Miles Away

TRIGGER WARNING: Domestic Violence

Red and blue flashing lights illuminate the yard, filling the darkness with tension and clashing and panic. When the car comes to a stop in the driveway, I unbuckle my seatbelt with shaky hands.

"Casey. I'll go with you." Nick is still buckled into the driver seat, but this body is turned and his brown eyes are focused intently upon mine. 

"No, it's fine. This is my chaos, not yours," I say quickly. Embarrassment floods through me, but it's quickly replaced with fear and anxiety that causes my stomach to wrench and my head to ache.

Nick moves to unclick his seatbelt, but I put my hand on top of his to stop him. "Please. Just go," I say gently.

He says nothing as I lean back and step out of the car, shutting the door behind me.

The lights are flashing from a pair of cars that are parked ahead of us in the driveway. There doesn't appear to be anyone inside of them.

I try to calm myself as I walk up the stairs onto the front porch towards my front door. Everything's okay, I repeat. Everything's fine.

But I don't know that. I have absolutely no way of knowing that and the red and blue lights that flash around me feel like some sort of bad omen, not a sign of comfort or safety.

I can't bring myself to open the front door. Not yet. I lean against the porch railing and exhale. My breath floats up into the air and away from me in little wispy puffy clouds of moisture and softness and heat.

My hands grip the wooden railing so tightly that my knuckles turn a strange color and when I let go, they ache for a few moments. I have to go inside. I have to check on everyone. But I don't know if I can do it quite yet.

It's like I'm stuck. They say that in emergency situations people have one of three responses: fight, flight, or freeze. I guess I know what mine is, because I'm already frozen, incapable of really thinking clearly or making decisions, even though I don't even know what the emergency is yet.

Because that's the issue, though I can't really know what's wrong, I do have a good idea. Не hurt her.

It's the only likely explanation.

It started a while ago with just words. Telling her she's worthless and lazy and fat and that she didn't love him. Accusing her of doing things she of course had never done.

Slowly it progressed and got worse and words turned into broken vases and lights and chairs and broken objects turned into broken bones and bruises and cuts. I tried to protect her, but she just protected me by pushing me away.

And my mother took it. She's taken it all. It breaks my heart to watch, but she can't leave him. And I understand, because I don't think I want her to.

I glance over at Nick's car. My boyfriend is still there, watching me. Waiting for me to give him permission to come with me. I want to tell him to go, but I don't do anything. A white ambulance, sirens blaring and lights flashing, pulls into the driveway.

My heart beats faster. How badly hurt is she?

I need to go inside, but I still can't move. Two EMTs jump out of the vehicle and clamber onto the porch. One nods and enters the house, but the other pauses. "Are you okay, Miss?"

I pull myself from the railing and force words out of me. "Yeah, I'm fine. You should go in," I say, strained. The woman nods and follows her partner into the house.

I should follow them inside. But I can't. Another police car pulls into the driveway and an officer exits the vehicle. He knocks on Nick's car window and chats with him for a moment, and then walks towards me.

"Do you live here?" he asks. I nod. "Are you okay?"

Am I okay? I don't even know what's going on; of course I'm not okay. But I nod. "Yeah, I'm fine."

"Were you here at the time of the incident?"

I shake my head. "No, I just got here," I say quietly, staring at the ground.

The front door opens and the EMTs push themselves back through, clutching  a stretcher. She's strewn across it, her hair falling messily over her eyes.

"Mom," I gasp.

She's beautiful, though broken. She turns her head a little, against the protests of the EMTS, and whispers, "Peggy." 

Peggy. I had completely forgotten about Peggy in this whole mess. I tear my eyes from my mother, whose head is cut open and stained with red, and gather the strength to go inside.

I open the front door and step into the living room. "Peggy!" I yell, which isn't necessary, because she's sitting right in front of me on the couch. A police officer is sitting next to her, talking to her softly. Keeping her calm.

"Peggy," I exhale.

Peggy stands and runs to me, throwing her seven-year-old arms around my waist. "I had to, Casey. I had to," she cries.

"What?" I ask, bending down to look at her.

She sniffles, her blonde hair falling in her face. I push it behind her ear. "He was hurting Mommy. My teacher said to call 911 if we're scared. I had to," she cries.

I wrap my arms around her and rest my chin on her head. "Oh, Peg. It's okay. You did good, sweetheart. You did good."

"Are they gonna take him away, Casey?"

"I don't know, honey. I really don't know."

I feel guilty, but there is so much anger. I'm so angry at him for hurting Mom and for scaring Peggy and for everything he's done to wreck all of us over the past couple years. And rationally, I know I should want him gone. Away from us. Out of our lives.

But there are good days, too. Days he makes me laugh and days he gives me hugs and tells me he loves me. Days he plays video games and talks about movies with me. Days that we feel like a normal family again.

And though it's a screwed-up version of family, it's my special edition. And if I wish him away, don't I mess that up? We can't erase him from our lives. Can I live with the guilt of leaving him alone without anyone to love him?

Then I hear him. He's arguing with the police officers. "I didn't hurt her. She tripped and fell down the stairs. How can you trust the word of a seven-year-old over mine?"

I hold Peggy tighter and cover her ears with my hands so she doesn't have to hear it. "Sorry I messed up your date night," Peggy sniffles.

I shake my head. "Peggy. You didn't mess up anything. I promise."

I'm still hugging my little sister and trying to push the image of my battered mother out of my mind when I finally see him.

His hands are held behind his back, and two cops are escorting him through the house. He's wearing an old faded red t-shirt and jeans with holes in the knees. His light hair is sweaty and wet but combed out of his eyes.

"Casey," he pleads, "tell them I would never hurt her."

I don't say anything.

I just watch as they escort Miles, my thirteen-year-old little brother, out of the house.