22. He Calls the Cops, I Catch a Flight

I hid out at the hotel with Laryssa and Kya all day the next day and night. That Monday morning after dropping them off at the airport I raced to put in motion the steps we’d gone over for the last 32 hours. First, I called BD’s school and made sure he was at work, then I went back to the apartment and packed a couple of suitcases for me and the baby, picked up his stroller, made some bottles and grabbed some personal papers. Then, I hit the bank and withdrew some money for our trip and on the way to the airport, I called my job to explain why I wouldn’t be coming in that day or the rest of the week. I was vague, but it was a humbling phone call. I absolutely hate drama and respect that other people don’t necessarily have a sincere interest in mine, especially if it means you can’t come to work. But my boss was understanding and chalked it up to vacation time.

No sooner than I’d hung up with my employer was BD calling me. He’d already called the daycare and our son had not yet been dropped off.

“Where’s my son?” He demanded without greeting.

“He’s with me,” I said.

I was caught off guard. I shouldn’t have been. Of course he would be calling. He knew my sister had checked out this morning.

“Where is my son?” He demanded again.

My mind was a million places and I couldn’t even get it together enough to lie. So I didn’t.

“I’m going home,” I said. And as he immediately interjected enraged, I added “It’s only for a week. I need to get away. I can’t keep doing this with you BD.”

“When are you coming back?”

“I’ll be back in a week,” I said.

“You can’t take my son,” he said yelling again. “I’ll report you for kidnapping! You’ll be arrested.” And he hung up the phone.

I was entering the airport and hadn’t been paying attention to the signs. I missed the exit for long-term parking and headed into short-term. It would cost a mint, but I had no doubt that BD was on the phone with the police at that very moment. I had to get out of there.

Anything that could have gone wrong did. The baby awoke squealing and flailing his arms in the back seat. He was hungry. There were no parking spaces anywhere. I felt like I was driving in circles, in a maze. It was cold, the suitcases were heavy, the baby in his car seat was heavy, the stroller was odd shaped and difficult to carry and “Shyt, did I put the money in my purse? Where is my purse?” I leaned back in the care to rummage through the back seat and found my bag under the passenger seat, buzzing as my phone rang inside it. BD.

“The police are coming for you,” he screamed into the phone as soon as I picked up. “You won’t get on the plane. You are breaking the law and you can’t leave the state with my son --“

I hung up, shaken, but undeterred.

Running my hand through my purse, I found the wad of hundreds stuffed into the side pocket. I’d been on auto-pilot. I had no recollection of even putting the cash there.

Nor can I tell you how me, the baby in his car seat, the stroller, two suitcases (one on wheels, and my purse walked that half mile trek to the airport entrance.

A security car drove by as we were struggling through the parking lot and slowed just a few feet past us in front of my Camry. My heart quickened as I imagined he was matching my plates up with some Amber alert or something. And my feet moved faster below me.

I’d called the night before to check flight times and arrived with two hours to spare, but I was wishing I’d waited. Once I checked in, two hours would be plenty of time for my name and social security number to pass through the powers that be, before an officer dispatched to find a 5’4 black woman, shoulder length hair and her infant son at such-and-such gate would appear standing over me, summoning me to come with him. I was petrified with a fear that under any other circumstances would have rendered me immobile. I am convinced I was moving through a power outside of me.

The line at the ticket counter was long and winding. I waited, tapped my feet and moved slowly through it as each person before me was waited on before jetting off to their respective destinations. I didn’t even have a ticket. I did not know if there would be room on the flight. I did not know how long it would be before the next flight if there was not room. I was not unconvinced that BD would show up within an hour’s time to retrieve me himself.

I shelled out a little over $500 for a seat on that flight, fumbling with my wallet as the lady behind the counter held my ID for what I thought to be an unusually long amount of time, wrinkling her face and typing into her computer with one finger. She put the ID down and as I reached clumsily for it, she picked it up again.

“What’s the baby’s name?” She asked.

I am a horrible liar on my feet. I just can’t do it. I told her the truth.

“And his last name?” And again.

She put my ID down on the counter again and went to pecking at her keypad. I imagined there was a little red button under the counter that silently summons security, like bank tellers have in case of a robbery.

“How many bags?”

I checked my bags and stroller, grabbed the handle of my baby’s car seat and set off for security.

We were "special selected" for a more extensive search. A man pulled us out of line and took us to the side where my baby was wanded and I was patted down, both barefoot. My son had taken his father's Muslim last name and for all BD's crazy paranoia, security checks at the airport is one thing he did not lie about. We get "special selected" every flight, never fails. I've flown with my baby many times since this and when I say every time, I mean without exception.

This time though, my heart was pounding out of my chest. It was hard for me to believe I was the only one who could hear it. My palms were sweaty and the more I tried to act normal, the more I was convinced these people were gonna think I had a bomb. It seemed like hours before I was finally released to gather up my things again, put the baby's coat and shoes back on, strap him back into his seat, slide into my sneakers and take off for our gate.

I approached the gate slowly, ducking behind a large display case and scanning the seating area for anybody who might look like they were looking for me.

A lone stewardess stood at the door, right there where you give up your ticket to enter the ramp leading to the plane. I don’t know what made me approach her, but I came out from behind the display case and went right for her.

“Are you on the flight to Michigan?” she asked when I came within a few feet of her.

“Yes,” I said, out of breath. “The 2:45 flight.”

“Lemme see your ticket.”

I handed it to her.

“Dyou wanna go early? The 12:15 is leaving right now.”

Divine intervention. I wanted to cry.

And when we landed, I did. Buckets. It was so good to be home. It was so good to be safe. It was soooo good to be sane. (It is possible to say something to other people so many times that you begin to believe it yourself. It’s not a clinical definition, but I believe this is the beginning of insanity). 

I was feeling like myself again, like I had it all together. I called BD to face the inevitable and told him that I would be back in a week, as promised. But I would only return if he moved out of the apartment. I was not coming back to him. He was eerily calm. That should have been a red flag.

My family, my friends, even a lawyer tried to convince me to stay home.

“If you are going to move back (home), now is the time. File a restraining order and don’t go back to New Jersey,” the attorney had said. Free advice. He was a friend of the fam. I wasn’t hearing it. I’d snagged a dream job a few months prior writing for a music magazine and I didn’t want to give it up. And with BD gone, I just wanted to live my life, raise my son and share him with his dad like more than half the parents in this country. I’d finally given up on the whole “I must be with my child’s father at all costs” madness and now I just wanted to live. But my false confidence, just that quickly, caused me to forget the lunacy that I’d left. I was underestimating the enemy already.

I’d been on an emotional high. Being home, having my family with me, finally being able to be honest (or at least more honest with them) and leaving BD at long last made me feel stronger than I’d felt in a long time. I had no idea how quickly I’d be deflated.

Originally posted on March 17, 2008