10. 18 Years Ago
Chapter ten
Real love is more than just romance.
“I can’t live like this anymore!” my mom screamed.
“Well, maybe if you helped out more, we wouldn’t be in this situation!” Dad hollered back.
Their bedroom door was closed, so nobody noticed when I slipped out of the apartment that Saturday afternoon.
I packed a bag with clean underwear, a fresh outfit, and a toothbrush, pausing only to empty a coffee can doubling as a piggybank (containing $17.
64, mostly in coins) into a brown paper lunch bag.
I walked the half-mile down Queens Boulevard to Continental Avenue and boarded a Long Island Railroad train heading east with no ticket and no idea of where exactly the train was headed.
When a conductor came to collect my ticket, I explained that I didn’t have one.
He looked at me with sad eyes and asked where I needed to go.
“Bethpage,” I replied.
He took out a long, white paper ticket with a map and tiny writing in red, blue, green and purple and began punching holes into it quickly, like Morse Code tapping.
“Zone one to zone seven, off peak. That’ll be seven dollars and fifty cents.”
I paid the fare in quarters.
“Change at Jamaica for the train across the platform,” he said. “And keep the ticket with you.”
I nodded, grateful for the information.
At the Bethpage station, I found a lone pay phone, dropped in another quarter and dialed Matt’s number, which I knew by heart. His mom answered.
“Hi, Mrs. Thompson. Is Matt home? This is Taylor.”
“Hi there, honey. I’m sorry; he’s out with his dad at a birthday party for a friend from school. I’ll have him call you back when he gets home, okay?”
“Um, it’s just—” I began.
“Is everything okay?”
“Well, sort of. Not really. I’m at the train station.”
“The train station? Where? Bethpage?”
“Yeah,” I mumbled.
“I’m sorry. Was Matt expecting you?”
“No.” I felt my voice tremble.
She must have heard it, because her tone grew concerned. “Okay. It’s okay, Taylor. I’ll come get you. I just need a few minutes.”
“Okay. Thank you,” I replied.
“Go out to where the taxis are,” Mrs. Thompson continued. “There are benches there. But listen to me. Don’t go wandering. You stay put. And don’t talk to any strangers. Understand?”
“I won’t. I promise.”
Fifteen minutes later, Mrs. Thompson picked me up from the station, brought me to Matt’s house and made me a cup of hot cocoa before asking the tough questions.
Did my parents know where I was? No. Why did I leave?
Because they never stop fighting. Could I please call home so they won’t worry? Do I have to?
And the worst one: “Does this happen a lot?”
I nodded, wiping my eyes with the edge of my sleeve.
“You can tell me, sweetheart.” Mrs. Thompson placed her hand over mine on the kitchen table. “You’re safe here.”
“My dad can’t keep a job,” I admitted.
Mrs. Thompson nodded, waiting quietly for me to explain more.
“I don’t know why. He’s very, very smart. Like, ever since I was little, I’ve always had to hear about how smart he is. His IQ is 160. He’s actually a real-life genius.”
“Intelligence can be measured in lots of ways,” Mrs. Thompson said.
“I just don’t understand how someone so smart keeps losing his job,” I said.
“What about your mom? Does she work?”
I shook my head. “She stays home. She can’t work.”
“Oh?”
“She has dyslexia,” I explained.
“I’ve heard that’s quite common,” Mrs. Thompson replied. A look of mild confusion crossed her face. “So, she can’t read… at all?”
“No, she can. Just not fast. And sometimes she mixes things up. Letters or words or whatever.” I shrugged.
“I don’t know. All I know is that other moms can work, but my mom can’t.
She also can’t drive. She used to have a car, like just for local driving.
But she got in a huge car accident with it and got hurt pretty bad.
When the policeman asked her what happened, she said she couldn’t read all the signs fast enough and that the leaves were changing color, so she just saw all these colors, and everything was moving too fast for her to keep up. ”
“That must have been hard. I guess it’s better that she doesn’t drive, then.”
“I guess,” I agreed, sighing. “I just want them to be normal, though. Like, for him to work and her to be a mom and for them to stop fighting all the time.”
“What do they fight about?”
“Money,” I replied quickly. “Always money. We have no money for this, no money for that. My aunt sends us money a lot. I think it makes my mom upset.”
“I’m sorry, Taylor. That’s really difficult. But, I have to tell you that as a mom I’d be extremely frightened if my child left the house and didn’t tell me where he was going. So we need to call her. Just to touch base.”
“They’re going to kill me,” I responded, nervously chewing on my thumb nail.
“I’ll talk to your mom for you. It’ll be okay, I promise.” Mrs. Thompson grabbed the cordless phone from its charging station on the kitchen wall. “Here,” she said, sliding the phone across the table. “Just type in your number. I’ll do all the talking.”
I took a deep breath and did what I was asked.
Diana Thompson spoke to my mom and asked her if I could spend the night.
“It’ll give you a chance to hash out whatever you need to,” she explained.
“Oh, we’re more than happy to have her,” Mrs. Thompson went on.
“You have a very lovely, well-mannered daughter.” She patted me on the knee.
“Of course. We can drive her home in the morning.” A pause.
“No, no. She’s more than welcome here.” A laugh.
“Believe me, I get it. We all go through things. Uh huh. My pleasure. Take care, now.” Mrs. Thompson hung up the phone.
“See? It’s okay. Now you don’t have to worry about being in trouble,” Matt’s mom told me.
I knew Mrs. Thompson was wrong—that I’d absolutely be grounded for having left—but I let it go.
I was just so grateful to have somewhere to stay for a night that wasn’t marred by extreme volumes.
My apartment was either too loud from shouting matches or too quiet from silent treatments.
The quiet hum of a mom just making dinner for her family while the radio played in the background was a foreign, but welcome, sound.
By the time Matt and his dad got home from the birthday party, I felt much better.
We had chicken parmigiana for dinner, and it was delicious.
When it was time to go to sleep, Diana Thompson pulled out a trundle bed from underneath Matt’s twin.
She made the bed with fresh sheets that smelled like springtime, a fluffy blanket, and a quilt that was handmade by Matt’s grandma.
After Diana said goodnight and closed Matt’s door 90 percent of the way, Matt pushed our beds together so we could be side by side, and I snuggled up under the covers next to him.
He took out a keychain flashlight from a toolbox in his closet, and we stayed up talking until after midnight.
Beside him in his bedroom, I was safe. And Matt’s mom, the gatekeeper to that happiness, had swung the door wide open for me.