Take Flight

by T. E. Price

  “Hallie, now you listen to me,” my father punches back, “Jonathan left a note on the front porch saying that he just wanted to talk with you, and he deserves to hear from you. That man took care of you. He placed a roof over your head, and you never went hungry. He may not have been the best at showing it, but he was a good husband.”

  My eyes flutter closed as a tear escapes down my face. My dad couldn’t be more wrong. My parents don’t have the slightest clue what took place in that marriage, and my dad’s harsh accusations confirm that I made the right decision in keeping my secrets from them. I try to answer, but I stumble over my words. I don’t have it in me to defend myself, and my dad knows it. His disappointment is more than I can stand.

  “People will find out you two are no longer together, and we don’t want word of your divorce getting out at our church.” He sighs heavily. “Why can’t you be more like your brother? He and Isabel are happy,” he states, as if he knows what it takes to have a healthy marriage. But he doesn’t. He never looks at Mom the way Harrison looks at Isabel. “And I am sure they have had their problems,” he continues, “but they don’t walk away from their marriage.”

  My chin begins to quiver. Harrison and Isabel have a great marriage, a marriage that I have longed for since the day I returned from my honeymoon. It’s not my fault that my marriage didn’t end up the way I intended. I did everything I could to stay in that marriage, but my efforts didn’t sway him in the least. Besides, I had to get out, my safety depended on it. Refusing to let my parents know I’m on the verge of tears, I steady my breathing long enough to say good-bye.

  “I have to go—” I manage, my face burns from my father’s blustering.

  “Fine,” my dad retorts, “but you will honor our request, Hallie. Do not file those divorce papers for at least a year. All your mother and I need right now is a divorced daughter on our hands. People will be talking about this for years in our small town. Maybe after a year of contemplation, you’ll see the depth of this terrible decision and return to Jonathan.”

  The line goes dead. So much for a good-bye. I throw my phone to the opposite end of the couch. It bounces off the cushioned arm and lands beside my bundled feet. I dive face first into the leather cushions, beating my fist against the couch. I don’t care about my parents’ disappointment— they may not see it, but I am strong. I had it in me to get out, and I have it in me to do so much more with my life than I was ever allowed to when I was with him. I’ll show them. I push myself upright and set my jaw. I’m not a little fawn anymore.

  CHAPTER 4

  My nightmare takes form the moment I find myself rounding the corner of my parents’ one-story home, keeping my eyes fixed on the outdated, shag carpet that leads to the dining room table. “Hallie,” my mother’s voice calls from the dining room. “Dinner’s ready. Let’s eat while it’s hot.” The wall of the narrow hallway opens to the small, dining space. A harsh gasp escapes as I see Jonathan sitting at the table with my parents. I stumble back into the hallway. Why is he here?

  Leaning against my parents’ tacky wallpaper, I steady my shaking legs in the shadows that keep me hidden from his sight. “Don’t be rude, Hallie,” my dad demands from his seat at the head of the table. “Come here and sit down, the food’s getting cold.”

  I obey my father, just as I always have, even if I disagree. Somehow, my legs carry me to the table where I pull out the chair opposite Jonathan. His beady, black eyes narrow like a hawk closing in on its prey, as if he’s already determined how I would react to this situation, playing into the reality that I don’t have it in me to disregard my parents’ commands.

  “No, not there,” my dad says, shaking his head as he redirects me with a swift gesture of his hand to the open chair beside Jonathan. I hesitate, then cower and comply under my father’s stern gaze. “Hurry up, Hallie, your mother has worked hard to prepare this meal, and we’re all hungry.”

  I sit down, every fiber of my being shaking with my slow descent. Refusing to look at Jonathan seated to my left, my throat constricts as my dad asks him to say the blessing. “Let’s bow our heads,” Jonathan says, his deep voice sends a chill that seeps into my bones. I glance around the table while my parents calmly lower their heads. As I squeeze my eyes shut, I feel the weight of Jonathan’s heavy hand on the back of my neck. My mind aches with the urge to escape as Jonathan begins his prayer. With his first words, he tightens his grip—his long fingers edging closer to my throat—and I scream.

