Let Me Go

by L. L. Akers

  Gabby was balanced with one foot on the air-conditioning unit, the other foot dangling in the air. Their window was just barely reachable standing up there, and she was exhausted trying to hang on. She didn’t have the energy to argue with Olivia right now.

  “Please just help me in, Olivia...” Gabby said grumpily.

  Olivia pulled while Gabby pushed off the a/c unit until she tumbled into the room with a thwump. They both froze, listening for their parents.

  “Phew, Gabby! What is that smell?” Olivia said, wrinkling her nose in disgust.

  “Chicken poop,” Gabby answered sullenly.

  “Where’d you step in chicken poop?”

  “I didn’t step in it. I slept in it,” Gabby snapped.

  “Why would you do that, Gabby?” Olivia asked, pinching her nostrils together. “It really stinks.”

  “Because I didn’t know it was a chicken coop; I thought it was a shed... I guess I was too tired to recognize it—and it was dark,” Gabby explained impatiently. “When I woke up at first light, I saw the racks with nests and chicken poop everywhere. I got up and ran all the way home. Turns out I was just a few blocks away all night.”

  “Well, I guess you didn’t sleep at Tara’s then. Didn’t the chickens squawk and make a ruckus when you went in there?” Olivia asked, trying not to laugh.

  “I guess it was too stinky even for them; they weren’t home,” Gabby answered sullenly, “and you were right, Tara’s mom said no.”

  Olivia started giggling at the predicament Gabby had gotten herself in. She laughed even harder when Gabby turned away and she saw she was covered in feathers glued to her backside with the stinky, sticky chicken poop.

  “Oh my God, Gabby. You should see your backside! Who’s the chicken now?”

  Gabby didn’t find any humor in it and stood mad, crossing her arms over her chest. She was mad about failing—not finding them a friend who could help them chase away their boredom—and the chicken coop poop, but most of all that Olivia had let her go alone and she’d actually spent the terrible night without her twin sister. That hurt the most.

  She tried to stay mad, but Olivia was laughing so hard she snorted. It caught Gabby’s funny bone. Probably just because she was exhausted... and relieved. She started giggling too, and just like that, they were all right again. They both avoided telling the other how miserable the night had been apart.

  They caught their breath, trying to smother their giggles so they didn’t wake up their mom and dad, hoping for a few hours of peace on this Saturday morning so Gabby could tell Olivia all about her night.

  “Gabby, you better hurry and get those clothes in the washer and take a shower. If they see you like this, you’ll be busted. Even you could never explain this.”

  “I know... I’m going. I really don’t want to touch these clothes. Will you help me pull them off? Please?” Gabby begged.

  “Nope! You’re the one that wanted your wings last night. Looks like all you got were feathers though,” Olivia said and began laughing again.

  “You think it’s over yet, Olivia? They’ve stopped screaming,” Gabby said.

  “I don’t know, but I’m too hot to chase Emma around this playground anymore. Let’s just go back and listen at the door. If they’re still fighting, Emma can ride her bike.”

  They walked back toward the house, each holding one of Emma’s hands. Before they’d even crossed the street, they heard Mom’s voice screaming again. “No! Put it down! Give it to me NOW!” This was followed by the crashing sound of something large, probably the kitchen table.

  That poor old claw-foot table, one of their few pieces of solid furniture—scratched and scarred—had taken more than its fair share of abuse and still continued to hold its ground, standing strong through all the storms of their parents, seeming to have a mind of its own in trying to keep their family united at least once a day while they gathered around it for supper. The storm was still brewing and sounded a long way from clearing out.

  Emma, oblivious to the screaming and crashing coming from the house, took off to grab her bike once they reached their side of the street. Dad had taught her to ride without her training wheels only the week before, about three years tardy.

