The Next Left

Driving home was no longer an option. Heather was waiting and I couldn’t face her disappointment. I understand why she’s upset. I sat with that for a minute, the understanding that I, too, would be angry. The red light made the car look like Hell. Rural Ohio looks a lot like Hell. It seemed sprawling and desolate. My blinker clicked under my blaring music. I switched the blinker over from right to left, further damning myself. The light turns green and I drive away from the talk we need to have. I accelerate away from my responsibility and from who I thought I would be.

I slow down in front of the local community park, Red Hawk Falls. Seeing the headlights of other cars filled with hikers and runners, I am brought back to the evening I met Heather. That moment on the rough trails, my dog, Girlie, pulled to the center of the path to meet a hiker going in the opposite direction. I looked over to apologize for not having Girlie right by my side and saw Heather, all legs and bouncing hair.

“Hey, sorry about her! She’s friendly though! Again, totally my fault.” I was struggling to get the words out.

Heather took me in. Her green eyes traveled from the crown of my head to the hiking boots on my feet. She brought her pack to the front of her body and brought out a few small pieces of jerky. “My brother makes jerky from the deer he hunts, is it okay if she has a bite? She’s the cutest.” As I nod, she kneels down and beckons Girlie to her. “What’s her name?” Her voice was higher pitched now, prepared for talking to a dog.

“Girlie. She’s just so cute, that’s all I called her and it stuck.” I smiled in their direction and picked up some of the slack in the leash.

“Speaking of names, sorry, I’m Heather.” She beamed as she stood up and patted Girlie on her head.

I met her eyes. “I’m Delaney, it was so nice of you to give Girlie a piece of jerky, you have a trail pal for life now.”

I was driving aimlessly now. The neon of store signs glittering in my astigmatized path. I wiped the tears from my cheeks. That was the beginning of the next two years. Heather moved in, we adopted another dog, Leaf, and spent our time outside. Our time together was spent in the wilderness. We camped and hiked. We chased new experiences in new places. Our home was filled with love and togetherness. Heather didn’t yet know that our bliss was coming to an end.

Heather grabbed the mail from the pink mailbox we painted when we first moved in together. The sides, stamped with Girlie and Leaf’s paw prints, looked worn after a year of harsh weather. She held a letter from my estranged mother in her hand, a mother she believed to be dead. Tears stained the letter when she showed me. She held it with delicate fingers, away from her body like evidence from a crime scene. I couldn’t escape this time.

“Delaney, what is this? Your dead mom is sending you letters from the grave?” Her anger, evident in her clenched jaw, gave way to tears. I couldn’t respond. “You lied. And she doesn’t even know about you? You’re not out with your family.”

I took a staggered breath. “I was going to tell both of you, really. I don’t have an excuse or anything.” This is a losing fight–a fight that I just needed to survive. “To be honest, we’ve been estranged for so long I didn’t even think she would reach out.” I fold the letter in my hands, sweat making its way down my neck.

Inside of myself, I knew it was a matter of time, but I didn’t know my mother knew where I lived. It’s been five years since our last discussion. I was not about to rehash that painful memory with Heather. Leaf and Girlie, both under the table, moved to the couch in the living room at the sound of our raised voices. We didn’t fight like this; our other arguments were benign. Heather, red faced and hoarse, looked like a woman I’d never met.

I gathered my thoughts. “Listen. I don’t know what’s in the letter, but I can tell you that she’s manipulative and wrong.” As soon as the words left my mouth, I knew I was the one in the wrong.

“Are you serious? That’s your argument?” Heather’s exasperated voice pulsed with seething anger.

“It’s not my argument.” I stuttered. “It’s the truth.”

“Well, the other truth is that you hid me. From your own family, who I thought was dead.” Her face gave way from hurt to primitive anger. “Why would you hide me?”

“You don’t think I feel guilty everyday? These aren’t just lies. I was protecting…”

“Don’t even finish that sentence.”

“You’re ambushing me and I don’t know what you want me to say. I don’t even know what’s in the letter. You haven’t given me any time to process my mother trying to come back into my life.”

“Our life! It should be our life. I can’t believe you aren’t out to your family. I’ve never been this angry.”

“Give me like five minutes, Heather! What am I supposed to say when I don’t even know what she’s written?” Heather huffed and left the kitchen, slamming our bedroom door behind her.

The letter held all of my secrets, laying bare what I feared most. My mother couldn’t fathom a reason for me to cut off contact. She couldn’t believe that I was in a sinful relationship, that I was going to hell, that I could let her down. She was my biggest opponent in life. The woman who I was meant to depend on didn’t know who I was anymore. And somehow, it ends up on my lap. I told her before that I can’t fix our relationship by myself, but in her mind she was faultless. I said horrible things that she brought up again in the letter.

The letter dragged me back to who I used to be. The angry girl who spit venom to protect herself. The verbal abuse and emotional turmoil my mother put me through as a child and teenager was something she would never comprehend. She didn’t see my defense mechanism as anything but disrespect. Listening to each other wasn’t an option. The sound of her voice felt like an affront to my body. And she was right, I was a coward when I left. I wrote her a note and left it on her bedside table. It outlined my issues with her and that I was old enough to be on my own. I also told her that she didn’t need to know where I was going. I didn’t give her a chance to respond.

