I also print out the bus schedule. I check out my book and head home. The bus drops me off on the road fifteen minutes before the person I've scheduled will arrive. Nerves begin to gnaw at me. I walk exceedingly slowly, watching for a car to pull up in front of my father's boarded-up farmhouse.
It shows up right on time, and I rush to meet the man that emerges from the car. He's big, middle-aged, balding. No-nonsense looking. He wears dark scrubs and frowns when I come running out of the bushes, grocery bags in hand.
"I'm Daisy Miller," I say breathlessly and extend my hand to him.
"John Eton," he says, and glances at our house, taking in the boarded up windows, the overgrown lawn. "Someone lives here?"
"My father." At his skeptical look, I say, "He's agoraphobic. He won't leave the house. That's why the windows are boarded up." I want to tell him so much more about my father's craziness and his controlling nature, which has gotten worse over the years, but I can't. I need to leave.
A look of sympathy crosses the man's face. "I see."
"He's going to need an assistant twice a week," I tell him. "That's why I've hired the service—you." I sound so calm, even though I'm dancing inside. "I need you to come by and see what errands he needs to be completed. Check in on him when he needs it. He doesn't use email and won't answer his phone unless you ring once, hang up, and then ring again. That's how he knows who is calling."
John Eton stares at me like I'm the crazy one. "I see."
"When you knock at the door, you have to knock four times," I tell him. "Same reason."
"All right," he says. "Shall we go in and say hello?"
I hold the two grocery bags out to him. "I'm not going in."
"I'm sorry?"
"I'm leaving," I say, and I offer him the grocery bags again. To my relief, he takes them. "Father…wants me to stay. And I can't. I can't stay any longer." Tears well up in my eyes, but I blink them away. I love my father, I do. I just can't live with him for one more moment. The entire world is out here, waiting. "I hired you to take care of him. His disability check is direct deposited on the first. I've set up the service to be auto-debited on the fifth of every month. I just need someone to come out and take care of him, since he won't leave the house."
"I see." John doesn't look happy, but he glances at the house and then back to me. "Are you running away?"
I'm twenty-one. Can adults truly run away? But I nod. "I can't take it any longer."
Sympathy crosses his face again. "I understand. Is there a number I can reach you at in case there are any questions? Or if something goes wrong?"
I'm startled at his words, guilt coursing through me. Something…goes wrong? I'm leaving my father in the care of this man. A stranger. A service I've hired that won't care that he has a panic attack if he hears a car backfire, who won't care that my father weeps when he goes to bed every night, who won't care that even a hint of sunlight in the living room will send him into hysterics.
But I can't think about that, because if I do, I'll end up staying. I give him the number of my disposable phone, knowing I won't answer it. There's too much guilt involved. My father will be heartbroken and angry that I have left without so much as a goodbye. But I know my father. I know that if I go in and confront him, he'll overpower me. Not physically, but with guilt.
And I have to leave. I just have to.
So when John steps toward the house, I clutch my wallet close and then run. Tears stream down my face as I go, but they're not tears of sadness.
They're joy.
The sun is bearing down on me, the birds are singing in the trees, and for the first time, the world is wide open.
I'm free.
Clutching the print-out close, I head up the dirty stairs to the fifth floor of the apartment building.
I have just gotten off of a six-hour bus ride to Minneapolis, and it feels good to stretch my legs. I should be tired, but I feel invigorated instead. I'm free. I'm free. I'm free.
Earlier, I texted Regan to let her know I was on my way. We set up a meet up at the apartment and then we're going to go to dinner afterward to hang out and get to know each other and see if we mesh and I want to move in. I don't care if she's the most obnoxious person in the world. I've lived with a difficult, demanding person for twenty-one years. Nothing she says or does can be that bad. I will still want to move in.
The building is dirty, but it's buzzing with life. There are people hanging out in the hallways, chatting, and people out on the streets. I smile at everyone. I can't stop smiling. I'm so excited to be out living a real life. A normal life, like everyone else my age.
I find Regan's apartment—224. It's at the end of the hall. I knock, and a moment later it's answered.
A cheerful blonde opens the door. She's tall, statuesque, and gorgeous. She's wearing tight-fitting clothing and her hair is curled into loose waves. Regan is beautiful. She lights up at the sight of me. "Are you Daisy Miller?"
I smooth a stray lock of brown hair into my ponytail, feeling very plain next to her. "That's me. You must be Regan Porter."
"You're so cute! Not what I imagined at all." She examines me with an excited look on her face. "But…I hate to ask. You sure you're not pulling my leg about how old you are?"
"I'm twenty-one," I say, pulling out my identification card. It's not a driver's license; that would have involved Father letting me leave the house for longer than an hour at a time. I make a mental note that I need to learn how to drive in this new life.
