Northern Escape

Chapter 2

Things Do Not Change; We Change 

—Henry David Thoreau

Grace tiptoed down the hall to the third-floor bathroom. It was early, and the house was quiet. She didn't want to wake any of the other guests at the bed and breakfast, but the squeaky turn of her doorknob and the creak of the floorboards as she walked announced her presence. 

"Shhh . . ." she wanted to whisper. "Don't tell them I'm here." 

Giving up on her stealth moves, she shut the bathroom door with a groan and a clunk and slid the lock into place. Splashing water on her face, she looked in the mirror and was not surprised to see her mother looking back. Grace saw her every morning, and today her puffy eyes gave her sadness away. Her mother had had the same gray eyes and wavy, dark brown hair, but she'd gotten her long limbs from her father. Drying her face, Grace pushed the towel against her eyes to stop the sting of tears that had started yet again. 

I need you so much, Mom, she thought. This never would have happened if you were still here. You would have seen what was happening, and your momma bear temper would have sent him running.

Bullies by nature don't want to be challenged, and Grace wouldn't have been worth the effort. Instead, charming and chiseled, he had seen her weaknesses and had taken advantage of them. Dad was too grief-stricken to notice. He had completely focused on his new life in order to keep the pain locked away. Seeing his daughter only made it harder for him. He, too, saw his wife every time he looked at Grace, and it brought back the loss over and over. Good or bad, Grace saw her mother every time she looked in the mirror.

She loitered in the lobby of the bed and breakfast on Laurier Street until the Jamaican woman who had checked her in the evening before welcomed her into the dining room with a big, beautiful smile. The table was big enough for eight, likely the number of guests that could stay in the home. She was relieved to have her choice of seat.

Grace had let everything out last night. She'd shed tears of fear, loss, grief, and panic. It was a release of all the feelings that had been pent up and not acknowledged for . . . how long? A year? Two? Certainly, the last year had been bad. Horrible. But the last six months had been the worst. 

He had allowed Grace to mourn her mother before showing the full extent of his ability to manipulate and control. He knew Grace's dad was distracted with his new life, his soon-to-be new wife, and her sweet little children. They were adorable, and good on him for being willing to go through all that again. But Grace wasn't ready. How could he be? She already knew the answer even if she didn't like it. Mom had been sick for so long, and she had made him promise to move on. 

And so, she had moved in with him. She decided not to think his name. This was a new start, and it would be a way to keep him and his control in the past. Grace studied her right hand. It wasn't pretty like her left one anymore. It wasn't bad, but it was damaged, misshapen. Not bad enough for others to notice, but she saw the difference and felt the throbbing ache, a reminder of the frustration and fear that she had tried to rid herself of. Grace wondered if that pain would always remain a part of her—just like the abuse she had suffered would always be imprinted on her soul. 

She gratefully received her breakfast of bacon, eggs, rye toast, butter and marmalade preserves, grapefruit, orange juice, and, thank the Lord, strong and steaming hot coffee. It felt wonderful to have someone take care of her in this sunny, warm room. Wallpaper with bright, happy flowers covered the walls. A little gaudy, perhaps, but it fit well with the old furniture. Grace felt like she was in England about to have tea with the queen. She found herself dreaming that she was safely hidden away in another country far, far away from him.