Escape

I know I’m only twelve, but, I know this move won’t be any better than the last. Oh, things will start off pretty good. There’s a new boss to figure out, and new coworkers to analyze. He’ll be able to keep the drinking to the weekends; he might even quit…temporarily. But, it’ll start all over again. He’ll need a few drinks on Friday to unwind from the week. He’ll need a drink each night because the boss is being too hard on him. He’ll need a drink because his coworkers are all slackers and he’s doing all the work. It may take two or three months, then the every-day drinking will start; the vodka in the coffee for breakfast will start, the barley sandwich lunches will start, and the beer before dinner, with dinner, after dinner will be continuous. And, by that point, Jen and I will be hiding somewhere out of sight when he comes home; and Mom will be wearing long sleeved shirts and sunglasses when she has to leave the house.

Every once in a while things get really bad, and Dad will suddenly be “taking a vacation” to get back on track. When that happens, we pack. We pack up our lives knowing there’s a move coming up, so Dad can get a fresh start, so we can all get a fresh start. Each time he comes home from a “vacation”, our lives are great. We move to a new town. He’s happy to be home, pays attention to us, and we’re happy to have him home. Until the euphoria of freshness evaporates and reality sets in, again. He has bills to pay, mouths to feed, and Mom, working part time, can’t make enough money to do it on her own. Besides, he’s the man of the house! He needs to be the bread winner, the god we all adore, and obey. But, he can’t give up that bottle when there’s any kind of stress to deal with.

We moved in on a Friday, two weeks ago, now. Saturday was for unpacking and getting a few groceries into the house. Sunday was church day and walking through our new neighbourhood to see who we would meet, checking out the next door neighbours (a girl Jen’s age to the right of us), and finding the school; and our first family dinner in our new home. Only two weeks ago, and already Jen and I have scoped out locations to hide in. Already, we’re hearing that tone of voice that means we’d better make ourselves scarce. Already, Mom is tiptoeing around the house trying to keep ahead of his demands.

It’s Friday afternoon. Jen and I are in the kitchen with Mom, chatting about the kids in our class and chopping vegetables for dinner, when we hear the front door crash open. His angry voice is demanding and slurred and Mom says quietly, “Hide.” I grab Jen’s hand, hoping we can sneak upstairs and hide in one of our bedrooms. I peek around the corner and see him sitting on the stairs, yelling for Mom to get her ass over there. I hesitate for a few seconds, then quickly open the door to the cubbyhole under the stairs and slip in with Jen glued to my side. 

“Alice! Bring me a beer! Where’s Jimmy? I want that beer now! What a f@&@ed up day! Where’s my beer? Alice!” 

Jen and I are holding our breaths, afraid to move, afraid to make a noise. Mom runs to the fridge and we hear the rattle of the cans, then the quick phsst , as she pops the tab, the sharp slap, and quick indrawn breath, the quick gulping noise of a beer disappearing, and another sharp slap.

“Another one, damn it, woman! Can’t you see I’m thirsty!” He bellows, and Jen shrinks into a tiny ball on the floor. I squat down to hold her, and my elbow catches on something just inside the door. Suddenly, another door on the opposite wall pops open. A soft glow lights up our hiding place. We hear a choked scream and a loud thud, and I take Jen into my arms and creep through the mystery door.

“I wish we were at Grandma’s,” Jen whispers in my ear. And there we are, at Grandma’s door. At our knock, Grandpa opens the door and ushers us in with hugs and kisses, and leads us into the living room. Grandma’s in the kitchen...we can smell cookies baking and hear her singing an old tune that I don’t quite recognize, although it sounds familiar. 

“What’s up, buttercup,” Grandpa asks. Silently, Jen and I look at each other and grasp hands. I quietly tell him what’s been going on. I tell him about the drinking. I tell him about Mom’s bruises. I tell him about our hiding place and how we got here. I tell him about moving and leaving friends behind. I tell him about school. I tell him about our neighbours. I can’t stop talking until he takes my hand in his. He gathers us both into his arms, tears slide from his eyes into the grooves etched in his cheeks, and fall helplessly onto our heads. Then I hear Mom’s voice, and we’re back under the stairs in our cubbyhole.

“Daddy’s gone to bed. It’s safe to come out,” she’s holding the door open. Jen looks at me in surprise.

“But, we were just snuggling with Grandpa!” 

“What do you mean, Jen? You’re right here with Jimmy, with me, in our new house.” Mom has a worried look on her face.

“Jimmy was with me. Weren’t you, Jimmy? We were snuggling with Grandpa and Grandma was in the kitchen, baking cookies and singing a sad song. We were there Jimmy…weren’t we?” She looks at me with those sad blue eyes. I reach over and touch the wet spot on her head where Grandpa’s tears fell.

“Mom, we were there. I know we were. Grandma was singing that song …the one with ‘fields of gold’ in it, and she was singing it so softly but I could still make out some of the words, and it smelled just like her oatmeal cookies, the kind she always bakes for company. And, Grandpa said “What’ up buttercup?” like he always does when we get scared or lonely…Mom, I told him everything that was happening here. He started to cry and his tears slid down his cheeks onto our heads. Feel it, Mom! Feel our heads, they’re still wet! We were there, Mom! We were…but now we’re here, again. I don’t know how that happened.” I looked around, sad and baffled. Mom was crying silently.

