A Suitcase

I started packing my suitcase after the first time my Mom fled. Just the really important things, of course. A pair of underwear, my favorite comic books, my favorite chapter books, a stuffed animal.

As the years went by and I discovered more things a person might need when they flee the house so I added items...money, food, a spare set of keys swiped from my mother.

Why I can remember the events so vividly when they are so hazy for my Mother I can only explain as disassociation on her part.

A sunny Autumn day in Iowa. A Saturday, the start of the weekend...

Mom and I are in my bedroom kneeling in front of my bottom dresser drawer selecting clothes for the day. We select a light blue sweatshirt. It has a number on it.

"What number is that, Jenny?"

"I don't know."

"You know what number that is, Jenny. It's how old you are going to be on your next birthday!"

"I don't know."

Mom finishes dressing me and we go downstairs where Daddy is getting ready for his insulin shot, as always accompanied by a mouthwater inducing but forbidden glass of grape juice with crushed ice.

"Glenn, Jenny couldn't tell me what number is on her sweatshirt. Jenny come sit down and we'll practice writing some numbers."

"You shouldn't be teaching her visually! That is the wrong way to teach her! She should learn her numbers by feel! Look at me! I am going blind! Soon I will be totally blind! You can't teach her visually!"

Mom starts apologizing, pleading for understanding, explaining her reason for the mistake, begging for mercy.

"Jenny! Go to your room!"

The stairs are creaking, just like always. Upstairs. To the bedroom. Alone.

Sounds of pleading, crying.

Sounds of yelling.

Sounds of hitting.

Then the house is quiet. It is quiet for awhile. He is out in the garage working on his cars.

The door opens and Daddy calls for me. Hesitantly I creep down the stairs.

Now it is school time.

Answer the question! How many is this?! What number is next?! How many?! How many?!

I'm too petrified to answer so I get hit.

"Go back to your room."

Back upstairs, now I start crying.

The house is quiet again.

Then it is school time again.

"Come down here! Answer the question! How many is this?! What number is next?! How many?! How many?!"

I am beaten with the questions. I don't know! I don't know! What is the right answer? Sorry? Please?

It hurts! I'm scared. Those are the only answers I can give right now.

"Go back to your room."

The house is quiet again.

And then again. And again. And again. How long will this last? Can he really keep it up all day?

Mommy is not here.

I'm still in my room. I've only been allowed to come out when he summons me for the quiz.

It's the end of the day. I'm hungry. I need to go to the bathroom. He is still out in the garage. His anger hasn't diminished.

I decide to risk it. There is no one here to take care of me but myself. I dash downstairs to the bathroom and grab a container of cottage cheese and a spoon. I wasn't caught!

Relief!

It's morning. I'm still in my room. He hasn't called for me yet today. He's out in the garage again.

The antique doorbell is chiming. There is a van outside the house. Someone rang the doorbell again. They are not going away.

Is it safe? Should I answer the door? What if Daddy is playing a trick on me to see if I will answer the door? He could do that. What if I get in more trouble?

Tentatively I creep down the stairs. I peek out - it is a man I don't know standing there. He must be safe, right? Only Daddy has hurt me before.

"Jenny. Do you want to see your Mommy?"

The man is leading me off the porch to his van. Mommy is in the passenger seat and opens the door.

"Crouch down on the floor so he doesn't see you."

We drive away in the van.

I am guilty now. I have left, too. What will my Daddy think when he comes inside and calls for me and I'm not there? How many times will he call for me before he comes upstairs? Will he know Mommy came for me? Will he feel sad? I should have told him I was going.