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The duct tape makes a screeching sound and the cardboard part of it slings off my hands. The tape runs out in perfect time, just as I finish packing the last of my belongings into an old cardboard box Jake donated from the supermarket.
“Barn manager, huh? Beats stocking bread, I guess,” Jake had said, tossing folded boxes into my Opel’s open hatch.
“Sure does. Comes with free rent as well.”
“Damn. Do you need an assistant manager?” Jake chuckles at his own joke but looks sincerely happy after hearing my news. Donating the moving boxes was his way of apologizing, and I knew that was all the apologies I would get from him. Like most of my native fellow men, Jake wasn’t one to talk much.
Looking around my echoing apartment, I’m filled with relief and sadness all at once. This is the place where I have woken up screaming, night after night, nightmare after nightmare. Here I could feel the neighbors hating me, gossiping about my nightly visitors who disappeared before dawn. This is where the snoring man first brought his duffle bags in, and started to plan how we would redecorate to make it our mutual home. The living room now looks enormous without the old futon and the armchair Harri and Jan carried away earlier tonight. The balcony is also empty of furniture, not that I ever used the chairs out there anyway. I slowly slide down to sit in my usual spot by the balcony door, and listen to the happy laughter coming from the local pub. Now that Harri has dragged me into that place, the drunkies don’t seem half bad, some of them seem almost happy. The stories with happy endings have made them more human, more forgiven in my mind.
The barn apartment looks cozy and inviting. Two rooms and the corner kitchen are smaller than my old apartment, but they make me feel safe, like curling up to a fetal position does. The distant horse whinnying fills me with a feeling that I’m not alone. Jan now lives in the main house on the other side of the farm. He has promised not to stop by uninvited, but to text first and ask if it would be okay to come over. The tall, slender man has become one of my favorite people in my small world of few friends.
The old Nokia beeps for a new message, and the screen says Sigmund sent me a new message. Tapping the read button, I smile and wonder which one of my new friends I admire more, Jan or the old shrink. Congratulations on your new home. Sigmund remembering my official moving day makes me feel teary. Harri has helped change my official address over a week ago, but we have to wait for Jan to have a day off so we can haul the furniture over with his brand new barn truck.
The bedroom walls are covered with old wallpaper with tiny blue rose print. My bed barely fits in the room. By the built-in antique closets, I see an old wooden cradle and a changing table next to it. Harri must have brought it in. It feels weird, remembering I am with child. My stomach isn’t completely flat anymore, but I am barely showing. My love for old and saggy sweaters and loose yoga pants makes sure no outsider can tell I am pregnant.
We decided I’d start working at the barn part time, getting to know the schedule, and after my maternity leave, I would become the full-time barn manager. Jan signed the mortgage papers a few weeks ago and is now the official owner of the facility we both have loved for years and years. I have started to talk with the other riders and boarders, hoping they would forgive me for being so distant and rude for the past few years. Everyone seems to welcome the news of me becoming the barn manager with enthusiasm and sincere happiness. Maybe I’m not as hated as I thought? For years I have pushed everyone away, craving to be left alone in my misery. Lately, I have started to enjoy other people and their company again. As a surprise to myself, I promised the riders and boarders I’d throw a housewarming party as soon as I settled in.
The horses whinny and nicker happily when I walk into the barn. I promised Jan that I’d do the night check and feed the horses. The barn aisle is spotless, making the floor look clean enough to eat off of. Jan has stuffed hay in huge IKEA bags, hanging by the stall doors. Each horse gets one bag of second-cut hay, and some of them get a handful of grain as a reward for their hard work during the day. There’s no need to turn on the aisle lights. Even though it’s nine o’clock at night, it’s still light outside. The summer night feels chilly, forcing me to pull on a fleece jacket I grabbed before leaving my new home by the barn, but there’s no need for a flashlight. Not until the winter again takes over, guzzling everything into its cold darkness.
“Don’t spook, it’s just me,” Jan says calmly as he walks into the barn. His tall, slender body is covered with a gray dress shirt and well-fitting black jeans. His hair is wet and pointing up, making him look younger than he really is. Suddenly I realize why Anna and Harri had spent all those hours drooling over this man. He is stunning.
“Hey, are you checking up on me? Totally understandable.” I giggle while emptying a bag of hay in front of a pawing draft mare, eager to dig into her nightly snack.
“Not at all. I have faith in you,” Jan says, smiling. Looking at his friendly face makes me wonder how it was possible we hadn’t been friends only a short time ago.
“Harri and I are checking out the new night club. He’s picking me up in a few minutes. I just wanted to come in and bring your mail,” Jan says, handing over a pile of paper, his eyes fixated on a white letter on top of the junk mail and the Equestrians magazine he must have donated to me.
“Oh, shit, thank you! I’ve been waiting for that letter.”
My heart starts racing faster when I hold the formal-looking piece of mail in my hand. The letter states my first, middle, and last name on it. Suddenly a familiar lump grows in my throat, making my hands shake. All of the other mail drops onto the barn floor.
“I know, I’m nervous too. Do you want me and Harri to stay and read the letter with you?” Jan asks. His eyes fill with worry.
“You read it. I can’t,” I say, shoving the letter back into Jan’s hands. I appreciate my friend not arguing with me.
He quickly opens the envelope, pulls out a sheet of paper and starts reading.
“Considering the meeting with Mr. Ecklund, Child Protective Services has decided to allow you to be the legal guardian of your unborn child if the following conditions are met.” Jan stops reading and looks at me with sad eyes. For a second, I think he’s about to burst into tears.