“It’s impossible. You couldn’t possibly have been with your Grandpa. I wasn’t going to tell you just yet, but, your Grandpa, well, he died three days ago.” She gathers us into her arms and our tears fall quietly with hers.

Several weeks after the funeral, we fall back into a vaguely normal routine that includes school and homework for Jen and I. Mom’s part time job ends and she’s looking through the newspapers and job boards on social media for something else, still part time because of Jen and me; and keeps meals on the table and the house in order. Dad has toned down the drinking and seems to be trying to hold it together. We’re kind of floating through the days, just getting slowly back to a semblance of normal, when suddenly, Dad gets laid off. 

The economy has taken a downturn and he was the last hired, so he’s the first laid off, but not the only one – ten people are laid off at the plant. Dad is furious! He brings home a brown paper bag that he’s constantly sipping at, and his temper and voice keep rising. Jen starts to whimper and Dad grabs her arm, twists it behind her back and pushes her up the stairs, yelling at her to shut up and quit being a baby. I hear a thud, and a slap. I hear her scream, and a door slams. Her muffled crying seeps through the door and Dad swears his way down the stairs. Mom meets him halfway up, yelling at him to stop…suddenly she’s flying backwards down the stairs, crashing through the banister. I duck into the cubbyhole under the stairs, hoping he’ll leave and I can check on Mom and Jen. The door is yanked open and Dad drags me out by my hair. He punches me in the face, kicks me in the stomach as I fall, then turns and crashes through the door and out into the street. I can’t breathe and I think I faint, because everything goes blurry and out of focus, then slowly comes back into very sharp focus.

I crawl over to Mom. She’s breathing very slowly, as if she’s asleep, but I know different. Something is broken. She whispers,

“Lock the door, Jimmy. Call 911…I’m hurt bad. Go check on Jenny!” 

I make my way to the door and look out to see if he’s still there, but he’s gone, for now. I lock the door. I search, but can’t find the phone anywhere. 

“Mom, where’s your cellphone? I can’t find the house phone.” I hate to bother her, she’s moaning softly, not moving, just laying there, crumpled over pieces of the broken banister.

“Upstairs, by the bed, Jimmy. But, check on Jen first, please.” She’s barely whispering.

“Hang on, Mom. I’ll check on Jen right now, just hang on!” I’m freaking out inside, but I don’t have anyone to turn to. As quickly as I can, I limp up the stairs. 

“Jen, it’s me. It’s Jimmy. Dad’s gone for now. Jen, where are you?” I’m standing in her doorway and I don’t see her anywhere. I move around to the foot of the bed and she’s on the floor behind it. There’s blood on the wall, and she’s moaning, mumbling, “mama, mama.” I gather her into my arms as carefully as I can, but her arm is broken and it falls against the bed post. She screams, and mercifully passes out. Quickly, I bring her downstairs and lay her right beside Mom. My tears are falling, I’m sobbing, and I can barely breathe, but I make my way back upstairs to find Mom’s cellphone. It’s locked…I don’t know the code…Mom’s passed out. There’s an emergency option! But, suddenly someone is banging on the door, cursing and swearing, and I know that Dad came back, and he’s got a key.

I hit the emergency button and dial 911.

“My name’s Jimmy. I live at 4563 Ash Street. My Mom and sister are hurt. They’re both unconscious and bleeding. Send the cops! Send an ambulance! Hurry! My Dad’s back and I don’t know what he’ll do to them this time. Hurry!” I end the call and creep slowly, cautiously down the stairs. Dad’s standing over Mom and Jen and he’s angry. His face is red and mottled and I can see gobs of spittle spraying from his lips as he yells at Mom,

“Where’s dinner, you bitch! Get up and make me some food!” He kicks Jen out of the way and starts to drag Mom into the kitchen. I scream,

“Leave her alone you monster! Haven’t you hurt her enough! “ I race down the stairs and start beating on his arm, his back, his head, but he just swats me aside. Im screaming at him to stop, and he’s roaring at me to back the f@$# off and grow up, stop being a baby. Through my tears and throbbing in my head, I stop yelling, remembering the cubbyhole and the “other” door. I race over to the cubbyhole and scream at him,

“Come and get me you lazy, drunken a-hole! You’re nothing but a piece of shit. You’re not even a man,” All the abusive words he’s ever used against Mom and Jen and I come pouring out of my mouth at the top of my lungs. I can’t stop yelling them over and over, and he drops Mom to the floor, turns and starts coming after me. 

I slide into the cubbyhole and fumble for the catch that opens the “other” door. It pops open as he lunges in, trying to find me. The soft glow dazzles him momentarily and he reaches in through the “other” door and I whisper, 

“I wish you were with Grandpa,” And give him a big shove. The door clicks shut. I hear the sirens and crawl over to Mom and Jen.