The Porch

Her eyes never ceased watching me.

Her eyes watched every move I made like a hawk. I sat in my front yard, legs crossed, and fiddling with a child's toy I had gotten for my birthday. It was a mild summer afternoon, with the sun hidden behind the clouds, and our neighbor from across the street was watching me, like she always did when I was in sight. I was only six at the time, an age where I was prone to almost everything. All I was doing was turning some knobs and rattling the toy, but her unblinking stare was fixed on me, as if she expected something to happen. Ever since I can remember, her emotionless eyes had watched me carefully, as if she was put in charge of my safety. But if it were one of those rare days when some kind of danger would grow close, my mother would come from behind our screen door and hold me in her arms. If it were a wild animal that came waltzing into our yard, or a scary looking stranger, our neighbor would see it before my mother. A handful of times, it would take several moments for my mother to come retrieve me, and Ms. White would actually start to stand up from her rocking chair on her porch. But within seconds, my mother would race out of our house, and cradle me protectively.

Ms. White watched me steadily as I continued to play with the toy I had been given. Even at the age of six, I always noticed her watching me. As usual, my father was gone on a 'business trip'. That was his excuse for leaving me and my mother behind all the time. He was really a drunkard and a glutton who couldn't hold a job. He treated my mother like trash, and told me I was a mistake. The reason why my mother put up with him was beyond me, but I did as I was told to avoid animosity. Ever since our dysfunctional family had moved onto Jefferson street, Ms. White watched me endlessly. I can't explain why, but her interest in me stirred my imagination. That day, the day I turned six, it was slightly overcast. Ms. White was sitting on her porch, sipping a hot cup of tea. At least, I supposed that's what it was. I never talked to her face to face, so I couldn't ever be sure. My mother was washing the dishes on the other side of our door, watching me just as vigilantly as Ms. White. I felt a drop of water on my shoulder. I put my toy on the ground and looked up at the sky curiously. A flash of lightning cut through the sky, and a few moments later, the sound of thunder rattled my small eardrums. It was one of those days that Ms. White actually stood. As it did whenever she reacted in such a way, I marveled at her alarming speed. But just as she stood from her rocking chair, my mother dashed out our screen door, and herded me into the house. The last thing I remembered from that day was the sight of Ms. White sitting back down slowly, and our front door closing behind me.

The next big encounter I remembered with Ms. White was when I was ten. It was a winter day, and since we expected most of the animals that made their homes in the forest next to our houses would be hibernating, my mother let me play around the edges of the forest. It was chilly, but the weather didn't bother me. I had fun playing around, running off my energy. My mother always commended me for my willingness to be happy, although my life had never been easy. I always wondered why she told me that, since she was the optimist in our family. She always told me that we would find our place in this world. Whenever my father was around, she would do her best to remain happy, but she was at her happiest while he was gone. Occasionally, she would leave me alone so she wash dishes or clean our neighbors' houses, and she would always come home with a smile on her lips, and a song in her heart. I never met my relatives, so I couldn't say where she got her looks, but she was a beautiful woman. Her brown hair was always in a loose bun, and her big blue eyes were always sparkling. I had her looks, and thankfully didn't have my father's ruddy hair or his perpetually dilated black eyes.

That cold winter day, I heard an occasional hoot from an owl, or a bark from a neighborhood dog, but I never heard anything that would cause any sort of peril. But as usual, Ms. White was watching me as well as the surrounding forest. Nothing bothered me for almost an hour until I heard a slight rustle in one of the bushes next to me. I froze in my tracks. A few silent seconds past, and nothing happened. I looked around curiously. Ms. White's eyes weren't on me; they were trained on a tree behind me. I couldn't be sure, but I could have sworn her eyes grew wide. I turned back around slowly, and my heart stopped. A large bear was standing on its hind legs, no doubt about to rake its claws at me. Just as I thought I was doomed, my mother came from behind me, and pulled the trigger of our shotgun. The bear growled loudly, and my mother pulled me back into the house.

