Wild Whispers

Home Away From Home

My fingers trace the well-worn grooves in the door where our Golden Retriever jumped too many times. Marroon paint flakes off onto the tips of my fingers.

"Mom? Dad's going to be home soon," Amber calls from the passenger seat of my beat-up '99 Nissan Sentra.

I can hear the anxiety in her voice; he can't find us here. The note has to be our last contact with him.

Amber turned 18 last week, her liberation from her father and my liberation from my husband. Now I can take her and run like I've always wanted to. Away from Kade, away from the nightmares and the dreams, away from this house.

My hand shakes on the door knob as I finally pull the door closed. My fingers ache to linger and doubt reminds me that not all of the memories are bad. The cracked pavement of the driveway is where Amber learned to ride her bike for the first time. She still has an X shaped scar on her knee from where she collided with the asphalt. These very front porch steps are where Kade carried me across the threshold the day after we got married. How can I leave him?

"Mom," Amber whispers, now standing behind me and lacing her fingers into my free hand. "You can do this."

I pull in a staggering breath and laugh, wiping away a tear that's running down my face. "When did you get so strong?"

Amber just smiles at me, her eyes a soft brown, and pulls me towards the car. I shake off her arm and throw my suitcase into the trunk. Somehow, all of our worldly possessions have now been reduced to the contents of one dumpy car.

Careful to keep my eyes away from the house, I climb into the driver's seat and squeeze the wheel until my knuckles turn white. I slowly lower my head to the wheel, tired strands of my shoulder-length mousy hair forming a veil around me. The tears are aching to be freed, but I'm afraid that if I let them out I'll lose my nerve.

For 18 years, I have tolerated Kade's ups and downs, his condescension, his degradation. I've tolerated his drunken tirades through the house, the shattered light bulbs and bruises, the sickening smell of alcohol and vomit. For 18 years, I've cleaned up after him. I've taken a punch in the face and then washed and cleaned the bloody fist that gave it to me. I've slept in Amber's doorway with a throw pillow and a blanket to keep him from terrorizing her when he's spent the night at the bar with his friends.

"Mom?" Amber says, and I know she wants to ask me if I'm okay, but that'd be a stupid question.

Of course I'm not okay. I love Kade; I've loved him since we were in high school. I've loved him since he told me he loved me under a sycamore tree. I've loved him since we got married as soon as we graduated high school. I loved him when he took me on my dream vacation to Paris for our honeymoon. I loved him when he saved up to buy us this beautiful house with it's white picket fence and perfect little backyard for our daughter. I still love who he was, but it's taken 18 years for me to realize that man is gone.

I start the car, squeezing the keys so tightly that they leave an imprint in my hand. The car sputters and starts and I glance at the clock. 4:23 P.M. He's supposed to be home at 4:30, but we can't risk him finding us before we can leave. I stare at my hands, at the line of white around the third finger of my left hand. I left the ring he gave me 18 years ago with the note telling him that we were leaving, that we'd never see him again.

In two weeks, Amber will start school in Colorado, hundreds of miles from here. Tomorrow, we will legally change our last names so he can't find us. I will rent out an apartment near Amber so she can live with me and I'll find as many jobs as I need to take care of us. I can do this. I hope, I think, I pray I can do this. For Amber. For Amber.

I look over at my daughter, her heavily lined eyes, short dyed hair, gap-toothed smile, and I hate myself. Why didn't I leave sooner? I could have. I could have gotten us a restraining order and made a new life for us earlier, but I was so terrified that it wouldn't be enough.

I'll never forget the day I told him I wanted out. Amber was seven years old, curled up in her bed with the Mickey Mouse stuffed animal she never let out of her sight, the one that's stuffed into the backseat. Kade was drunk again off of a bottle of vodka he'd sneaked into the house. A few moments before, he had staggered into Amber's room and tore the Mickey Mouse out of her hands, jeering.

"What's wrong with you, kid? Still sleeping with a stuffed animal?" Then he cursed at her, called her a retard, and took the stuffed animal with him.

I tore it out of his grasp and returned it to her bed, screaming at him for what he'd said to our daughter. How could he when he'd promised to love us both? I told him then in a screaming rage that I wanted out, I wanted to leave.

I'll never forget his words. "Katie, if you ever try to leave this house, I will beat you until you're within an inch of your life and then I'll kill your daughter in front of you." I slept in front of Amber's door every night after that. He could hurt me, but he would never touch my daughter.

I never tried to leave again until today, and I'm still worried that he'll find a way to follow us. In a few hundred miles, I'm going to trade this car in for a new one with new plates. We're changing our names, moving two states away, but I don't think I'll ever stop looking over my shoulder for him.

I grab the gear shift and shift it into reverse, backing down the driveway until we're on the main road.

"Say goodbye," I whisper to Amber, my eyes on the house.

There were good times when he was sober. On New Year's Eve one year, we stayed up until midnight watching reruns of I Love Lucy. On Amber's third birthday, Kade surprised her with a bicycle and taught her to ride it for hours. But I can't remember those times. I have to look at my arms and the imprint of his fingers. I have to remember.

I push down on the gas pedal and we speed away. I don't look in the rearview mirror. I don't look to the right or the left. I just head for the interstate.

"Thank you," Amber whispers, squeezing my white knuckled hand.

I try to smile at her but it feels like a grimace. It's all for you.

I've left part of myself behind in that house--my innocence, my soul, my morality, my youth. It's all behind. I'm not really sure who I am outside of this house, outside of Kade, but now I have to find out and hope that I'm enough.

Highway 70 East comes into view and I prepare to merge into my new life.

"Amber, we're going home."