Good Girl

When I arrived here I hadn’t yet met the woman who would save my life. The wipers squeaked across the window as tiny semi-solid balls of ice fell from the sky. It’s May, 2,017 miles away from the humid embrace of southern nights, and 36 miles to the next chapter of my life. Despite the chill in the air, it already felt like home. I missed this. That’s the thing about home, it’s not somewhere outside of you. My mother would often say, “Home is where the heart is.” As a young girl (and until maybe this very moment), I thought that meant home is within the person you love. But what did I know about love?  

After spending the last decade embracing the bayou and flat lands without a mountain ridge in sight, the Pacific Northwest had called me home. Love had taken me miles away only to be called home by the mountains. It was time to face them. The casual breeze of the fan grazed the beads of sweat on my skin with little relief. As I looked at the worn leather suitcase I thought of the first time I packed her. Graduation Day, my mother had pulled Susan from the top shelf of the closet. Named by my grandmother long before she was mine, Susan held the stories of my mother’s travels and that of hers within the worn olive green lining and chartreuse stitching. Susan was gifted to my mother when she began her journey as a young woman and she was passed down to me, a high school graduate and newlywed, with an entire life ahead of me.

It was April when I first arrived in Louisiana, everything important to me wrapped up tightly inside Susan. As I stepped off the bus, I could barely catch my breath. I wasn’t sure if it was the weight of it all or the wall of humidity hitting my lungs. The air was thick, the sun felt hotter here and the people, more kind.

”Can I take that for you, ma’am?” The cab driver tucked Susan away in the trunk of the car. 

Being called Ma’am was something I never got used to. A term reserved for my elders, at least where I came from. Ma’am, how odd I thought. As I caught a glimpse of the diamond ring on my finger, it hit me, I suppose I’m not a Miss any longer? Just like that, my whole world shifted as I arrived in a place unfamiliar to me within my heart but also beneath my feet. It really is true, if you want a new life, it’s going to cost you the one you had.

I placed a photo of me under the willow tree in front of our first house inside the suitcase and locked it shut. The click of the lock, finite. I took one last look around the room, was there anything I was missing? I had spent the last chapter of my life curating everything that I thought would make this house a home. There was the perfect dining set, the furniture, pictures with smiling faces hung on the walls, everything presented in an effort to showcase the perfect life. Everything I was leaving behind may have been perfect for someone, but it wasn’t my life. 

The cold air bit at my lungs as I stepped out of my car and grabbed Susan from the trunk. Am I making the right choice? It was likely a little late to be asking this question, I had already left the life that everyone wanted for me. I had followed in the footsteps of the women before me and become a military wife. Although an arranged marriage wasn’t what she called it, my mother had encouraged the union and I followed along, like a good girl.

We had met the summer before graduation and had much in common making us fast friends. As the summer ended, Robert told me that he was enlisted in the Navy and would ship out the next week. At his farewell dinner he proposed, my mother and grandmother squealed in delight at the thought of it. It was one of those moments where time stops, a moment where time splits. The next words that fell from my mouth sent me down a path, one that would be the foundation of my new life. I find myself here, again wondering if this was the right choice, to leave that all behind. Divorce was surprisingly common in my family and I suppose in that way I was still following the footsteps of the women before me. Still, the weight of the guilt and shame that I had stowed away followed me here. 

Since I arrived in the middle of the night, the landlord had agreed to send the keys to my new life before I had left Louisiana. I pulled them from the pocket of my pea coat, they clicked in the lock and I found myself standing at the threshold. Home is where the heart is, and my heart has brought me here. The studio was already furnished, everything I needed. I unpacked Susan into the antique dresser and tucked her under the four-post bed before drifting off to sleep. 

Some may think that Summer is a strange time to begin college courses, but there’s nothing like a walk across campus on a beautiful sunny day. The campus isn’t as crowded and there is something about laying a blanket out under the trees to study that feels nostalgic. I had arrived just in time to complete the prerequisite courses for the Psychology program at Washington State University. The study of human behavior always fascinated me. I often wondered what had brought me to make the decisions that I had made for myself, what was packed away in the corners of my delicate stitching? 