  The sound of my shriek wakes me, and I sit straight up in the lake house bed that I now claim as my own. My eyes dart around in the darkness as if every shadow is concealing Jonathan. I wipe my hair off my damp face as I flop back on my pillow—what an awful nightmare. Rubbing my eyes, I roll to the other side of the bed and pick up my phone to check the time. It’s 5:36, the sun won’t rise for another hour. With a heavy sigh, I try to close my eyes again. What are the odds that I could go back to sleep now? I roll and twist around for a few minutes, but images of Jonathan sitting at my parents’ table wearing that familiar, smug grin haunts me. Hmph! I won’t be getting any more rest.

  I swing my legs over the side of the bed and shuffle my feet around trying to find my slippers. I trudge out of the bedroom, tucking my phone away in the pocket of my jogger pants while making a beeline for the fireplace. As the flames flicker to life, I watch the dance of light fill the room. Will I ever stop dreaming about him? It’s not fair—I’ve left him, yet he still has a stronghold on me. He can still manipulate my mood and sense of safety, even now, as I stay hidden away in these woods. Will I still dream about him after the divorce? Will I always be looking over my shoulder?

  Stepping back from the fire, the memory of his hand on my neck sends a shudder down my back, and I shrug my shoulders closer to my ears, as if to protect my exposed skin. I run my fingers through my hair, adjusting the bulk of it to one side. A cup of coffee is just what I need to lift my spirits. As I move to the kitchen, my hand pauses on the light switch. My arm hair stands on end at the idea of drawing attention to the inside of this secluded cabin. Nah, I don’t need the lights on, the glow from the fireplace is enough to help me navigate in the kitchen. I shuffle over to the counter and power up the Keurig. I’m not a big coffee drinker, but I do indulge in the occasional cup. Although I’m aware of the calories that accompany my flavored creamer and whipped cream, I welcome the splurge. My diet usually consists of fruits and veggies, protein powder, and the occasional complex carb alongside a portioned serving of meat. Working as a personal trainer, I have to live up to it all. But I can’t complain. I like what I eat.

  I mosey over to the fridge, pour a generous portion of creamer into my coffee, and find the can of whipped cream, shaking it before topping off my mug. For the first time since awakening, I smile, making my way over to the couch with my cup of caffeine and sugar—offerings of a promising start to my day. The next hour is spent on the couch with intermittent prayers and some reading from my Bible app. My dream about Jonathan must have some significance, and I pray about that for a bit. My parents’ invitation to Jonathan for dinner mirrors my growing lack of trust in them. And what’s with Jonathan saying the blessing, just as my dad had asked in the dream? It’s as if my subconscious is punching me with the reminder that Jonathan is the master of manipulation—he’s always been great at playing to his audience. Whether it’s praying or feeding the crowd the right line, he works his angle to keep them eating out of his hand, believing his every move and word without question. He’s always in control, and he knows the power that accompanies it. The last sip of my coffee is cold, and I grudgingly accept that it’s time to get off the couch and get ready for work.

  My slippers make scuffling noises across the hardwood floors as I drag my feet back to my bedroom. I grab my gym bag from the closet and fill it with all the items needed for my workday. The thin, white curtains that frame the bedroom window glint with the muted morning hues, suggesting I have enough time to workout at the gym, shower
, then clock in for work. Ugh! I’ve got another late shift tonight. Guess I should pack some meal supplements to get me through my twelve-hour shift. I zoom to the kitchen and come back with enough protein bars to pack out the front zipper of my gym bag. Making my way over to the dresser, I sift through my drawer of leggings. I lift a black spandex pair that should do for my workout and yank out the gray cotton pair folded beneath it for the remainder of my day. I toss the cotton pair into my bag and pull on a pink and black, spandex tank top with a built-in bra and crisscross straps across the back. The sleek material pulls tightly across my torso, and I run my hand over my stomach. My head falls as my fingers brush over the circular scar on my lower abdomen. Biting my bottom lip, I shake my head, willing myself to move past the horrific memory of his cruelty. But this scar will never let me forget. Inhaling, I draw myself up to my full height and find a high-neck, coral tank to pair with my gray pants. I can’t dwell on it. I shove the shirt into my gym bag, packing it in next to my protein powder and protein shake bottle, then zip up the bag and leave it on my bed as I hastily finish my morning routine.

