Her New Life by Patty Panni
She was so tired. The kind of tired that seeps through your bones and leaves you feeling completely and utterly empty. If the act of breathing took any effort, she thought, I wouldn’t be capable of doing it now. She tried to remember if she had ever felt this way before, but soon gave it up because it required too much effort, and really…what did it matter?
She looked around the dimly lit room – stark windows with blinds drawn tightly against the dawning light of day. Were there eyes out there? Seeking her out? Patiently watching and waiting for a sign of life before the attack? Her gaze continued around the sparsely furnished room. Besides the chair she was in, there was another, and a small table with a lamp on it. A loveseat which had seen better days was against the wall, and a box and duffel bag were in the corner. So, it comes down to this…this is what I have to show for my life. My mother would be so proud. She searched through her bag for her cigarettes and found a pack with one lone, bent survivor. No matter. Lighting it with shaky hands, she inhaled deeply and felt her mind clear, if only infinitesimally. She knew she should quit and vowed silently that this was it. This was the last one. But even as she made the promise to herself, she knew she wouldn’t…couldn’t. There was too much going on and she needed them. Needed a distraction, something to keep her hands busy, something to focus on instead of the past days. Weeks. Months. Years.
The apartment was small and dingy, three rooms with a bath. It needed a good cleaning and she would do that. Soon. She thought to go into the kitchen, make something – eggs maybe – but she felt heavy, weighted down in the chair. That is, until she caught the soft sound coming from the adjoining bedroom, Mama? She rose and quickly snuffed out the cigarette. Coming, baby. She entered the small room where her daughter, my life, was sitting up in bed – hair tousled as only a deep, hard sleep can do and eyes crinkling shut in protest against the dim light. She picked up her child and murmured to her as mothers have always done…did you sleep okay, my sweet girl, are you hungry, how about some eggs. Carried her to the kitchen, found the skillet in a box on the counter, and grabbed the egg carton from the mostly empty refrigerator. While she cooked, she tried to keep up a light chatter, tried to keep her daughter engaged, but the little girl (my mini me) was quiet, eyes on the table and floor. When she sat down at the table, a plate of eggs and a glass of milk for her daughter and coffee for herself, the little girl left her chair and sought her mother’s lap. While she ate, she finally spoke again. Mama? He won’t find us here, will he? He won’t know where we are? No baby, he won’t find us. He doesn’t know where we are. What about when I go to school? He won’t find me at school? No. He doesn’t know where your school is. He won’t find us, I promise. Seemingly satisfied for the moment, her daughter laid her head back (my sweet girl…so very sweet) against her mother’s chest and relaxed in.
There was so much to do. So much to be done. Starting over was hard. God knows, she had been there and done that before, more than once. But of course, there was no other option. She felt the sweet weight of her daughter resting on her, giving her the fierce energy she would need to face the day, to begin yet another new life. This time is different. We’ll make it work. We’ve never gone this far away from him…he won’t be able to find us here. We’re safe. But even as she repeated the well-worn mantra to herself, niggling thoughts tickled and worried her mind that maybe they weren’t safe. Maybe she hadn’t covered their tracks. Maybe they hadn’t gone far enough. Was there even a place that was far enough? He’d always found them before. He’d vowed he would always find her; he would stop at nothing to find her.
Enough. Settling her daughter in at the table with a coloring book and crayons, she picked up her phone and started searching local jobs. There was a lot she was qualified do, but her spotty attendance record had cut more than a few jobs short, so her resume was crap. Turns out broken bones and black eyes didn’t go over well in the workplace. Good thing I’m not using my real name anyway. She needed to find something low profile that paid in cash. Her preference was cleaning – offices or houses, it didn’t matter to her as long as she could work in peace and quiet and get paid in cash. The first gig in a new place was the toughest to get. She would take just about anything to get that first customer. With one to provide a reference -- they were always excellent -- she could always get more. Enough for the two of us to live on, and who knows…maybe a little extra.
In the bathroom, she gazed at herself in the mirror. Hmm…you look like a Marilyn to me. Yep, definitely a Marilyn. Her new hair color still looked good, even if maybe the cut was a little choppy and uneven. No matter, no one cares if their maid is impeccably groomed. The thought brought a wry smile to her face and, straightening her shoulders, she went back into the shabby living room and picked up her phone and dialed the number listed.
Hello? Hi, I’m calling about the cleaning job you advertised? Yes, my name is Marilyn…
Good job Patty.
ReplyDeleteGod bless.