Saved by the Outlaw(195)

I am absolutely sick with disgust and despair.

My bathroom has been my bedroom all night, as I lay curled up in the fetal position on the cold tile floor. I stare up at the shower, thinking bitterly about our morning tryst under the hot water yesterday, thinking about how much things have changed over the past few hours, since midnight. Since I woke up to that knock on my door.

And that letter in my hand.

It’s now crumpled across the floor, damp with my tears and balled up and unfurled multiple times in alternate fits of rage and denial. It can’t be true. It just cannot be.

I’ve thrown up a few times tonight, this last night in my own apartment. I shudder as I realize that I’m supposed to move out today. I’m supposed to take all of my stuff and put it in a moving truck to drive it all over to Ivan’s place. That big transition, that culmination of months of learning to trust him a little bit, of learning bit by bit the reality of his past… it’s supposed to happen today. And this time yesterday I was over the moon about it.

Now, I just feel nauseous.

In fact, when my cell phone alarm goes off reminding me that the movers will be here in an hour or so, I am so overwhelmed that I get up and crawl back to the toilet to vomit again. I regret drinking so much wine and vodka with Ivan last night. But I know deep down it isn’t the alcohol making me sick.

It’s Ivan.

It’s what he’s done to me.

Standing up and flushing the toilet, I trudge to the sink to splash cold water on my face, hoping it will wake me up and give me some idea of what to do now. I gasp at the freezing water and dry my face on a decorative towel, glancing over at my hollow-looking face in the mirror. There are purplish half-moons under my eyes and my cheeks are still patchy and pink from the tears I’ve shed throughout the night. I can’t seem to pull myself together.

But I’ve got to. The hours are winding down and I’m running out of time. Because I have a strong feeling that the movers won’t be the only ones showing up at my house in a couple hours. Ivan will probably tag along to help load stuff into the trucks. To make sure I comply with the rest of his plan to control me and keep me close.

To keep me under his thumb and blissfully oblivious to the truth.

Anger boils up in my gut and I finally kick my ass into motion, tying my hair back in a no-nonsense knot on top of my head. I get dressed in jeans and a comfortable sweatshirt, throw a scarf around my neck, and fill a duffel bag with necessities. I slip on my sportiest sneakers, grab my cell phone, stuff the letter into my pocket, and prepare to head out.

But before I go, I pick up the single rose which accompanied the letter and toss it in the garbage. I take one last look around my apartment, then hoist my duffel bag over my shoulder and head down the hallway, locking the door behind me.

I know exactly where I’m going, and I don’t think anyone will be able to find me there. Not until I want them to. I load up into my car and drive a couple hours outside of town, to a small, barely notable suburb. It’s a quiet, peaceful area, far outside the 24-7 hubbub of New York City. It’s where my father used to steal away when life got too intense. He was a very hard worker, but he still needed a place to clear his head. And even when things got rough financially, he never could let go of this place.

I finally pull up to a little cottage far back from the road, following a long, curving dirt driveway to the front of the house. It’s a very small, quaint structure with one bedroom and a little old fashioned bathroom, complete with an antique clawfoot tub and a standing mirror. This is where my father retreated anytime he needed to leave his life behind for a while. He quietly bought it soon after my mom and brother died, and nobody knew about it but him and me. Sometimes I went with him, and we would rent movies and talk about politics, history, and everything else.

It’s a place that I strongly associate with both a crippling amount of loss, of stress, and of making peace with the horrors of the world. It’s where I need to be right now.

I get out of the car and carry my stuff to the front door, fiddling in my purse for the key to open it. Then I fit it in the keyhole and the door creaks open with a low whine. It’s freezing cold in here, after months of being sealed up without the heat on. My teeth chattering, I hurry to the little stove that heats the house and turn it on. Almost immediately the cottage begins to warm up and feel like home again. I roll up my sleeves and walk into the bedroom, left pretty much untouched since my father’s death. Even when I did come here after he died, I made sure to sleep on the little pull-out futon instead of in this bedroom. It always felt too weird, too disrespectful to intrude upon my father’s space, even if he wasn’t around anymore. After all, this was always his hideaway — not mine.