She takes the card from me and nods. "Sorry. I just had to ask. You have this…I don't know. You look younger than I thought." She squints at me. "Or just sweeter, I guess. Anyhow, how's it going?" Her enthusiasm is back, and she waves a hand at me. "Don't just stand there. Come on in!”
I enter the apartment, clutching my wallet to my chest, and look around. It's a tiny apartment, easily a quarter the size of my father's house. The walls are grimy and there are cracks in the corners, but the back wall has three enormous windows that give a view of the city, and I'm pleased to see that they're wide open. Sunlight pours in, shining on scuffed wooden floors. There are posters of horror movies up on the walls, and a futon for a couch. There's a folding chair off to one side and an ugly coffee table.
I love it.
"I know it's not much to look at, but I'm slowly furnishing by hitting estate sales," Regan says to me with a grin. "It'll get there."
"It's just fine," I say enthusiastically. "I love it."
She laughs. "Well, you're not hard to convince. So Pollyanna of you. I like that. Come on. I'll show you the rest of the place."
The bathroom is little more than a closet with an ancient tub and a toilet. My room isn't much bigger, but there is a bed, an old dresser—courtesy of Regan's last roomie who'd moved out—and a nightstand with a lamp on it. There is also a window. I move to the window and glance out. It faces the street and a building across the way. I don't care what the view is as long as it has one.
"So, what do you think? Like I said, your share of the rent is four hundred, due on the first, and that includes all utilities paid. It's not a great place, but it's pretty central to everything, which is good if you don't have a car. Do you?"
I shake my head. "I don't."
"Like I said in the ad, my boyfriend stays here a lot. If that bothers you, this might not be the apartment for you. My last roomie couldn't handle it, so she left." She shrugs her shoulders, unapologetic. "Just putting that out there up front so there's no misunderstandings."
"I don't mind." I don't care if she has three boyfriends.
"There's a laundry room down in the basement if you want to wash clothes." She eyes me curiously. "If you don't mind me asking, where are your clothes?"
I don't have any bags with me. "I…left them at the farm." I know I must seem weird to her.
"Fresh start, huh?" She pats me on the shoulder and then rubs my arm. "I know how that goes."
I nod, feeling a lump in my throat. Fresh start, indeed.
Chapter Two
DAISY
I move in with Regan and hand over four hundred dollars of my precious cash. Regan seems to accept my story and me, and she’s fun to be around. She wants to introduce me to her friends. "You need to come hang out with us, Pollyanna."
She’s started to call me Pollyanna, because she’s already noticed that I’m a bit naïve. I don’t mind. I’ve seen that movie, and I liked Pollyanna. She’s going out for drinks that night with some friends, but I can only take so much stimuli at once. It has been an exhausting day, and I crash into bed, too exhausted to even put sheets on the dirty mattress.
For the next week, I explore the city on my own. It’s terrifying and exhilarating all at once. I scour thrift shops, second-hand stores, and a yard sale for clothing. When I pass by a window filled with pretty, lacy underthings, I want to go inside and buy a few pairs for myself. I head immediately for the clearance racks but everything there is far too expensive. I go to the clearance bins at the shopping center instead and purchase the cheapest items. They’re in odd sizes and probably won’t fit right, but I don’t care. They’re clean and they’re mine, and if they’re not pretty, they’ll do.
It doesn’t take long to realize that money goes faster than I’d anticipated. After a few days, I count out what I have left. I’ve spent seventy dollars for clothing. Sixty for bus tickets around town. Ten for dinner with Regan the other night. Four hundred on rent. I have enough for groceries, and then I must find a job.
Any job.
I want to go to college, too. Just the local community college will do, but I need to save up some money first. There are several in the city, and I take a bus to one of the campuses, just to see what it’s like. My heart fills with longing as I walk the grounds. There are people my age everywhere, laughing and talking as they head to class or pause to chat. I want to be one of them.
I just need the money first.
I’m still feeling out of sorts after a week of freedom. I feel restless and uneasy. This is a new place, and I’m not used to new places and new things. For twenty-one years, I’ve been in the same small room at home, with the same four walls. The new apartment is different. My new room is small but pleasant; the view outside the apartment window allows me to see the sky above the buildings.
My room is stuffy, so I use this as an excuse to open the window again and let the cool night air brush against my skin. Now that I can, I sleep with the window open every night. I want to keep it open forever. It feels like defiance and freedom, and I love it.
I return to bed, pleased with the breeze and the night view. Maybe that will take some of the edge off of my nerves. I flick the lights off and strip out of my new jeans and ill-fitting new bra and then climb into bed in nothing but an old t-shirt borrowed from Regan and a pair of panties. After a moment of indecision, I kick the blankets off. Still too warm.
I press a hand to my forehead and sigh.
As if in response to my sigh, I hear a moan come from the other room followed by a loud, "Oh God, almost!”