  Emma had always been very small—in the twentieth percentile for her age—and all knees and elbows. Mom had tried to keep her in a bubble until she was bigger—they all had—and now with her newfound freedom, she was a pint-sized speed-racer, spending hours racing up and down the short block’s sidewalk, absolutely flying as fast as the pedals could turn with no regard to the cracks and crevices on almost every concrete square and the upheaval and hurt they alone could cause Emma if she hit one just right—or just wrong.

  Obviously the rush of wind—even if sweltering—blowing against her face was worth the risk of another Band-Aid and Betadine treatment she’d have to endure from one of her big sisters if she wrecked and skinned her knees and elbows. Because she looked like a six-year-old, not even close to her actual age of eight years, the twins still had a hard time not treating her like one, but usually she didn’t seem to mind; she liked her place as the baby of the family.

  “The heat is sucking every bit of energy out of me, Gabby,” Olivia said. “And you have another feather in your hair, Freebird,” she teased her sister as she plucked it out and blew it into the air, both of them watching it slowly float back down in the heavy heat.

  “Yeah, I’m roasting out here. Maybe we should just sneak in the back door and go downstairs. I want to take a nap. I didn’t sleep too good in that coop,” Gabby answered, wiping her sweaty upper lip again, ignoring yet another crack about chickens; she was too hot and tired to laugh about it anymore.

  They had just sat down on the front steps in the blistering heat, careful to balance their narrow fannies on the edge where their shorts provided a thin layer against the hot cement, wishing for the last hour for something to do and somewhere to go. With elbows on knees and chins in hands, they watched Emma fly past, headed to the corner on her bike, her hair flying behind her.

  Their move after the end of the school year into a different house, in yet another town, wasn’t helpful in keeping friends. Other than each other—and Tara, who rarely got away from babysitting her younger brother—they had no one to hang out with and no idea where to go... another summer ruined by their parents constant fighting and making up, dragging them along to someplace new, trying desperately to leave their problems behind them. From the house they stared back at the elementary school across the street, where they’d spent the last hour in the dusty, abandoned playground—empty of the unfamiliar faces their younger sister would meet when she started her new school in six weeks. They’d grown tired of talking Emma down from the ladder of the too-hot-to-ride slide and taking turns pushing her on the swing, over the beaten footpaths, with Emma dragging her feet, kicking up the dried brown dust into their faces.

  Bam! The sound of the screen door slamming directly behind them echoed off the quiet summer street—sounding like a shotgun blast—scaring the bejesus out of the girls. Within a second, a rush of wind swept between them, their mother leaping over their shoulders, completely missing the next two steps and landing on the sidewalk directly in front of them. She didn’t even slow as she ran for her rusty old Nova parked in front of the house, looking over her shoulder as if she were expecting someone to follow.

  “Girls! Get Emma in the house and call the police!” Mom yelled over her shoulder as she made the turn around the front bumper, headed for the driver’s door. In a flash she was almost in the car with just a few feet to go when—bam!—the front door slammed again, and with another whoosh of wind, their father jumped over their shoulders in an exact imitation of their mother, also skipping the last two steps and landing directly in front of the girls. His landing wasn’t as smooth as their mother’s; he stumbled, almost falling to one knee before regaining his feet, running after his wife.

  Before the girls even had time to process their mother’
s instructions, their father stood directly behind her car, aiming a gun at the back window. The car sputtered and jerked as their panicked mom shoved it into first gear and took off. Without a word he slowly took aim, looking uncomfortable holding the unfamiliar piece of iron—his hands shaking—squeezing the trigger just after the realization hit the girls that he had a gun.

  As if in slow motion, but actually in double-speed, they both saw the gun and stood, throwing their hands to their heads. Gabby covered her eyes and Olivia shielded her ears, unconsciously mimicking—minus one monkey—the Hear no evil, See no evil, Speak no evil set of cheap ceramics their mother had displayed in the living room. Expecting to hear a real live gunshot, not just the slamming of an old screen door this time, they unconsciously leaned against each other, closing the gap between them until they were hip to hip, shoulder to shoulder, and head to head... cowering together as they had for as long as they could remember, to ride out the storm.

