Against all wise counsel, I flew back to New Jersey that
Sunday night. I did not want to go home and stay forever. I’d needed to get
away, but I didn't want to retreat, to come back after leaving for the bright
lights and big city, head hung low, with child, alone. I did not want to leave
my job and I wanted to make a life for myself. That's why I'd moved out here in
the first place. Besides, women did this every day, right? Why couldn't I live
in New Jersey and raise my child with the assistance of his father with some
kind of reasonable visitation plan? What was wrong with that? And as long as BD had
vacated the apartment, we shouldn't have a problem.
BD had assured me that he'd moved out and I believed him. He
knew I wasn’t bringing our son back unless he had gone and I trusted that he
wouldn’t chance it. Meanwhile, I was leaving all too much to chance.
As soon as I stepped into the apartment, I began scanning
the room quickly for anything that might have been broken or missing. I looked
for doors kicked off hinges, holes punched into the wall. I think I expected to
see my bed consumed with fire damage or my clothes water logged.
Nothing.
The place was immaculate. Clean, neat, though empty looking
without most of BD’s stuff. He even left a few things I didn’t help pay for. I
guess they were too heavy for him to haul out with such short notice.
Nothing.
There was a vase of flowers on the table in the kitchen
along with a type written note from BD saying that he’d moved out upon my
request on such-and-such date, yadda yadda, and it was signed.
Perfect. Everything was going to be fine. I told everyone
everything was going to be fine. BD was gone and I had my baby. Tomorrow I’d
call him and let him know we’d made it back safely and he could pick the baby
up form daycare and give him dinner if he wanted.
Sidebar: This is exactly how far in denial I still was. Even after seemingly escaping, I was still trying to deal with this man like he was a reasonable person. Like he was really gonna be ok with picking up his son from daycare, spending a couple of hours with him and meeting me somewhere to give him back. I think I might have been going a little crazy at this point myself, because in hindsight that whole idea was just damned. And not only that, but he had done nothing that should have lead me to believe our co-parenting would ever work. I'm still kicking myself about this.
Sidebar: This is exactly how far in denial I still was. Even after seemingly escaping, I was still trying to deal with this man like he was a reasonable person. Like he was really gonna be ok with picking up his son from daycare, spending a couple of hours with him and meeting me somewhere to give him back. I think I might have been going a little crazy at this point myself, because in hindsight that whole idea was just damned. And not only that, but he had done nothing that should have lead me to believe our co-parenting would ever work. I'm still kicking myself about this.
That night, I lay in bed with the light on. It was my
apartment first and it felt good to be back in it, but there was something
eerie about it now.
The memories. Every corner reminded me of something. But one
look at my baby boy pushed all thoughts of darkness out of my head. I must have
looked over at him sleeping next to me a million times and just kissed his
cheeks and thanked God over and over and over again. With a wide smile on my face I made a mental grocery list,
whispering the items I’d fill my cart with like I was counting sheep. (Yes, it
was that big a deal). Ground beef,
catfish and fish fry, chicken wings, ooh, I’ll pick up some fresh Parmesan and
some cream (I make a mean from-scratch Alfredo sauce), shrimp, -- I was super
excited about the sausage I was gonna pick up -- steaks --
The phone rang and broke my train of thought.
I reached over to pick it up before it woke the baby.
“Hello,” I said
sleepily. I didn’t wanna talk to anybody. I just
wanted to bask in the freedom of my own bed in my own apartment.
“Oh. Melyssa,
you’re home,” said an excited, heavily
accented voice on the other end.
It was Mrs.
Shafik. She and her husband were my landlords. They were an old
Egyptian couple.
The night I’d come to look at the place, I ended up having
tea with them and chatting in their living room for close to an hour. I told
them I wanted the apartment and they handed over the keys. No credit check,
nothing. Even accepted a personal, out of state check and agreed to charge me
an extra $100 a month on the rent toward the security deposit rather than
making me pay the whole thing up front. No one else anywhere would have done
that. Grocery stores don’t even take out of state checks. The Shafiks said I
had a sweet spirit. Beautiful people. During my tenancy, they’d invite me up to
their place for dinner or call me and check on me because they knew I wasn’t
from the area. They’d sort of adopted me. They had a daughter my age who was in
school overseas and they’d always tell me how much I reminded them of her.
“We got in just a few hours ago,” I
said.
“Oh wonderful, I’m glad you made it back safely. I saw your
car out front.”
“Yeah I had to park it at the airport for the week.”
“Oh, did you have to walk far?”
“We were running so late, I just put it in short term. $45 a
day,” I said painfully.
“Oh my, you left too late,”
she said.
It wasn’t that I’d been late, I’d just been scared. Didn’t
feel like explaining that tho.
“Yeah,” I said,
rounding out the small talk.
“Well, how are things?”
Mrs. Shafik asked nervously.
I hadn’t talked to them directly about my fall out with BD.
I’d only told them that he was moving out. My name was the only one on the
lease though, so even that information hadn’t been necessary. I’d just felt the
need to say something. The whole building knew 12 uniformed officers had shown
up at our door a week before. One of my landlords’ sons was in the hallway when
the cops arrived and it didn’t take long for several other tenants to gather.
The trouble that had been was no longer a secret.
“Well, I just wanted you to know, I mean,” she stammered,” Do you
know where BD is living now?”
“I have no idea, Mrs. Shafik,” I
said. Nor did I care. “I imagine he’s staying in Irving with his cousins. The closest family he
has outside of them is in New York.”
“Oh dear,” she said. “He didn’t tell you.”
“I told you she didn’t know,”
Mr. Shafik said in a gruff voice form the background.
They always called me in tandem.
“He took a studio over in the next building. 8402,” she said finally.
My address was 8404. When I say the man had moved in right
next door, I mean that literally. This really happened. Unbelievable.
“Unbelievable,” I said. I
didn’t have any other words.
“Melyssa, you know we love you, and we’d hate to lose you as
a tenant, but we understand if you can’t stay. Just let us know as soon as
possible if you feel like you need to find another place.”
I don’t even remember how I ended the conversation. I was in
such shock. The illuminated lamp on the dresser that had made me feel safe was
now casting shadows. I flipped the switch and the room darkened. Not dark
enough. I drew the curtains tighter to block out the moonlight. I did the same
in the living room and the computer room.
The first thing I’d loved about this apartment was the huge
windows, the southern exposure and the light that pours in at the first strike
of day. The kind of light that makes you want to get up on a Saturday morning
and clean. (Or is that just me? That’s what we used to do at my house when we
were kids. Saturday mornings were for vacuuming, sweeping, mopping, laundry,
cleaning our week-long neglected rooms and yard work. Saturday nights were
pizza and movie nights. Good times).
Anyway, I’d learn to love the dimness of 60 watt bulbs soon
enough.
Originally posted on
March 18, 2008
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