His howl of pain was loud. I pushed back away from the door, holding my breath.
“You are going to pay for that, bitch,” he hissed and stormed away.
I began to shake. Maybe I needed to simply ignore him. Except it pissed me off. This, for all intents and purposes, was my home, and I wasn’t safe here. But where was I going to go? I had no money, no place to crash, and I was stuck. I had no one to turn to anymore. I was really alone.
I felt better once I shoved a chair under the door handle. I couldn’t get out, but between the knives and the chair, he couldn’t get in either. I made sure my windows were shut and locked, although, being on the third floor, I was sure I was safe that way. I did draw my curtains closed in case he was looking in from downstairs.
I walked down the hall to my bedroom. I needed to stay busy, or I was going to go crazy. I was leaving here in two days and there was nothing I had to leave the apartment for until then, so he wouldn’t have a chance to get in. I could handle it. In the meantime, I would get organized.
I pulled out my suitcase from under the bed and turned to the closet. The bag had been a gift from my dad—the bright flowers on it hard to miss. I could only take what I could carry, so it would only be personal things. The first items that went into the suitcase were my photo albums. The rest of the possessions I got after my dad’s death were in a small storage locker up north. One day when I had a place for them, I would collect them. Luckily, I was prepaid for another little while, so I didn’t have to worry about that bill right now, or not being able to pay it. I didn’t want to lose the items in storage.
I added my favorite clothes, then went into the kitchen and made a sandwich. I ate it while scouring the drawers for loose change. On occasion, I used to leave a five-dollar bill in places for emergencies, but Trish must have found them all. All I came up with was a buck-fifty in coins.
In vain, I ran my hands under the sofa cushions and through the drawers in the mostly empty bathroom vanity. The bitch had even taken my makeup. But it was all for nothing.
I sat on my bed, noting my suitcase was mostly full but pleased I had most of the things I wanted packed. I brought my laptop into the bedroom and figured out how far I could go for $22.50. I would be about an hour from Lomand. I wondered if I could hitchhike.
My head fell back to the wall as my father’s voice ranted in my head about the danger of hitchhiking. Growing up in a small town, a lot of kids did hitchhike. Often, they were picked up by neighbors or friends. It didn’t work that way closer to the big city, and I knew no one out Lomand way. But what choice did I have?
I turned my head, wiping away a tear. A glint caught my eye, and I recalled the box I had stuffed in the back of the closet. I dragged the stool over and climbed up, pulling out the shoe box and carrying it to the bed. I stared at the contents, smiling and crying at the same time. For years, my father had given me the same gift at Christmas. Every year, he gave me a new wallet. But not a regular, usable wallet. It was as if he went out of his way to buy me the ugliest wallet made. Bright colors, patchwork, fringed, bedazzled—if a wallet could be jazzed up, my father found it. The funny part was, he thought I loved them, and I never had the heart to disabuse him of that fact. Even after I moved here, the wallets appeared. I laid them on the bed, staring at them. Ten in all, each one provoking a memory. Happier times when my brother was alive. The three of us on Christmas morning, opening presents, drinking hot cocoa. There was never a lot of money, but there was love. The gifts were simple, but every year, both my brother and I got a wallet. The biggest difference was Sean’s were simple, black or brown, double folded, normal wallets. Mine were anything but plain. We bought my dad one as well since he felt each new year deserved a new wallet. It was our tradition.
Inside each one there would be a quarter in the change purse and a ten-dollar bill tucked away.
Sadly, both the quarters and the ten dollars were long gone. I ran my fingers over the ones my dad had given me once I moved. They were even more outrageous than the rest—his thinking, no doubt, now I was in the city, I needed an even wilder wallet. His sense of style was pretty bad. To him, the louder the plaid, the dressier the shirt. I had to laugh, thinking of some of his “dress shirts” that I now used on occasion to throw over the top of T-shirts.