2023 Nonfiction Winner: "Answered Call" by Whitney Mills
Photo Credit: Thomas Park, obtained and licensed through Unsplash.
*Trigger Warning* Emotional abuse mentioned.
Answered Call
When journeys come to mind, I envision travels to distant, unfamiliar places; epic tales of backpacking through Europe, hiking the Appalachian Mountains, or finding yourself through endless cocktails while sunbathing on an exotic beach. Journeys are meant to be transformative, discovering hidden pieces of yourself that you weren’t aware existed. My transformative journey was anything but unfamiliar and exotic. My journey sent me traveling seven miles from my childhood home, discovering myself and the realities of life, while staring inside a jar of Goober Grape.
“Just wait until you’re in the real world… You don’t even know what real life is like… You’re in for a rude awakening one day…” are but a few of many stock phrases I heard repeatedly as a child. My all-time favorite, my mom’s default for when I became overly defiant and immature has always been, “As long as you’re living under my roof, you’ll abide by my rules.” From that single phrase, a flurry of dreams erupted in my adolescent mind. Dreams of independence. Dreams of not having to do the dishes and laundry. Dreams of my mom not hopping on the landline to tell me that it’s too late to be on the phone. Dreams of no curfews, no chores …no rules.
Similar to most teenagers, I was sure I had it all figured out. In my long fourteen years of life there were no mysteries yet to be uncovered, no life lessons waiting to be had. I knew it all, had seen it all, and was undoubtedly sure I could make it on my own.
Keller Texas, a small town nestled in the greater Dallas/Fort Worth metroplex is where my parents planted my brother and I. Cattle pastures and train tracks became the framework of our small-town upbringing. When tick-tock was merely a sound muttered by clocks, I found entertainment along the winding trails and playgrounds of Bear Creek Park, a natural source of play and laughter that most children in Keller gravitated to. Long before corporate developers set out to urbanize the natural landscape, our days began and ended with the sound of passing trains. Life was simple and easy.
Aimlessly walking the expansive trails of Bear Creek Park, my best friend Amy and I would share our dreams of an unshackled life, one that wasn’t bound by the restrictive rules our parents laid out before us.
“Are you going to live on your own or with a roommate” asked Amy.
“Hmm… I’m not really sure. I never thought about that part.”
I let my mind dissect Amy’s question as I lifted my feet from the ground and let the swing I twisted round and round send me spiraling. The idea of living completely alone left me feeling just like the chains on the swing. In my infinite supply of wisdom, I chalked up the feeling to one too many whirls on the swing-set. I wasn’t sure of much, but I was sure that when freedom rang, I’d pick up the phone.
I was fifteen when my mom remarried. Eric seemed nice enough and even left me hopeful that he would step into the father-sized void that my own had left when he walked out six years prior. Small town life and the burden of a wife and kids at home left my father wanting; the longer I held out hope of his return, the greater my sorrow-filled fury built up inside of me. The allure of independence tightened its grasp on my impressionable mind as I quickly learned that Eric had no intentions to take me under his wing. My brother David and I were more than ready to bond with our new siblings that Eric brought into the family. David was finally getting the brother he had always wanted, and I would finally have two sisters, new friends that never had to go home at the end of the day. Our new blended family mixed as well as oil and water; despite our best efforts, David and I never settled on top. Eric’s favorite past-time was bringing attention to all of the achievements of his children who could do no wrong, while simultaneously shining a light on the many shortcomings of David and I.
I wasn’t sure of much, but I was sure that when freedom rang, I’d pick up the phone.
It was unusually hot the summer I turned seventeen when Amy and I decided to combat the hellish environment by taking a trip to our town’s lone snow-cone stand. Paul, a friend from school, mentioned that he got a summer job there and promised any visits I made to the snow-cone stand while he was working would get me a free cone in any flavor of my choosing. Short on cash and patience that the heat would let up any time soon, a free snow-cone seemed like the perfect antidote. Amy and I were Paul’s first customers for hours so we decided to stay and keep him company while he closed the stand down for the night. We planted ourselves on top of a picnic table, watching the sun dip below the horizon, and marveled at how the pink and tangerine painted sky mimicked our cones.
