now. You can breathe. Get Julia out of her seat and head up the steps. Knock softly. Smile—don’t cry. Everything’s going to be fine.

Don’t bother moving your hair around; everybody can see your face. It’s no secret anymore. She comes to the door and surprise lifts her features, then joy tugs them back into place. She throws her arms around you and squeezes.

Hug her back. Let yourself feel comforted. Imagine it’s your mother, soft-hearted and ready to take in a stray. If you squint, she almost looks like her; the family resemblance is strong. Cry if you must.

She reaches for Julia, sucking in air with an excited gasp. How pretty she is. Has your momma’s eyes, she does.   

She leads you to the sofa and you sit for a while, apologizing once again for just showing up. You fill her in on what your life has looked like the past couple of years, leading up to where it all went so wrong.

Her face pinches when you tell her about last night’s fight—the one you weren’t sure you’d wake up from. She shakes her head, angry, and you feel stupid for not having left sooner.

You tell her you just need someplace to stay—a few weeks tops—just to figure out where you’ll go from here. She waves your words away, tells you to stay as long as you need, then fixes you a plate of scrambled eggs and biscuits. She holds Julia while you eat.

The guest room is a bit messy she tells you, saying she’ll have it tidied up in just a few minutes so you can rest. She putters around, pulling sheets from a closet and moving boxes into the hall.

You sink into the couch and exhale. Everything is going to be alright. Julia crawls around the floor, exploring the new space. She pulls herself up with your legs and smiles.

Then an engine roars up the driveway, loud and self-assured. A diesel.

Your heart flips, blood curdling in your veins. How did he find you? How did he get here so fast?

Aunt Bev calls from the guest room and says it’s just Dwayne, her new boyfriend. Just got off night shift.

You sink back into the sofa and pull Julia into your arms. She rests her head on your chest, breathing softly. Rub her back, hum a song. Let her know she’s safe here. You both are; this is family.

The front door opens and Dwayne walks in, boots scraping the floor. He shuts the door a little too loudly, then disappears into the room with Aunt Bev. You hear the smack of a kiss, then whispering—low and discreet.

Be out in a minute, you hear her say.

Then Dwayne steps into the living room and stands over the couch, staring down at Julia asleep on your chest. His arms dangle on either side of your shoulders.

So, you’re the niece, he says.

Then he leans closer, hot breath in your ear, and fingers a strand of your hair still crusted with blood. Gooseflesh ripples across your arms.

Be nice to have a house full of pretty young girls.

Somewhere in the kitchen, your phone vibrates again. And again.