She's leaving home

Wednesday morning

5:00 o'clock

She is sitting on the edge of her bed. It has taken days to pack. A little bit at a time, carefully hiding it from her parents. Trying to decide what is important, what is fluff. How much is enough?

Sitting still, being quiet, because she can't wake Mommy and Daddy, and still keeping herself awake is hard. She can hear Daddy snore through the thin wall. But Mommy says she's a light sleeper. Marjory doubts it. As often as she has come in late these past few months, Mommy never seems to have heard her.

She frets. Does she have enough money? Double checks that the bus ticket is in her purse. Gary will be there on Friday, won't he? He said he would. He'll provide, won't he.

Gary is ten years older than Marjory. He says he loves her. Will do right by her. He's handsome, she thinks. Those brown eyes remind her of her teddy bear. It's one of the things she packed. His light brown hair is thinning a little. She smiles at his vanity, won't hear about having a small bald spot. When she told him that she is pregnant, he had bought her the bus ticket and promised he's meet her there in a few days. "We can't go missing at the same time, can we?"

With her heart in her throat, she picks up the suitcase. For the umpteenth time she wishes she had a proper backpack. So much easier to carry than this beat-up red plaid suitcase. One last look around. Yes, the note is on her pillow. She hopes it will explain enough.

The day begins.

Silently closing her bedroom door, she tiptoes down the stairs, knowing which tread creaks. Clutching her handkerchief, she goes to the kitchen. Stuffs two apples in her pockets. Quietly turning the back door key, she steps outside and closes the door behind her.

She exhales and smiles. She's free. At almost eighteen, she's finally free.

She sidesteps the empties near the garden gate. From which direction will the milkman come? Would he know her? Probably not. But if Mommy asks him, would he remember? Probably. Taking a chance, she turns left and hurries down the alley. Up the street to downtown and the bus station.

5:53 am.

She's scrunched down in her seat, praying that the bus will leave soon. It's almost time for Mommy to wake up. While Daddy is still snoring, she'll slip into her dressing gown, and come to wake Marjory. She'll find the note. The one she left on her pillow.

Dear Mommy and Daddy, I'm leaving. I met someone. We love each other. We'll be happy together and have fun. You won't miss me too much, I'm sure. Marjory.

How will she react? Will she care? Not much, she's sure. After all, they've been too busy with their own lives to look after her. They sent her to boarding school when she was six and never looked back. They had their own lives; they worked all the time. Didn't know how to have fun. Didn't know what to do with her. During summer breaks they sent her to summer school and one sleep-away camp after another. Well supervised, girls-only, of course. Then she'd have one week at home, mainly to get a new uniform. Mommy would kind of scold her for growing out of last year's uniform, yet again. No, Marjory doubts that they would be very upset.

She sighs with relief when the bus pulls away. She's a little hungry. Should have made a sandwich, she only has the two apples. Maybe she can buy something at one of the stops.

6:00 o'clock

Audrey opens the door to her daughter's room. It's time for Marjory to get up and get ready for work. Not that Audrey is impressed with Marjorie's work choice. She's just a fancy babysitter at the preschool downtown, right next to the Ford dealer. But she seems happy.

The room is empty, a slip of pink note paper is on the pillow. Audrey reads the note as she walks out of the room. She's at the top of the stairs when the message sinks in.

"Daddy get up! Marjory is gone. Our baby is gone! Here look at the note. Why would she do this to me? We sent her to the best school we could afford. We both worked two jobs, so she could have the very best. All those summer programs, so well supervised, so educational. Just so she could go to the best university.

Now all she does is babysit other people's children. Doesn't want to go to university. She says we won't miss her. What does she mean? She's our little girl!

We did it all for her. Wanted her to have a better education, a better life than we had. We gave her the best money could buy. How could that be wrong? What does she mean, she wants to have fun. What did we do that was so wrong, Daddy?"

Thursday afternoon

12:03 pm

After she gets off the bus, Marjory walks around the neighborhood. It looks a little dilapidated, to be honest. The best part though, is the army surplus store. There she finds an honest-to-goodness backpack. She switches everything from her suitcase into the backpack and leaves the old suitcase behind.

Gary had said that there should be several hotels not far from the bus depot. New backpack slung over her shoulder, she finds a hotel. Twenty-five dollars if she stays the whol;e night. Who wouldn't want to stay the whole night, she wonders.