Ripe with anticipation for our upcoming senior year of high school, Amy and I began tossing around ideas for our senior prank, a longstanding tradition at our school. Before school let out for summer break, our principal issued a strong warning against using any animals in our class prank. It had only been a few years prior that the senior class wrangled up four pigs, spray painted numbers along their backs, one, two, three and five, and let them loose inside the school. Teachers and administrators still won’t comment on how long they searched for number four before realizing what the class had done. Amy and I knew we’d never reach their legendary status, but we brainstormed on how we might come close.
Noticing the increasing difficulty I had seeing Amy’s face beside me, I decided to check the time. Shit! I thought to myself. I had to be home in two minutes to make curfew. Knowing I would never make it home in time, teenage logic convinced me to call my mom and inform her that traffic was the reason for my missed curfew. Smugly walking through the door a mere ten minutes later, I felt as if I had beaten the system. Heh, I shouldn’t have worried so much, I thought to myself. I turned around to lock the front door but was startled to see Eric walking through it.
“Looks like I’m not the only one getting home late,” I said as Eric walked further inside.
“You’re a freakin liar,” Eric snarled back at me.
“What are you talking about?”
“Stuck. In. Traffic. Remember telling your mother that? Well, I went for a drive, and guess what? Come on, I know you can get it. NO TRAFFIC!”
Eric’s crimson eyes were all but leaping from his skull. He must have burst a blood vessel, addressing me at a decibel only meant for Dolby and amphitheaters. There’s no way. It’s impossible, I thought to myself. I would have seen him driving. My car was the only one on the road that night, and I could spot his old decrepit Honda Civic anywhere. “Anything to save a buck” was Eric’s favorite motto, and the reason he still drove that rust pile around. Despite being an aerospace engineer, he acted as though he flipped burgers for a living.
All I could do was stand there. Nothing more needed to be said. He had me dead to rights, and I knew how this would all play out. Over the past year, Eric’s criticisms toward David and I amplified, evolving into hostile personal attacks on our character. He’d made a habit of crafting these attacks to inflict maximum emotional damage, and never let a day go by without engaging in battle.
It hadn’t even been a month since David moved out, and I wished so bad he was there with me in that moment. He was my battle buddy and together we had been brothers in arms, navigating enemy territory side-by-side. I understood why he chose to move out; he was almost finished with the Police Academy and the fighting, he feared, was affecting his performance. He was hoping to secure a job at any of the larger police departments within the metroplex before graduating; in order to do that, he had to be top of his class.
As I stood there, listening to the vile slew of insults hurled in my direction, David’s words flashed across my mind, “Remember sis, when things get too bad, my door is always open.” There it was, my call from freedom, and just like I had resolved to do at fourteen, I answered the call.
I bolted up the stairs to my bedroom as if I was attempting to place first in track and field. My mind struggled to keep pace with my body as I began emptying my dresser drawers into an empty laundry basket. My mom opened my bedroom door as I continued gathering my belongings.
It hadn’t even been a month since David moved out, and I wished so bad he was there with me in that moment. He was my battle buddy and together we had been brothers in arms, navigating enemy territory side-by-side.
“I’m going to stay with David,” I told my mother, void of emotion.
She stood motionless. I couldn’t read her. Normally, it was fairly easy to gauge her emotions, but this night was different. She was different.
I often wonder what she must have been feeling in that moment, watching her youngest child frantically packing up all of her belongings. Did she feel the same as when my father left? Did she feel as if I was abandoning her? She was fully aware of the abuse her children endured by the hands of her husband. She protested such behavior in the beginning, but the verbal lashings she’d received for speaking out on our behalf snuffed out her ability to do so any longer. I begged and pleaded with my mom to join me, reminding her of the atrocities she had endured by the hands of her husband as well.
