Page 57 of Left in the Dark

Usually, I soak in every minute of the beauty of the mountains surrounding me, loving that moment when the vibrant colors peak. My daily ritual consists of sitting on my porch, wrapped in a blanket, holding a steaming cup of coffee, and staring at the dew-covered beauty every morning before I get ready to teach a bunch of energetic fifth graders.

Every evening, I end the day the same way, letting the healing power of nature soothe me until darkness falls.

But not today.

My hands shake as I hold my coffee cup, my brows furrowed with worry.

Fifteen years ago, I left Green Haven and never looked back. I cut all contact with my parents, including my mother, after she refused to see my father for the monster he is. Yet somehow, my mother found me.

While I was teaching, she called me, but my phone was inside my purse. When I checked my messages during my lunch break, I figured it was a telemarketer when I saw a missed call from an unknown number. Until I listened to the voicemail and was thrust back into the past at the sound of my mother’s tearful, panicky voice.

The message haunts me, playing over and over inside my head.

“Delaney,it’s your mom. I know I’m the last person you wanna hear from, but I have nowhere else to go. I… I’ve left him. I left your father. I’ve been hoarding cash, preparing for this day for a while. I’m driving to your house in a car I purchased for cash from a private seller. The details don’t matter right now. Just… I’m scared. And I need to see you before I leave. I hope you’ll see me.”

Her sniffle came through the phone. “I know I disappointed you, and I’m sorry. You’re right. I’m a victim, and I made you one, too.” Her voice broke, and I heard her sob before she composed herself. “Anyway, I’ll see you soon. I hope.”

Then the line went dead.

I couldn’t sleep and called in sick early this morning, giving the school ample time to find a substitute. Since I seldom miss work, I’m sure they thought I was deathly ill.

But the truth is, I spent most of the night pacing the floors, wondering what happened to cause her to leave him after all these years.

I couldn’t help wondering what it would be like to see my mom again. The woman who was my best friend but became a stranger when she sat by, allowing the abuse to continue.

A long sigh escapes me as I pull the blanket tighter around my shoulders to ward off the chill that has settled into my bones.

I guess I’ll find out soon.

I’m sittingon my porch when I hear the crunch of tires as a vehicle pulls into my driveway. I stand, setting my water bottle beside the book I tried to read but couldn’t focus on.

Anticipation and dread fill me as I cross the porch and rest my elbows on the railing, waiting for the first glimpse of my mother.

She climbs out of the black Ford Focus, a large hat perched on her head. She tilts her head, and I get my first glimpse of her. My hand covers my mouth, trying to stifle my gasp.

The years have not been kind to my mom. Her face is pale and drawn, and she looks older than fifty-four.

“Delaney.” Her face crumples as she hurries toward me.

“Mom.” I run across the porch and down the steps to the sidewalk that leads to the driveway. We meet halfway, and I crash into her outstretched arms.

Tears roll down my face as I sob, engulfed by memories.

When I left Green Haven, I had only bad memories of my home life. But fifteen years later, I remember my mom and I baking cookies. The times we spent reading books and lying by the pool. Shopping trips and sneaking off to restaurants my father would never approve of. The way she cared for me whenever I was sick.

“I missed you, sweet girl.” She pulls back, taking in my face. The smile that curls her lips makes her look younger, easing some of the strain on her face when I first laid eyes on her. But the bruises in various healing stages make me ill.

“I missed you, Mom.” As I say the words, I realize I mean them. Even though I’ll never understand why she didn’t leave my father years ago, I’ve grown to realize abuse is more complicated than I initially thought.

In the ten years that I’ve been teaching, I’ve had students in my class who were victims of child abuse. I’ve met mothers who were victims of domestic violence, much like mine. Their loyalty and protection of their abusers, even at the risk of their children, was both terrifying and sad.

“Come on. Let’s go inside.” Interlocking our fingers, I lead her to my porch, then release her hand as I ascend the stairs. I turn to her when she reaches the top, her eyes full of awe and wonder.

“This is beautiful, Delaney. A slice of heaven.” Her gaze moves from the swing suspended from the rafters to the cozy chairs and benches I have strategically placed on the porch. Her attention lingers on where I’d been sitting when she drove up before turning to me. “Give me a tour, and then let’s come outside and talk.”

I smile at her before I open the front door. “It’s not much, but it’s mine.”

The open floor plan connects the kitchen, dining, and living rooms. The stairway to the right leads to the second floor, which has two bedrooms and two bathrooms.

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