Somehow I didn’t realize that a random Instagram account belonged to my mom. She’s been watching from the beginning of my relationship with Heather. I imagined her looking through my posts, pictures of Heather and the dogs on our camping trips, anniversaries, birthdays. I didn’t want her there for any of that. I blocked her original accounts and was naive enough to believe that was that. How did she have our address? I slammed the door on my way out of the house once I finished reading.

She couldn’t understand the damage she’s done in my life. I tried explaining that I just needed space and she took that to mean that I never wanted to speak again. I was happy to oblige the delusion and stepped back from our relationship. I wouldn’t budge. She wasn’t owed anything. I didn’t even call her “mom” during our argument, she was Hannah. A woman I couldn’t believe birthed me. We grew apart as I grew from childhood into independence. I passed the age Hannah had me without her in my life.

In the car, Hannah’s constant threat that no one would know me as well as her echoed in my mind. She didn’t know me at all, and yet the letter was a scathing reminder of who I wanted to leave behind. All of her assumptions were correct. Approaching another red light, I go straight, leaving our small town. The streetlights grow sparse as I enter an even more rural town until it is just my headlights showing me the road.

Yes, I lied. Hannah lived a state away, in Michigan. She wasn’t yet in the ground. I checked the obituaries on occasion. I didn’t want her to die, but I also knew this scenario was inevitable if she didn’t. I believed that Heather, the one good relationship in my life, was my present from the universe. I thought she was presented to me because of how I walked away from a life that no longer served me. Instead, she was my punishment. The one woman I loved is the one woman I betrayed.

The letter wasn’t even addressed to Delaney–it was addressed to my given name. That part of me hadn’t yet died, but seeing it in writing sent me spiraling. I was glad Heather didn’t bring that lie up during our fight. It is hard to describe how seeing “Andrea” made me feel ill. I felt this way since I was a child, un-housed within myself. I was a new person in need of a new name and identity. I legally changed my first name once I moved to Ohio. She didn’t need to know. I am angry that she knew from social media and still referred to me as the name I gave up.

I come up on the covered bridge where Heather caught a flat tire eight months ago. Crossing over, I could almost see the ghosts of us on the narrow shoulder. I see her almost find me out.

Heather giggled. “Of course this happens when we have somewhere to be.”

“I don’t know anything about cars and I definitely don’t know how to change a tire.”

“It’s fine! We’ll get it fixed. I have a spare, we’re lucky like that.” She dips her head back into the back seat of her car. “I think the car insurance is in my wallet. I threw it in your purse before we left, do you mind if I grab it?”

“Go for it. I’m going to try and get this tire out of your trunk.” The tire was proving difficult to move in any direction.

“I spilled your purse, so it may be a minute until I find the card.” Heather liked my wallet and bought herself an identical one for her birthday a few months prior.

All at once I remember that my original license is in my wallet. I hit my head on the trunk door. “Ouch,” bringing my hand to my head, I rushed to her side. “Um, no it’s fine I can clean it up.”

After staring at me with growing curiosity, she went back to her organizing. “Delaney, it’s fine. Are you okay? I heard you hit your head. Maybe go sit in the passenger seat and wait for me to call roadside assistance.” I could tell she was concentrating. “How did you even fit this much stuff in your purse in the first place?”

Sweat prickled down my neck. “Did you find it yet?”

“I’m deciphering which wallet is mine at the moment.” Her voice was even. She didn’t find it yet. “Oh! Found it. We need to get your organizational skills figured out. That was crazy.”

“That’s great. I’ll work on it.” I slumped in the passenger seat with relief.

At the next intersection I turn right, planning to snake my way back home. Heather was worth the fight. The letter called me spineless and I wasn’t going to prove Hannah right. Driving back to Heather proved to be the hardest decision. I had to own up to my lies. I had to stop looking at my life before now as a mistake. I would explain how everything fell apart before we met and how meeting her put me back together. Loving her fixed the part of me that didn’t love myself. She may read that as manipulative, but it is a simplified version of the truth. I would tell her about Hannah and my childhood. I can’t immediately fix two years of not telling her who I am, but I could start to repair my transgression tonight.

A small part of me wanted to call Hannah and yell at her. Screaming at her until my voice gave out sounded reasonable. That would let her win though and I wasn’t going to let that happen. Rolling the window down, I smell the autumn air. My hair sways in the wind. Somewhere deep inside, I heard myself comfort the little version of me that remained twelve. “Andrea” wasn’t a friction within, she deserved acceptance. Fifteen minutes until I’m in the driveway and have to face Heather.

I notice that I am going fifteen miles over the speed limit. I touch the brake pedal and slow down. The family of deer in the distance seems to sigh with relief at having a safe opportunity to cross. I count them, five does and two babies. I grow envious that they can always be as they are with no expectations.