Despite my best efforts to recall the remaining chain of events that took place in the home that evening, the memory still evades me. Somewhere deep inside my mind, the final moments of my childhood remain, guarded by my subconscious, and for that I remain thankful.
I don’t think I could bear to remember my mom telling me that she wasn’t coming with me. That she had decided to stay with Eric. I don’t think I could handle the memory of walking out the front door alone.
The back of my SUV was filled to the brim as I began my journey to David’s apartment. Seven silent miles was all that was left between my dream of independence and reality. I was a refugee fleeing from my war torn home in search of peace and safety. Everything had happened so fast, I wasn’t able to call and clue him in on what transpired, but fully aware of our family’s dynamics, an unannounced visit from me would suffice. I drove in silence, counting the passing street lights, beacons of hope, guiding my way. This was the first time since driving on my own that I didn’t hit a single red light; a sign from God, I told myself, that I was making the right decision. I circled the apartment complex twice before spotting David’s building. I hadn’t had a chance to visit his new place, but I was grateful I had enough presence of mind to remember his apartment number.
As I approached his apartment building, I was surprised to see David standing in his open doorway. Someone from home must have given him the heads up that I was on my way, but the identity of the individual was inconsequential to me.
“Hey sis. Welcome home. Let me show you around.”
We walked through the entryway past a small coat closet on the left. It was a one-bedroom apartment. His room was just off the entryway to the right, followed by a large living and dining room, with the kitchen just past the coat closet.
“I cleared out the coat closet for you. I know it’s small, but we can make it work. I’m going to call the leasing office in the morning and see if we can move into one of their two bedrooms. For now, I hope the couch is alright.”
“By welcome home… did you mean…”
“Yes. Home. Our home. Screw Eric, that man is poison.”
I hadn’t even asked if I could stay, but he knew. David was and is a man of honor and integrity, although he had every reason to let life harden him, he always chose to rise above. Our father walking out hurt him in ways he still won’t talk about, but he resolved within himself to become the antithesis of our dear old dad. He was a phoenix, rising from the ashes, and I had finally found a man, a man who was right beside me all along, to take me under his wing. As a rookie cop, David was stuck working the night shift, but he made sure to help me unload everything from my car before leaving for work.
“Hey sis, remember, this is our place now. Everything in here is yours too. I know it sucks, but we’ll get through it together. I’ll be back home by the time you get up. Love you.”
I followed my brother to the door and locked it behind him as he left for work. I made my rounds, checking every window to make sure they were all locked. Despite only being in the apartment for an hour, I felt more at home than I had in years.
“By welcome home… did you mean…”
“Yes. Home. Our home. Screw Eric, that man is poison.”
The snow cone I had a few hours ago had done little to satiate my appetite, so I made my way to the kitchen to find something more substantial to eat. The fridge and pantry were barren compared to my mom’s, but I managed to find a loaf of bread and a jar of Goober Grape. Unfamiliar with the set-up of my new kitchen, I rummaged through drawers until I found a bread knife. Gathering everything up in my arms, I made my way to the dining room table. This dinner wasn’t the same caliber as the one’s my mom made, but it would do. The cold glass jar numbed my fingers as I twisted the metal lid open and peered inside. The events of the evening began to settle and take root inside my mind.
My new-found freedom was far less magical than I had envisioned at fourteen, walking the trails of Bear Creek Park with Amy. Then again, the journey between dreams and reality is bound to lose some majesty along the way. This, I thought to myself, this is freedom. Freedom is ugly and painful. Freedom is your big brother stepping into your father’s shoes. Freedom is finding the courage to leave everything behind, even if that means you leave alone. Freedom is scary. Freedom is hopeful. Freedom is Goober Grape.
Whitney Mills is a second-year, Secondary English Education student at Kansas State University working on her undergraduate degree. She is a full-time student, wife and mother of two beautiful girls.