The most significant incident that engraved itself in my mind was when I was thirteen. My father was actually at home, which meant misery. Usually, I could put up with loneliness while my mother was working to keep us alive, but when he was home, it made everything worse. He abused me and my mother, both physically and mentally. He always came home drunk and looking terrible. He brought home crazy stories of where he had gone and who he had met. Sometimes, me and my mother thought he was hallucinating; he sometimes told us how he met celebrities or historical figures who had been dead for many years. Two days after my thirteenth birthday, I woke up to the sound of crashing and glass breaking. I sat up from my worn out mattress on the floor, and threw on some clothes. Barefoot, I made my way through the hallway to the kitchen, intentionally avoiding all the squeaky floorboards. As I neared the kitchen, I slowed down, and poked my head around the corner to spy on the source of the noise. Of course, it was my father. He had thrown a glass on the floor. He had probably been upset that my mother didn't get him more to drink or something stupid like that. He was still yelling at her, telling her something about leaving again. I didn't catch much of what he was saying, but I did make out more curses than I would like to have heard. My mother caught my eye, and quickly looked away from me. My father didn't need any excuses to be angry at me; he always was. If he was already in a sour mood...that wouldn't exactly help. I waited until my father had stopped ranting, and then went back into his room, slamming the door behind him. Whenever my father was home, my mother stayed on the torn couch, and I noticed her sheets were all messed up.

“Didn't sleep well?” I whispered. My mother looked back up at me, and smiled tiredly.

“I'm alright,” she said to me, even though she clearly wasn't. She combed her fingers through my dark hair. “Why don't you go play outside?” she suggested, no doubt trying to give me an excuse to get away from my monster of a father. I nodded once. I knew that seeing me hurt made my mother weak, so I did what I could to keep her well. I slipped some sandals on, and pushed open our creaky screen door. It must not have been too late in the morning yet; the sun wasn't high enough in the sky. I sat down cross-legged in the grass, and watched the base of the forest. It may seem boring, but that's how I spent the majority of my teenage years. Watching the wildlife that thrived so close to my house fascinated me. After what only seemed like minutes, the door to my house pushed open, and my father trumped out, my mother at his heels. My father had a stuffed suitcase in one hand, and the car keys in another.

“I'm getting out of this bloody house,” he said, his voice slurred with alcohol. He stumbled to the car and opened the door. He caught my eye and grinned evilly. “You, girly,” he said, putting his luggage down and walked over to me. My mother made a move to stand in front of me, but my father just pushed her out of the way. “You're still here?” he asked me, barely standing on his feet. I knew better than to say anything. It didn't matter what I told him, he still hit me, so I just braced myself for the blow. My father sneered. “I'm talking to you,” he said, and brought the back of his hand across my face. I flinched, and within seconds, my cheek started burning. My mother put her hands over her mouth, afraid to say anything, but horrified nonetheless. That's when I noticed Ms. White watching me curiously, as if she was looking at me through a microscope. My father pushed my mother towards the car, and forced her to get in the driver's seat. “This wench is driving me to the train station,” my father said, and I flinched at his term for my mother. “Stay here and out of trouble till she comes back.” He spat in my direction, and got in the car. My mother gave me one last hopeless look, and then drove away. I watched them steadily until they disappeared. I debated whether or not to cry. My mind had become so calloused, it had grown dull to abuse. But to see my mother being pushed around like a maid infuriated me. Before I could decide, I noticed Ms. White hobbling over to me. It surprised me a little; I had never seen her anywhere but sitting on her rocking chair.

“Hello, dear,” a voice called out, that could only belong to Ms. White. It sounded just like I had so many times imagined. “Won't you join me for tea?”

Ms. White's house was exactly how I guessed it would be. It looked, and undoubtedly was older than our house, so it creaked a lot more. It smelled of perfume, burned food, and old people. The major difference between her house and mine was that she had an upstairs. We used our attic to store stuff in, but she had an attic and a second story. I didn't ask to go up the stairs, partly because it was rude, and partly because it looked rather creepy. The whole house creaked, even when we had stopped walking. The hallway to the living room was lined with photographs of people I didn't recognize. Several of the photos looked like a younger version of Ms. White with a man that I guessed was a Mr. White.

“Is that your husband?” I asked her as we walked. Ms. White didn't answer for a long time. My mother had told me that Ms. White's husband had died before I was born, but she didn't know much about him either.

“Yes, that's him,” Ms. White replied, her voice not rough, but a little tired. She sat me down on a cream couch. “I'll get the tea,” she said. She disappeared into the kitchen, and within moments returned with a pot of tea and a plate of cookies. She put them down on the coffee table, and sat in an armchair opposite of me. For awhile, we just stared at each other, unsure of what to say. Eventually, I just stared into my cup of tea, generally feeling miserable. Ms. White put her hand over mine.