  As I exit the front door, a cool breeze sends me right back inside, dashing to the back of the lake house for my black jacket hanging in my closet. I lock up behind me and rub at my hip as I walk the dirt path to my car. Ouch! Maybe I can make time in between clients to stretch my hip flexors.

  I throw the gym bag into the cluttered backseat of my car and shut the door as I shiver. I shove the keys into the ignition, hold for a few seconds before my engine catches, sigh as my car rumbles to life, then cringe as I travel down the dirt drive leading to the main road. My long drive to work in my struggling car hasn’t changed with the move to the lake house, but Jonathan still makes that short drive every day in his new, black Audi. When we were still living together, my complaints about my car fell on deaf ears. Instead of buying me a vehicle, he had a last-minute change of mind to trade his former car for the sleek Audi, and I was still stuck with my white, outdated Chevy Cavalier. My car groans as I pull onto the paved road. To add insult to injury, even Jonathan’s red, hunting truck would have been better to drive than this piece of junk I’m traveling in. But he would never have agreed to that.

  Swerving to avoid a pot-hole in the semi-abandoned strip mall that holds my small gym, I find a spot, jam the car into park, turn the key, and pat the dash as it jostles still. My eyes land on the red brick building and glass door reading “Jim’s Gym,” and I look heavenward for a moment, then slump my head forward again. I grab my bag, slam the car door shut, and wish for the hundredth time that I worked at a place that paid better.

  “Hallie, you’re here early,” Jim calls out as the bell on the glass door draws the old man’s gaze up from the scattered papers strewn across the welcome desk.

  “Hi, Jim. I figured I’d get my workout in before I start work today.” I avoid touching on the conversation of my sleep deprivation. I would rather workout after my shift, like I usually do, but what’s the point? I’ll be exhausted after my late shift tonight anyway. I hide my thoughts behind a quick wave and push open the women’s locker room door to drop off my bag before I start my workout.

  Whew—glad that hour’s over with. I wipe my sweaty brow and check my heart rate while walking back to the locker room. As I count the pumps of my rapid pulse, a voice near the front desk makes me grimace and throws off my counting. Sure enough, Danny, who is crossing the threshold of the gym entrance, has seen me before I can disappear beyond the locker room door.

  “What’s up, shorty,” he gibes, as he always does. The irony found in this nickname he’s pegged me with has grown old given Danny is not much taller than I am. His chest juts out preparing for another taunt as his eyes run the length of my body. Danny’s muscular frame leaves a box-like impression that makes me crinkle my nose, and his assessing gaze doesn’t help. “You hear Tricia wants to train with me now?” I offer a quizzical look in reply. “Yeah, she said you did a good job getting her toned-up, but she wants to create some bulk … guess she knows who she needs to go to for that,” he finishes as he squeezes both hands together in front of him and sinks his neck back in a flex designed to show off his traps.

  Fighting the urge to roll my eyes at one of the other personal trainers who mans this gym, I glower back at Danny who has just stolen another one of my clients. It seems like I lose all of the young ones to him. “Well, I still have Georgina,” I retort, immediately regretting the only quip that came to mind.

  With a smirk, Danny asks, “Who … Wrinkles?” He jeers, slapping his knee in jest. “Georgina comes by her nickname honestly—you can’t really enjoy training the oldies.”

  Waving him off, I push open the women’s locker room door, abruptly ending our conversation. I can hear Danny laughing on the other side of the door as I throw back the farthest curtain, enter the spacious stall and turn on the shower. Ripping at my clothes, I tug and pull as if I’m wrestling with my doleful reality. How is it that the one thing that drives me in this job keeps getting lost to a meathead like Danny?

  In record time, I’m out of the locker room and clocking in. Jim walks by me with an anti-bacterial spray bottle and a rag, making his way to the back wall where the cardio machines stand. I grab a bottle and cloth from the stand near the front of the room and follow him. I don’t have a client for another half hour, and I need something to keep me busy. We walk past Danny who has just begun a training session with a tall brunette. He holds her waist as she sinks down into a squat, but the ten-pound plates on each side of the bar suggests she doesn’t need a spotter. I almost gag at the sight of his greedy face as he watches the brunette sink lower and lower.

