Leave the Rest

It’s not hard, you know, fitting your whole life into one suitcase. I’m not talking about a full sized checked luggage sized suitcase. I mean those little carryons. It doesn’t take much when you don’t have much to begin with. My life changed in an instant. “You have 5 minutes, grab only what you need and leave the rest.”

Perhaps I should back up? You see, my childhood and teen years were- how should I say this? Tumultuous. It seems the polite way to describe it. In those days I lived out of a black plastic garbage bag. Everything I owned was in that bag. Not my toothbrush, at least I was given a new one every time they bounced me to a new foster or group home.

A well-meaning group gave each of us blankets one time, mine got taken from me somewhere along the line. I don’t remember where. I guess it doesn’t really matter. It’s gone.

My mom died when I was 5. It was just my dad and me. He was a mean drunk. He beat me when his team lost- which was most of the time- and he beat me when they won. It didn’t matter. Any time he could hit something, he did. It wasn’t always me. Our broken lamp, card table, and recliner could attest to that. Our cupboard boasted of 3 plates, 4 bowls, a coffee cup, and an old sippy cup that was missing the lid. Forget about the food. The worker lady brought a bag of food each week until she didn’t. I guess she forgot about us.

One day my dad went too far. The principal called the truancy officer to drag me to school. I didn’t go to school that day. I woke up in bleached white sheets with tubes coming out of me while air whooshed up my nose in tickly tubes, and beeps and lights blinked in rhythm with my heart.

It scared me. I panicked and pulled out the tubes. The machines beeps turned to screaming bringing the nurses running into my room. They gently pushed me back into the bed and tried to calm me down. I didn’t understand. My thoughts were foggy. I didn’t know how I got there.

They explained to me that my daddy hurt me. They found me unconscious and bleeding on the floor with my dad sweating and drunk passed out in the broken recliner. My dad was arrested while I was rushed to the hospital.

I was informed that I was now a ward of the state. It meant I didn’t have a home, family, a bed, or anything else. I didn’t cry like they expected me to. I sat there staring at my hands in my lap. What now? Foster care, they told me. I had heard the word before but it had always been said along with scary stories.

“No, no,”they told me, “it’s not that bad. You’ll get a new family.” And another. And another.

I ended up having 13 “new” families. No one wanted me. I was inconvenient. I didn’t say much. I never have. It wasn’t safe to say anything with dad. He’d backhand me if I told him ‘no’, or didn’t call him ‘sir’.

I was so desperate to get out of the system and become my own ward. Some of the kids talked about that, while others naively talked about being adopted. I was 16, no one was adopting me. So, when I turned 18 they woke me up that last day of school and told me to grab my stuff, “there’s the door, you know what to do.”

I didn’t protest or asked questions. I’d seen it done before. Nothing I asked or said would’ve changed their minds.

I slept in the park for a few nights until a cop told me I couldn’t do that. He was nice, though, and took me to a shelter. I met Tommy there. He was young and sweet to me. No one had ever been sweet to me. He worked the little entrance cubicle that guarded the outside from us and stopped random homeless people from wandering in. They had rules.

Tommy and I talked every day he was there. One night he told me he wanted to kiss me, if that was alright. I said I guess so. He told me he was going to marry me and take me away from there. I’d never have to worry about being homeless again.

A month later a justice of the peace at the government building said we were man and wife. We were too poor for a honeymoon. We went camping in the state park instead. He owned one of those pup tents, the kind that barely fit one person. We laughed and said we’d fit anyway.

It was romantic out under the stars. He pointed out different constellations, I’m pretty sure he made up half of them, but I didn’t mind.

The honeymoon lasted all of 3 days. I was making breakfast on the fourth morning and burned the toast. The kitchen filled with smoke. He came running into the room in a towel, cursing at me. He unplugged the toaster, opened the window, and backhanded me.

I stood in shock holding my cheek.

After that, I was more careful. I vowed to never burn anything again. And I didn’t. It didn’t matter. It wasn’t warm enough. Not cool enough, he burned his tongue. He didn’t like it. It wasn’t like mama made. The reasons piled up. It began with the toast but happened any time he was frustrated. Which was most of the time. Money was tight. His gambling didn’t help. But it was all my fault anyway. Nothing I did was good enough for him.

He’d tell me a woman’s place was in the kitchen and keeping the house perfect for her man. I guess it wasn’t perfect enough. He’d yell at me for being lazy and not having a job, when I’d say I’d get a job, he’d hit me and tell me not to get ideas. Then he’d apologize, tell me he would take care of us, and not to make him mad. He hates it when I make him have to hit me. The last I checked I’ve never made him do anything, but I could never say that to him.

This cycle repeated for two years until the night of the eviction notice. We were “unstable tenants, didn’t pay our rent on time, were loud” etc etc. I’ve never seen him that mad. I’ve seen him mad, but not like this. He was blind with rage. He screamed that if he couldn’t live there no one could. The dishes took the first blow, even the nice set his mom gave us when we got married. He moved on to the glasses. I stood stock still praying the glass wouldn’t hit me. It shattered all around my bare feet.

Scrunching up my toes trying to make my feet smaller targets I didn’t breathe. He didn’t seem to notice me as he tore his path of destruction from one room to the next.

Back to the kitchen again. <sigh> He saw me. The glass crunched under his shod feet as he cleared the three feet to where I stood. Shoulders guarding my ears, I jumped when he yanked me towards him. I landed on shards of broken glass. Biting my lip so I didn’t cry out and antagonize him more, I watched as I left bloody foot prints into the living room.

Spinning me around I heard a crack. This time I did cry out, I couldn’t help it. My arm hung from his hand at an odd angle. Still, I kept my mouth shut. It was better that way.

Tommy had never broken any bones before. The white hot pain made my vision swim. I fought back the bitter taste of bile rising in my throat. I felt my body flying through the air. It was surreal until I landed unceremoniously across the futon arm.

Another crunch. Gasping in pain I could tell at least one rib was cracked. This continued for an eternity until the door burst inward. Armed men and women swarmed the tiny room. “Get on the ground!” Someone shouted. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe.

I saw them cuffing Tommy as the edges of my vision went dark.

Someone was saying my name. Jessie. Yes, I’m Jessie, I thought. They kept saying it. Why wouldn’t they shut up? Acrid ammonia wafted under my nose. My eyes flew open.

“She’s awake, good, stay with us Jessie.”

After I was discharged from the hospital, a social worker from the shelter met me and drove me back to our apartment. The door was in pieces, crime scene tape flapped in the faint breeze where someone had already cut it, the social worker brushed it aside and motioned for me to go in.

“You have 5 minutes, grab only what you need and leave the rest.” She looked around knowingly. Her eyes looked tired. She’d probably seen many cases like mine. Far too many.

It’s not hard fitting your whole life into a suitcase. Not when life’s been so small for so long. It was easy to leave the rest. The ghosts would follow me- suitcase or no.