  The shot rang out—loud—as they were expecting, and before the ringing in their ears stopped and without pause to think about their own safety, the girls ran screaming straight down the sidewalk into the street after their mother, realizing with relief as she took the corner nearly on two wheels—gears grinding and tires squealing—the bullet had hit the bumper and she was unharmed. They both turned almost simultaneously, glaring back at their father who stood staring at the gun in his hands.

  “Do what your mother told you, but give me a head start first,” he said dejectedly, then looked back down, gaping at the offending gun as if he had absolutely no idea where it came from and how it got to be in his hand. The pistol appeared to weigh a hundred pounds now as their father dropped his arm, letting it hang pointed at the ground. He gave the girls one last look, then lowered his head, turning away and heading toward his truck.

  “Dad! What are we supposed to do? What about Emma?” Olivia asked, talking not only about whether to call the police on their father again, but of what to do with their eight-year-old sister who was right now pedaling as fast as her skinny legs could go back toward the house and the eye of the storm. Olivia breathed a sigh of relief that Emma had been going the opposite way when their gunfight went down.

  CHAPTER 2

  HE didn’t answer. After hours of fighting with their mother and this time it going further than it ever had before by involving a gun—the same gun that started the fight—he was riding the wave of adrenaline down... drained and at a complete loss for words—other than the words criminal domestic violence, jail, and divorce all dancing around his brain, competing for room in his head, leaving him no room for speech or thought of his own. As he opened the door of his truck, he turned around toward his girls, ashamed at the tear making its way down his blotchy face reddened by both the mind-numbing heat rolling in waves off the concrete and the stress of his latest battle with the girls’ mama.

  He regretted letting their argument get out of hand, and even as he pulled the trigger, every fiber of his mind and body on fire with anger and unable to stop, he’d still subconsciously hoped he’d miss, but couldn’t stop himself from showing her he’d follow through. And he had missed—thank God. He was a lousy shot, but the proof of his trying was in the bumper and he had no doubt she was headed straight to the police station.

  He knew he’d gone too far this time. In nearly sixteen years of marriage, their fighting had gone from bad to worse, moving from disagreements to heated arguments, and in the last few years had escalated to fights that ended in chaos: broken dishes and furniture, holes in the wall, and more than a few bruises on both of them. There was no excuse for getting physical with a woman, but damned if she didn’t push every button he had, sometimes even being the first to take a swing or a shove as if she were just trying to get him to hit her. She knew his fuse was short. Why did she have to keep pushing and pushing and pushing?

  This was no life for anyone, but especially for the girls. Gabby and Olivia were nearly fourteen years old and had seen more than their fair share of exactly what a marriage should not be. Emma was only eight. She had seen some, but not nearly as much as her older sisters, who usually tried to get her out of the house and away when they sensed a battle was brewing. Maybe if he was arrested, their mother would finally have a chance to just take off—get away from him—get them all away from this.

  He stood there for just a moment, on the running board of his step-side truck gazing over the hood at his girls who stared back, waiting for an answer. His twins, Olivia and Gabriella—so much the same outwardly, but inside such different girls—both too serious from having grown up way too fast. And Emma—his baby, his heart and soul.

  He had tried so hard. Being a husband and father of twins at age nineteen wasn’t easy, and he knew it had been even harder on their mama who was two years younger; they were just kids having kids. Thinking they were all grown up and could make it on their own, they ran off to the courthouse—at fifteen and seventeen years old—to get married. No wonder things had been so hard. They tried to grow up and raise kids all at the same time. They struggled through the first eight years and then Emma came along and they knew they had to stick together. They hadn’t wanted their girls to be in a broken home without both parents. Glancing back to the house, he realized the struggling had never stopped and their home was already broken, even with both of them in it.

  He wondered if this would be the last time he saw them. Would this be their final memory of their father? All he could manage was a sad wave good-bye as he struggled to swallow past the knot in his throat before stepping up into the truck and making a U-turn, headed in the opposite direction as his wife and giving a short beep to Emma as he passed her furiously pedaling her way back to the house.