Twenty-five dollars is too much. All night there are constant noises. Grunts, cries and worse from the other rooms. Blinking neon light, ambulance and police sirens, cars revving up, breaks squealing, horns blaring. Another sleepless night.

Friday morning

9 o'clock

Marjory waits for Gary at the corner, sitting on a bus-stop bench. She waits till late that evening before she returns to the hotel. He must have been delayed. She's back on that bench on Saturday and again on Sunday. By afternoon, reality is sinking in. He's not coming.

He gave her a baby and a bus ticket out of town.

She wants is to have some fun. She has been so well-supervised her whole live. Never an unscheduled, unsupervised moment. Has never stepped out of line. All she wants, is a hug, a kiss, someone to tell her that she is worthwhile, that she matters. That it is okay to have fun, to play. The children at the preschool have been more than willing to play and hug. Gary at the ford dealer, next to the kindergarten, had been more than happy to hug and kiss and more.

Sunday afternoon

2:33 pm.

"Hey, what's up. Why don't you like any of the buses?" A lanky kid, maybe a year or so older than Marjory, plops on the bench next to her.

"Huh? No, they're okay. Why?"

"Well, you've let all of them pass, which one do you want?"

"I'm not waiting for a bus." She sighs.

"Ah. So, you've been stood up. Bummer." They sit side by side, staring ahead. "He's a fool." Another pause. "You got a place to stay?"

Marjory shakes her head. "No." A tear trickles down her cheek. She wipes her nose with the back of her hand.

"Well, I know a place."

"Really? What kind of place?"

"Well." He smiles. "A place where the music is fine, and the lights are low."

She can't help herself and smiles. "And where is this place?"

"You see. At the door there is this man, who will greet you. Then you go down the stairs to a table and chair. Soon, I'm sure, you'll be tapping your feet. Because the greatest beat is there." They chuckle together.

"Get out of here." She elbows his ribs.

"Okay, then how about this place? It's deep down in Louisianna, close to Nawleans. It's way back in the woods, among the evergreens."

She laughs. "But I bet I'd have to share it with a guy named Johnny B. Goode, right?"

"Well, yeah, them's the breaks. But you don't want to go back to the Heartbreak Hotel, do you?"

She sighs and shakes her head.

"Seriously though. Our place is no more than an old warehouse but we have running water. There'll be room for you. We always have room for one more. Come, what do you have to lose?"

***

Five years later

Friday morning

9 o'clock

"Will they like me, Mommy?" Four-and-a-half-year-old Brandon looks up at his mother, clutching a well-loved teddy bear. His little face is screwed up with anxiety and hope. His short legs are doing double time, trying to keep up. It's at least the one thousandth time that he has asked the question.

Marjory adjusts the beat-up backpack on her shoulder. "Of course, what's not to like? You're awesome." She grins down at him.

"But so are you, Mommy. And you said they didn't like you." Can't argue with four-year-old logic.

"It's complicated, kid." Marjory sighs. "Grown-up stuff is complicated."

Brandon nods. He knows that grown-up do strange things. He'd much rather be at the childcare center where Mommy works. He can play with all the other children and still run to Mommy whenever he wants.

The lace curtain at number 21 moves. Mrs. Schneider is still nosey.

The street seems so much longer than it used to be. Will they still be there? Or have they moved on? Will they take her back? Will they accept Brandon? Cause if not, she'll turn around and leave.

She's not sure why she's coming back. It's not just because they were kicked out of the warehouse. The new owner wants to make it into fancy lofts. No, it's not just that she has to find a new place to live. Though that's probably part of it. It's not just because she wants a bigger challenge After being a child minder for five years, she wants to go to school, after all. Maybe become a teacher.

No, she thinks she misses them, her parents. Even though they have spent so little time together. Not until after high school. Even then, it's mainly Sunday suppers. Pork roast, peas and carrots and mashed potatoes. Every Sunday.

Maybe she just wants to know she belongs. Maybe she wants Brandon to know he belongs.

"Will they like me, Mommy?" Brandon asks for the one thousand and one time.

They're here. Number 64. Marjory lifts Brandon and settles him on her hip. She needs someone to hold onto, needs someone to hold her. Takes a deep breath, opens the low garden gate and walk up the short path to the front door. She presses the bell.

Her heart is racing, her mouth is dry. Brandon squirms because she's holding him too tight.

The door opens, They look at each other. A smile. A hug. "Daddy, our baby is home!"

With respect to:

Paul McCartney and John Lennon (1967)

Petula Clark (1965)

Chuck Berry (1958)