  “You alright, Hallie?” A tone of concern threads Jim’s question.

  I tear my eyes away from the scene in front of the squat rack and plaster a smile across my face. “Yes, absolutely,” I reassure Jim with a nod.

  “If you say so,” Jim says with a raised eyebrow. He moves to the closest bike, angled to face the back wall where the televisions hang, and sprays the surface of the seat. I begin cleaning the first of many treadmills lined up directly behind the bikes. This gym may be old, but it is well organized and perfectly sectioned with the rows of cardio machines near the back wall, weight machines to the left and free weights to the right. We clean silently for a moment as the sound from the weather forecaster from one TV clashes with the ESPN announcer’s voice from another. A man in his late fifties climbs slowly off the elliptical at the other end of the row. He and Danny’s brunette bring the grand total of guests to two. “You don’t seem like yourself, you know,” Jim says as if he’s been contemplating my behavior since the moment we started wiping down the machines.

  I gulp. Maybe all Jim needs to know is that I haven’t been sleeping. He doesn’t have to know why. “I haven’t been sleeping all that well lately,” I begin, my tone so low it sends me scrambling. “But it’s not going to affect my work,” I quickly chirp.

  Jim chuckles as he moves to the next bike, “I wouldn’t let you go, even if it did.” He smiles while continuing with the familiar routine. “I knew when I hired you I had struck gold. The other trainers don’t pick up a rag to help me clean without being told to,” he adds, lifting his cloth only long enough to motion at my efforts. “And that bozo over there,” he indicates toward Danny, “I can do without the arrogance and perverted stares. No one has complained yet, but I know I’m just biding my time with that one.” Jim resumes his cleaning, “He’s always in competition with the other trainers, as if he gets a medal for collecting more clients.” I grin as I move to the next machine in my row. “And what’s with all the nicknames?” he asks, “I don’t want to know what he calls me behind my back—probably something like senile Jim or decrepit boss-man.”

  With a laugh, I add, “You’re not senile or decrepit.”

  “My Halloween costume this year suggests otherwise,” Jim replies with a smirk. “On that note, I’m thinking about having a small gathering with all the traine
rs on Halloween night. I could close the gym early that night and get the crew together.”

  “Sounds fun, let me know if you plan on doing it.” A lonely lake house awaits me on Halloween night. Without a neighbor in sight, I won’t be decorating or handing out candy anyway. This possible party might not be such a bad idea. I glance back at Danny…then again, maybe not.

  “Well, it’s still up in the air,” Jim says. “But, if we do it, you could bring Jonathan, too.”

  My eyes widen like a child caught in a lie as I fix my attention on cleaning, avoiding Jim’s gaze. Did he catch my reaction? “Yeah, I think Jonathan will probably be busy that night,” I assure Jim with a steady tone. My dream and the memory of his hand on my neck flash into my mind, and my skin crawls. I’ve got to keep my escape a secret. No one can know … at least not yet.

  “I figured as much. Jonathan has only made it to one of our parties. He seems like a pretty busy guy.”

  “Mmm-hmm,” I respond behind closed lips.

  Perhaps sensing that I don’t want to get into it, Jim runs the cloth over the final bike and straightens up. “Well, I’m going to get a coffee from Java. Want one?” Jim has always been a supporter of the small businesses still trying to make a go of it in our tired strip mall. Most businesses have relocated two blocks east, away from this forgotten area and into our quaint downtown, lined with restaurants and clothing boutiques, providing the only semblance of class this small town has to offer.

  “No, I’m fine,” I say with a half-smile, “thanks though.” As Jim leaves, I transition to the free weights. Man, I really hate this small town. Businesses fall apart, people never leave and no one new moves to the area…that is, apart from my parents. Ugh … my parents. I’m due for our weekly visit—it’s hard to avoid when my work is so close to their home. Why did I promise to visit tonight? What with my dream and this long shift ahead of me, I might lose my mind if I have to spend an hour with them. Yawning, I give a final swipe to the bench and nod my head. My lack of sleep can suffice as an excuse for the second time today. I speed walk to the locker room; I’d better make this call to my mom quick before my 9:30 arrives.