  “Where’d Mama and Daddy go?” she asked, sucking in a big breath, then rapidly following it up with, “and what was that big loud noise?”

  “Come on, Emma, let’s go in and play with your Barbie dolls while Olivia uses the phone,” Gabby answered smoothly, practiced at distracting and evading questions as they had dozens of times before.

  Olivia took the lead, then Emma with Gabby following behind, a slow march into the now silent, wrecked house to make the call.

  A few weeks later their house was turned upside down once again as another move was in the works.

  “No!” Dad said. “You girls can pick one big item out of your room to go, but not that dressing table. It’s too heavy. We can’t take everything this time. We don’t have the space.”

  Dad was supervising the packing and loading of their things, yet again, as they unhappily tore through their room, stuffing the clothes in bags and trying to squeeze everything else they wanted into the one allotted box each.

  Their world was a roller coaster of drama. Mom had refused to press charges... again, and Dad had been released from police custody after only a few days behind bars, having to surrender his gun and accept probation. There was no proof he’d actually shot at Mom, and of course no witnesses to come forward—they knew the routine.

  It had all worked like clockwork. Within twenty-four hours after the big showdown, their mom had gotten the bullet-scarred bumper off her Nova and “disposed” of it, and then traded the car off out of town in exchange for their new-used Beverly-hillbilly station wagon, getting rid of the evidence in another of her soft moments of feeling sorry for him. Their battles were a never-ending cycle. They fought; then they stoically made up—but never with affection or regret—only a long night of declared peace with promises to change their marriage. Then off they’d go, pulling the entire family out of their home and schools and moving somewhere else to start a brand new “happier” life.

  The twins begged to take the dressing table with the big round mirror they had found abandoned in the rental they were now leaving. It even had a matching bench, although when they’d found it stuffed in the closet, it had been stained with use and riddled with cigarette burn holes from its previous owners. They had used an old ruffled pillowcase and painstakin
gly safety-pinned it to cover the scarred and bruised seat.

  They’d taken turns each morning sitting there, applying makeup and curling their hair. They’d entertained themselves for hours at this dressing table—something fun to do that made them feel grown up—in the moments they didn’t have to act grown up. They’d relax and imagine they were movie stars sitting at their own personal lit-up dressing table, painting each other’s faces with their sparse collection of makeup, and wearing the gowns their mom had made for their part of angels in the school play. The gowns were gauzy layers of white chiffon, with silvery-glittery straps, long and flowing; as they were meant to trail far below as they perched on suspended clouds opposite each other on the stage—like two matching bookends. They weren’t happy about being put on display and having to sit there quietly as live-props during the entire play, but having the gowns to bring home to keep were worth it. They were made to adjust and they could wear them for years, maybe even eventually growing into the length. Right now they had to gather up handfuls of the cloth around their knees to walk without tripping.

  Most of the make-up consisted of stuff that Mom didn’t want or use anymore, and more times than not, the makeup ended up being washed off before they were allowed to leave the house, per Dad’s strict orders. The dressing table was big and heavy. Emptied of all their barrettes, headbands, brushes, makeup, and curling irons, they felt like they were abandoning a beloved adopted pet.

  When they had discovered the dressing table upon moving in, they had delighted in fancying it up with scarves and girly things. They would sneak Mama’s lemon oil to take turns giving it a good rubdown. They loved it; they felt like they had given it a new life, and for that, it almost felt like it loved them back. Now, with all their things removed, exposing the stained, scratched, and burnt surface it had suffered from its previous owners, it looked back at them, standing alone once again in its nakedness... sorrowful and dejected, as if it somehow knew it was being left behind yet again and would miss them. Gabby and Olivia both turned back to give it one more glance. As they took in its starkness, a look passed between them. They didn’t need words; they were almost of one mind. The look conveyed their shared thought: one more thing lost from our childhood we’ll never get back.