“What, Jan? What are the conditions?”
“There’s only one condition.”
“What is it, Jan?”
“The legal guardian has to be in a domestic partnership with a mentally stable person. The domestic partnership is to be stated and proved to the Child Protective Services with an official and mutual mortgage or rental agreement over the last five years of time. Domestic partnership can also be proven with a marriage certificate.”
My head spins and the adrenaline rush takes over my whole body. The gray woman would come after my baby. She would knock on the door and demand me to hand the bean over. They would not give me a second chance, and my ex is not going to fake-marry me, yet alone move in with me.
“Jan, could you please feed the rest of the horses? I need to go.”
“Of course I can, but can’t you wait for Har—”
The IKEA bag full of hay makes a dull thump when it drops to the floor. The adrenaline rushes in my ears, sounding like an ocean while diving. In addition to that seething sound, there’s only one clear thought, revisiting me after years of denying its present. Run.
My cozy and colorful apartment by the barn now mocks me with the happiness it brought me only a moment ago.
“Did you really think you could have all this? Did you think you deserve to live a happy life, after all the shit and terrible things you have done to other people?” The voices make me shake my head. The small living room is filled with moving boxes we hauled in earlier this afternoon. I rip open one cardboard box after another, trying to find one specific item to toss into my backpack. The duct tape makes ripping sounds, and one of the boxes falls over on the floor, breaking at least two of my ancient porcelain dinner plates. I kick the fallen box out of the way, hearing another sound of glass breaking. The last unopened box has big letters written on its side with a black Sharpie: Office Supplies. I rip open the box and toss it upside down on the living room’s colorful rug. Underneath an endless supply of old school papers, notes, and official papers from the funeral home and hospital, I find my purple-covered passport stuffed between piles of bank account statements.
The taxi drops me off by Terminal 2, and I toss cash onto the driver’s lap. We have quickly stopped at the nearby gas station for an ATM. With shaky hands, I emptied my savings account, stuffing the thick stack of bills in between my passport. For a second, I feel bad ignoring Harri yelling my name from the barn parking lot, where he had stood and cursed me when I got into my Opel, slammed the door, and drove off. After ten minutes of driving, I realized I wasn’t only putting my own life in danger, driving around in a full-on panic attack, but I was a threat to others on the highway as well. The coffeehouse by the highway was a great resting place for my old crappy Opel. The taxi driver picked me up less than five minutes after my call.
The airport is almost empty. The speakers play a cheerful tune of birds chirping and singing. All of the help desks are empty, and there’s not a soul at the airline check-in counters. I start running, trying to find someone who works at the annoyingly peaceful and quiet airport. Finally, I see a lady dressed in a blue suit walk behind the check-in desks.
“Excuse me, ma’am!” I yell, making the lady stop and look around.
“Miss, the check-in doesn’t open for another hour,” the lady says and smiles formally.
“Where does it go to?”
“Excuse me?”
“What is the destination for the next flight?”
“It’s Boston, United States, miss. Have you lost your ticket?”
“I don’t have one. How do I get one?”
The lady tries to hide her surprise and stay professionally cool and distant.
“You can book the flight online. I can write down the flight number for you. There is still space onboard.”
The lady finds a sticky note and a pen with the letters “KLM” printed on its side. I grab the note out of her hand and run toward the plastic bench by the security checkpoint. Once I fire up the old Nokia, it instantly blinks for an incoming call from Gaylord.
Cursing myself for not having a smart phone like every other human being on the planet, I speed dial for the operator.
“This is the operator, how may I help you?”
“Give me a company that books flights around the clock.”
“Any company? I have an airline broker that works twenty-four-seven.”
“Yes. Connect me.”
The raging anxiety has made me forget all good manners, but I don’t care. I need to get on that plane and never come back. They wouldn’t find me overseas, and I would be able to live for at least two years with the money I inherited from Dad.
“Cheap Flights twenty-four seven. How can I help you?”
“Yes! I need a ticket for a flight number AY5908.”
“Miss, this flight departs in an hour and a half. Are you sure you—”
“Yes! Just fucking book me!”
The line goes quiet and I can almost hear the customer representative holding her breath.
“I’m sorry. Can you make it happen? Please?”
“Yes. You are in luck. There are still a few seats left. Would you prefer a window seat?”
The plastic row of chairs feel uncomfortable under me, and I keep pressing the red phone icon on my Nokia. Gaylord keeps blinking on the cracked screen, making the battery run low. It doesn’t matter if the phone dies. I would be boarding any minute now. Holding my backpack tight, I rock back and forth on the chair, knowing very well that I’m making my fellow passengers extremely uncomfortable. Staring at a small crack on the terminal floor, I feel the phone stop vibrating.
Running away had been my first instinct when I first found myself sitting in Sigmund’s waiting room, staring at the colorful fish tank and an idiotic poster of planet Earth. My first option was to run, to get out of the bleach-scented office building, jump on a train or an airplane, and never come back. I’d start my life over, running from the snoring man, my depressed mother, emphatic Harri and the betrayal of my ex and Anna. They won’t miss me for too long. After all, I’m not fun to be around, always sulking and rotting in numbness. It’s not too late. Maybe I can find a bartender job in Boston. My bean could live upstairs over the bar, with an overpaid nanny, leaving me working double shifts with minimum pay. Why not? There are worse options in life, like someone coming and stealing your first-born away.