As I arrived in my first class of the quarter I watched as other students filtered into the room. That’s when I first saw Jocelyn. The morning sun cast a luminous glow in her brown eyes. Captivated by her smile I knew that I had to meet her. So, when we paired up for the first assignment I thought, This is my chance! Through the quarter our study dates blossomed into an all consuming romance. By fall quarter, Jocelynn had moved into my studio apartment. Our friends joked of our typical lesbian behavior and I soaked up every second with her. 

I watched as she unpacked her bags, her clothes next to mine and that night my head rested on her chest as we fell asleep. I could hear every beat of her heart, was this home? It seemed to be exactly what I had pictured when I thought of falling in love. As a young girl I wondered if my friends looked at me the way I looked at them. Did they long to find this type of closeness as I did? To hold hands, to graze the soft skin on her arm? To press my lips to hers? 

I was 13 years old when my mother found a letter addressed to my best friend. I had just met her when I started my 7th year of school and we spent every second outside of school together. We had so much in common and I quickly formed a secret school girl crush. When my mother confronted me with the letter the fear and anger in her eyes said it, how dare I do this to her. Like a good girl I explained it away putting her fears to rest and swallowed the shame of it all. I was no longer allowed to spend time with Carrie after school. A broken heart was something you were expected to keep to yourself. This was especially true of this kind of brokenness. Here I was rising from that broken place with celebration of the love I shared with Jocelyn, a love my 13 year old self could only dream of. 

Like many dreams young girls have, it too shattered inside of me. It didn’t happen all at once as it never really does. I once heard that a lobster doesn’t realize it’s being boiled until it’s too late and I found myself identifying with a lobster. Slowly, my heart urged me to listen and shame interrupted her. Shame wove a story that this is what I deserved, this is the love I deserved. The voice of shame was my mother’s voice echoing in my mind. I deserved every strike against the side of my head. I was the horrible words she said in fits of rage. I deserved the manipulation and slammed doors. This is what I deserved for throwing my perfect life away, so this is where I should stay. 

I wondered if this is what my grandmother had felt, or my mother when they had been mistreated by their husbands? What shame did they feel? What obligations were they adhering to that kept them silent? How long did they carry the shame of failure with them? If only they had been better? If only, I could just get it right. If only, I could just follow the rules, it would stop. If only I was a good girl, it would all be okay. But it wasn’t and it never would be. 

While she was in class, I grabbed Susan from under the bed. I slid the cold silver latch to the side and the lid popped open. I didn’t have much time, and I needed to be gone. This wasn’t the first time I had tried to leave, there were others. The last time, I was locked out of the house with no shoes, no wallet and no clothes. I spent that night sleeping in the car. It was late December and as I curled up in the backseat I realized I had nowhere to go, no one to call. Over the last year every friend I had was whittled away and I was left on this cold night alone, scared and ashamed. How did I get here? Not this time. No, this time I will be prepared. I had slowly packed the most important items over the last week. But how did you fit your entire life inside a single suitcase? I had been here before and so had Susan. 

As I opened the lid and placed my toiletries on top of my clothes, books and important documents I noted the stitching around the mirror in the lid was coming undone. As I looked closer I noticed something I had never seen before. Tucked in the lining behind the mirror was a letter. 

My Dearest Susan,

I am writing this letter as I find myself lost without you. I feel an immense weight of guilt for how I have treated you. I love you endlessly, won’t you please come back? I promise to love you the way you deserve to be loved. It’ll never happen again. Please come home. 

Forever Yours, 

William

Susan was my great-grandmother, she passed before I was born and we had never met. I didn’t understand until this moment why my grandmother had named her suitcase after her mother. Tucked away in the corner of the lining was a reminder to her that only she could love her the way she deserved to be loved. Sometimes when I would see pictures of my side profile I would catch a glimpse of my grandmother in my face, at that moment I caught her reflection in that tiny mirror. Stitched into the lid of the suitcase I saw the face of Susan who had packed this very same suitcase with everything dear to her before leaving the man who had broken her. I saw my grandmother and mother who had done the same and I saw Her. The woman staring back at me was the woman who would not be broken. I saw myself, the woman who would save my life.