by Erin Harer
On good days, we dance. We sing Grace’s favorite songs while I cook a real dinner, with no boxes or frozen things, making our tiny redwood cabin smell like a home. We laugh at stupid jokes and let time pass without me having to force a smile or practice my breathing. We go to sleep with soft hearts. No broken things. No cheap beer. No fear.
But not today.
My wrist throbs from the events of the evening. I should have known better than to take his beer away. I don’t regret the pain, only Grace’s wide blue eyes watching me cry through the incandescent light of the fireplace.
With Blake passed out on the bed and my psyche in shreds, I push Grace through a quick, lukewarm bath, with only one toy, and lay her down with wet hair, my face positioned in a way that shields her from my red eyes as I cry silently through Goodnight Moon. Then I wander around the living room, picking up scattered crayons and Legos as if it matters. As if it makes me a good mom.
In my mind, I hear Grace laughing from her bedroom as a silly man, dripping with kindness, reads her favorite book for the hundredth time. Somehow, the funniest parts never get old. I imagine gratitude dripping into a hot cup of tea as I cuddle up cross-legged on our sofa, ready for his company, his warmth, most of all his touch. I breathe him in before opening my eyes to an empty room. He’s not real.
In the bedroom, my stomach vibrates with each snore escaping Blake’s open mouth, and I ache for the return of the man I knew before the pressures of the world turned him cold—or maybe the monster was always there, waiting until I was in too deep, having chipped away at me, a crumb at a time, until I was rubble.
I rub my wrist and count tomorrow’s bruises while contemplating every reason I can think of to stay.
This is madness.
There may not be much left of me, but Grace is still whole. She deserves more than a shadow of a mother and a father who is sleeping in his own urine. Again.
We need to go. Now! Before he wakes up.
Rummaging through the musty bedroom closet, I groan as a barrage of bright wrapping paper falls from the top shelf, forcing me back against the door frame, causing Blake to stir and turn over. Breath freezes in my chest, waiting for the snoring to return, before I continue sorting through old storage tubs and hand-me-downs. I yank out a small suitcase and a unicorn duffel bag and pack quickly, as if it will hurt less. As if we’re just going on vacation. As if we could afford one.
Blake stirs again. I’m running out of time.
I pack only T-shirts and shorts, a dress for each of us, and sandals so I won’t have to wash socks. Then I take the bags to the car, throwing them impatiently on the passenger seat and leaving the door to the back seat ajar before going back inside for Grace.
Scooping her out of bed, I hold my breath as she whimpers and wraps her tiny limbs around me.
“Shh. We’re going on a little drive,” I say.
“Can I bring Lamby?” Her voice cracks.
“I’ve got her right here,” I say, taking Grace’s stuffed lamb from beside her pillow and nestling its softness between us.
She’s asleep by the time I have her strapped into her car seat. Hopefully, she’ll never remember this place. Or him.
We drive into the night, every mile of darkness creating space around my heart, telling me to keep going. Every passing minute showering me with relief, calling back broken pieces of me and attaching them haphazardly to places they haven’t been before. On the highway, my foot never leaves the pedal, knowing that eventually the headlights will become day. Eventually, we’ll be safe. Eventually.