“Are you okay, dear?” she asked me. I shrugged half-heartedly.

“I wish my mother had a better life than this,” I told her.

“And yourself?” Ms. White questioned. I shrugged again. In all truthfulness, my mother was my top priority. I did want to be okay, but I knew I could put up with my father. But my mother was more vulnerable than me.

“I just want her to be okay,” I told her. Ms. White sat back, nodding thoughtfully. At the time, I found Ms. White to be an odd person. She seemed to scrutinize me as if I were some a bizarre specimen. After a short pause, Ms. White sat forward again.

“Do you know why I watch you so carefully?” she whispered.

“No,” I whispered back, unsure what she was getting at. Ms. White looked at the photographs on the wall.

“My husband and I never had children,” she began. “I always wanted some, but it never happened.” She stopped talking, and I wasn't sure if I should express my sympathy, or just remain silent. Before I could decide, she went on. “I have watched you and your family since you moved here.” She looked at me warily. “I don't believe anyone deserves to live like that. I have watched over you and your mother, ready to help whenever I could.” She paused. “I adopted you two as my own.” I chewed the inside of my lip. The reason behind her constant vigilance had been revealed, and I had to admit, I was slightly relieved. I knew I always felt safer doing whatever, because I knew Ms. White was watching me, and the fact that she had been taking care of us mentally reassured me even more. My spirits lifted a little.

“Thank you,” I said, my gratitude flooding my words. For the first time ever, I saw Ms. White smile. She put her hand over mine again.

“I'm always here, dear,” she said. “If you ever need me, I'm here.”

Life got better for me for awhile after that. I couldn't say the situation with my father got any better, but I did have a more positive attitude towards everything. My mother took notice, and she too felt better about life. The fact that we stayed happy even though my father treated us both barbarically seemed to frustrate his efforts. For awhile, he stayed away, and me and my mother both thought he was gone for good. He was gone for almost a year. But then he came back. He came back, wild as ever, and tried his hardest to make my mother and I's lives torture. As I got older, I got less and less tolerant of my father. I used to go over to Ms. White's house as an excuse to get away, but eventually, I began to feel like I was leaving my mother to her own devices, so I gave up. She still watched me, but from afar. Once, when I was sixteen, I vented to my mother how frustrated I was.

“When I'm eighteen,” I told her, “I'm getting out of this torment.” My mother just smiled at me sadly, and ran her fingers through my hair. I crossed my arms. “And I'm taking you with me.” My mother had laughed softly.

“I'm afraid I can't do that, sweetie,” she said. “I made a promise when I married your father. I can't just leave.” At the time, I thought she was just kidding.

The day I turned eighteen, my father was gone again. That alone was enough to make my day, but I was moving out that day. I had been offered a job two hours away from Jefferson Street, and I had bought an apartment that fit me well. It was in a nice business community with skyscrapers, and basically everything I wasn't used to. My mother had given me her blessing, and wished me the best. Ms. White was sitting in her rocking chair as usual. I exchanged looks with my mother, and then went to go talk to our neighbor.

As I got closer, Ms. White stood from her chair. I stopped in front of her, unsure of what to say. I wanted to tell her how much I appreciated her looking out for me and my mother, but I was unsure of how to word it. Ms. White hugged my tightly, something that came so unexpectedly to me. I had never been hugged in my life, aside from when I was little. My mother would hold me against her when my father was on a drunken rage.

“Take care of yourself, dear,” Ms. White told me. I stepped back from her, recognizing the all too familiar feel of tears in my eyes.

“Thank you,” I said, my voice barely more than a whisper. Ms. White nodded a few times. I smiled weakly, and turned back to my car.

Between working my job, sleeping and eating, I never got a chance to visit my my mother. Occasionally, she would send me letters, telling me how she kept herself alive. She seemed to be just fine. Once day after work, I sat in front of my television, a luxury I could have never enjoyed before, watching the evening news. They were telling the story of how a man and a woman had disappeared. No one knew when they left, where they'd gone, or any motives. They didn't announce names, but as they went on with descriptions, I somehow knew my parents had gone missing. My insides burned with frustration and desperation. Ms. White had promised to keep my mother safe! How could she have let such a thing happen? But before I turned off the television, the reporter added that a sign of struggle had been noted in the house, and an elderly woman had been sent to the hospital. At that news, my heart sunk. Ms. White really had tried to take care of my mother.

