Safe Haven

Trigger warning: Sexual/physical abuse

Winter was underway in Milwaukee as fifteen- year-old Samantha Cunningham stared out of the attic window of the otherwise uninhabited, yet fully staged, two-story house on Mockingbird Trail. 

The 'model home' had not only become her sanctuary from the cold, but safe haven from the abuse at home. “Mom never believed me,” she said to herself, tears pooling in her sad, green eyes.

        In Samantha's left hand was a miniature 2023 calendar: in her right hand, the stub of a pencil. "I can't believe it's already Christmas eve," she said, counting the Xs backward, each X representing a day she hadn't started…“Seventy-two!” she cried, realizing the reason for her occassional queasiness and upchucking. “Or could just be just hunger pains,” she whispered in hopeful denial, glancing down at her empty, yet puggy stomach, her jeans too tight to snap. I should have left sooner, she sighed, her eyes returning to the window in time to catch a few snowflakes float to the ground while others accumulated on the for-sale sign in the yard; the wind shifting its position just enough to read the sign: Safe Haven Realty, Margaret Reed, Realtor. 

       Yellow flags, flapping in the breeze, advertising Open House today 2-5, caused a look of hope on Samantha’s pretty but hollow face. “Oh, good, Margaret’s coming today; hope she brings lots of food this time,” she said, rubbing her gnawing stomach; Just the thought made her mouth water and stomach growl.

       Samantha's been in her safe place for a month, ever since Margaret did her first open house on Mockingbird Trail; the same day Samanth fled her unsafe environment. It was the Safe Haven for-sale sign with yellow flags that waved her down and invited her in. Perhaps seeking shelter from the cold or mere hunger that gave her the courage she needed to follow the family (looking to buy a new home) inside. Strangely, only the children noticed her intrusion and she was able to escape detection by the adults, including Margaret, the realtor. Samantha was able to hide out until everyone was gone, thus making the model home on Mockingbird Trail her home – away from home.

      Fortunately, Margaret didn’t learn how to set the alarm system and was scared of it or embarrassed to ask for help - at least that’s what Margaret said to the person on the other end of her phone. Margaret also left the utilities on, so the little squatter was able to stay warm, sleep in the luxuriously made king bed, use the toilet, shower, even wash, more like, rinse, and dry her one tethered outfit using the washer/dryer already installed. Yes, Margaret Reed was quite the ‘stager’ indeed, supplying all four bathrooms with fancy his/her towels hanging on gold-looking rods and all essential and nonessential toiletries displayed in fancy wicker baskets. Samantha, not wanting to blow her cover, always made sure the towels and linens were washed and dried and put back the way she found them before Margaret returned for her next open house. The only items Margaret didn’t think of providing/supplying was laundry detergent and shampoo. Plain body soap doesn’t clean my hair good, Samantha scowled, running her fingers through her long and oily brown hair.

     A few times, the food Margaret brought wasn’t enough to hold Samantha over until the next open house and she was forced to leave the warmth of indoors and hit the cold, lonely streets of Milwaukee to find some. Fortunately, there were churches on practically every corner and many had food pantries on different days of the week and she was able to stock up and freeze some, always remembering to hide her items before Margaret returned. But, but the last time, Samantha made a mistake and went to a super big church’s food pantry. The Pastor there was very strict and grouchy and asked her too many questions that she refused to answer, and he called the cops; even reported her as a ‘runaway.' To make matters worse, she was not given any food and out of hungry desperation, she stole some and ran back to her safe spot on Mockingbird Trail. Boy, if stepdad ever found out I stole food, he’d beat me for sure, her body, trembling from the thought.

     “It must be getting close to 2:00 o’clock,” Samantha said, her green eyes focused on the realtor’s silver car pulling up in the driveway. But when the pretty brunette got out of the driver’s seat, she was wearing an arm sling and struggling to carry her belongings. Poor Margaret, looks like she’s hurt herself.

        Margaret opened the back seat and retrieved even more items. “Christmas cookies and stuff? Where’s the food?” Samanta yelled, panic in her voice, stomach growling even louder.

        A gray-haired lady from across the street came out of her house and approached Margaret who was struggling to balance the refreshments. After talking to the realtor for a few seconds, the lady pointed to the attic. Margaret, blocking her eyes from the December sun, tried to focus on where and/or what the lady was pointing to. “Oh, no!” Samantha gasped, ducking out of sight. Fearing she’d been spotted and forced to leave her safe place and return to her ‘abuser,’ she hid in a large built-in wooden storage bin.

        The front door opened, and the click-clack of footsteps quickly ascended the stairs. Margaret must be wearing her heels again, Samatha thought. Then the attic door opened, and although the click-clack came close, it stopped and quickly descended the stairs. "Whoa that was close," Samantha whispered to herself.  

 Margaret mulled about the house, singing Christmas carols, slightly off key as she readied for the house for her guests/potential buyers.

       It wasn’t long before adult conversations and the laughter of children filled the expansile void. Too hungry to wait any longer and while the family and realtor are on the other end of the second floor, Samantha creped downstairs and approached the dining table. Displayed was a giant tray of Christmas cookies and brownies. Ahh, Come on, Margaret, where are the sandwiches, or at least cheese and fruit? Samantha sighed, forced to stuff her raggedy coat with an assortment of sweets. After all, sweets were better than nothing and Samantha liked sweets. She was glad this first open house couple had children to help explain where a dozen of 'sweets' went. After downing two cups of punch, Samantha crept back up the stairs to the wooden storage bin to eat in hiding - just in case Margaret brought the family all the way up to the attic to show them the extra storage space.

     Perhaps, it was too many carbs that caused Samantha to fall asleep in the bin and she awakened to the sound of the doorbell as well as strange voices. After what seemed like an eternity, she heard the front door close for the last time as all was quiet. It’s gotta be about 6 or 7, she speculated, climbing out of the wooden bin. She rushed to the attic window to get a good look out front. With sunlight long gone, so was any chance for human contact as Margaret’s headlights slowly backed out of the drive, illuminating the for-sale sign plus the added, dredded, four-letter word SOLD. “Oh, no Margaret, why’d you have to go and sale it. Where am I gonna go now?” Samantha cried, realizing she was totally alone, probably out of the home, and still hungry - both for food as well as loving human contact. 

       After crying a bit, Samantha pulled herself together and stubbled downstairs hoping Margaret at least left the cookies and punch. She was pleasantly surprised to find both living room lamps on which highlighted a beautifully decorated Christmas tree. Wow, even with a hurt arm, Margaret even staged the house for Christmas!

      Samantha entered the dining room and approached the table. “Where’d the cookies go?” she cried out, a quivering frown on her face. The only thing left on the table was a note…

To the girl in the attic:

Please stay where you are. We’ll both be safe here. There’s fresh pizza in the kitchen for your dinner tonight and quiche and orange juice in the fridge for your breakfast tomorrow.

I’ll return tomorrow with a Christmas feast for two along with gifts.

P.S. Merry Christmas!

Love,

Margaret