Disappear by Amyen Fielding

On the day my father left our horse went blind. It wasn’t as miraculous as it sounds. Miracles don’t happen to people like us. Benny was using a weed-whacker, rather than his hands on account of the heat, and the stupid thing shot a rock up and hit our horse squarely in the eye. His right eye hadn’t been so good, so losing his left was detrimental to poor old Shep. Now when I go into his stall he spooks real easy until he drinks in my scent, his muzzle soft and warm in the cup of my hands.

When I was little I used to crawl into my Momma and Daddy’s closet. Something about the scent of his old leather boots and work shirts calmed me. I was an anxious kid so I spent a lot of time in there, often with a book and a flashlight. It was the perfect place to hide while Momma was having one of her episodes. I can still hear the wooden floorboards sigh beneath me, and feel Daddy’s gentle smile as he opened the door, his warm, calloused hands lifting me out when the worst was over.

The day he left she took all of his clothes and smashed them into big black garbage bags. I watched from the doorway, wanting so badly to grab one of his flannels, the ones with the pearly buttons, and clutch it to me. But if she saw me she’d have proof that I was the traitor she accused me of being all those years. She would be right.

Some people just don’t plant deep roots, especially the men in the Harvey family, Gram mumbled the last part, but I heard her say it just the same. In the beginning I was shattered, crying at odd times, and I regressed back into my childish habit of hiding in the closet, the hall one this time—it smelled like a combination of Momma, mothballs, dusty dresses and Ivory soap. Then I fluctuated between anger and endless questioning before I settled on pure jealously. I envied him for being the one to get away, even if it meant he had to leave me too.

He only took his army duffle and that beat up Ford. It’s strange how little you can take away from a life. When I leave, I’m gonna take more. My silver locket with the broken chain, my blankie with silky edges Gram made from scraps of her clothes, and the picture of Daddy, young and grinning, with an arm slung over a woman I don’t recognize. It’s the only picture left of him, since Momma burned the others. I’ll need a car to haul away my favorite books, so I figured I’ll need to be at least sixteen. My brothers never bothered getting a license. Most people don’t around here. You don’t need one if you only go to town and back.

I’ll need more money too. I’ve taken up babysitting the Terrible Thomson kids, whose idea of fun is shooting BBs at neighborhood strays, and shoving their little sister into the ice-maker until her lips turn blue. Babysitting isn’t a huge step up from mucking stalls, but the pay is a heck-of-a-lot better. I do miss the sweet disposition of horses though, and shoveling shit certainly has its perks over minding sociopaths in the making.

Sometimes I wonder where that old Ford took him. It was so rusted out it couldn’t have been all that far. He must’ve taken a bus after, or maybe even a plane to get as far away as possible. It would have been the first plane ride anyone in our family took. He would have escaped with the roar of the engine, his boots tucked under the seat in front of him, a whisky glass filled with ice, and a soft smile on his lips.

When I go, I’m gonna soar above the decrepit houses, away from Momma’s flurry of slaps, from the sickly smell of manure that sticks to your clothes no matter how many times you wash them. I’m going to fly to California where the sun’s always shining, people smile real wide, and make their livings without John Deers and endless rows of tobacco. I’m going to see the Pacific Ocean, feel its warm waves moving against my bare skin. I’ll dive in recklessly, arms above my head, until I’m surrounded by schools of brightly colored fish. I’ll submerge myself until my lungs ache for air, until I become someone completely new. I’ll be just like him. I will never look back.

Amyen Fielding is a licensed Marriage and Family Therapist and aspiring author. She was recently accepted into Stanford University’s Novel Writing Program, and is working on her first manuscript. She lives in California with the two loves of her life, her husband and her German Shepherd, Bear.