The next morning, I requested the day off work to investigate further. My boss graciously understood, and let me take as long as I needed. First, I went to Jefferson Street, and took a look at my old house. It looked just how I remembered. It was mess, with a bunch of broken bottles on the floor. It smelled of tobacco and alcohol. There was a bunch of messed up sheets strewn across the floor, and I noticed our shotgun was gone. There was certainly no sign of my mother or father. I gritted my teeth, and left.

Once I got back to my apartment, I turned my television back on. A news update was playing. Apparently, they had found my father., and put him in prison for at least one criminal charge. His picture was projected onto my television scene, and I tried my hardest not to smash it in. I waited to hear something about my mother. After a little while of them running off information about my father, they noted that a woman had been found dead where he was staying. My mother's picture was projected next to his, and my heart stopped in my chest. They went on talking about the details; three bullets to her chest, and severe head trauma, but I wasn't listening. I had zoned out, half of disbelief, half of heartbreak. I sat in the darkness of my apartment for several minutes, barely breathing until I fell asleep, mentally and physically exhausted.

The next morning, still in shock from losing my mother, I went to visit Ms. White in the hospital, hoping to gain some comfort. I walked up to the front desk of the hospital the news people had reported she was resting in, but the check-in lady told me she was gone. Confused, I asked if she had checked out. The lady simply shook her head, and told me she was gone. She had succumbed to her wounds. It took me a moment, but I finally realized Ms. White had died as well. The strong woman who had taken care of my mother and I for so many years had died. My ears buzzed with confusion and grief. So much had happened to me in the past 24 hours, I couldn't quite process it. I blinked a few times, and sat down on a waiting room chair before I collapsed.

I didn't quite remember what happened after that. I remember vaguely being in my apartment again for several days, feeling like I was in a coma, not totally in control of my actions. Then, I remember coming to a mental decision to visit my father in prison. I wasn't sure what I would tell him, but I hoped the sight of me would cause him pain. Deep, excruciating, pain. After stumbling around for awhile, I found the prison. I requested to see my father, and the prison guards looked at me as if I were crazy, but they let me in anyway. I sat in the reception room by myself for awhile, waiting for my father to appear behind the glass. Before he showed up, I began second guessing myself. I still didn't know what I would say. Maybe I could just look at him, and stare into his soul, making him feel guilty for brutally murdering two women. But that wouldn't do. Even though I was sitting there, I wasn't totally sure my reasonings for wanting to see him. Just when I was about to give up and go back to my apartment, my father appeared behind the glass. After living in fear of my father, the man who made my life torture, I'd think I would be ready to see him again. But there was no preparing for seeing him again after what had happened. He was starting to look old, which came as a surprise to me. He looked tired, and sad. It was the first time I had seen him sober, since obviously he wasn't allowed to drink in prison. His dark eyes studied me warily, no doubt expecting me to lash out at him. In fact, I had to clench my fists to restrain myself from strangling him, even though I couldn't reach him through the glass. I took several breaths in and out before I trusted myself to speak. Two prison guards stood near, one behind me, and one behind my father.

“Hello,” I said, unsure of how to start. My father nodded once.

“Hello, my daughter,” he said, and a bitter taste filled my mouth. Not once had he referred to me as his daughter. After a short pause, I had to ask.

“Why'd you do it?” I blurted out, tears springing to my eyes. “Why did you take my mother away from me?” My father sighed. I could tell guilt was heavy on his shoulders, but I didn't care. “And Ms. White? Do you realize what she meant to me and my mother?” Tears had made a steady stream down my face.

“I wasn't aware,” my father said, the sound of his voice shocking me. Usually, it sounded thick with alcohol, but since he was sober, it obviously wasn't. He sounded calm, collected and in control. Everything that wasn't him. I gritted my teeth, and wiped my eyes, deciding to hear him out. “I was drunk and crazed. I was exhausted, and I had seen so much that month.” I knew he didn't work, but I had no idea what he did while he was away. I had decided years ago that I didn't want to know. “She refused to take care of me when we were on Jefferson Street, so I took her to a cabin the woods. There, she only restrained me and kept me from doing what I willed. At the time, I thought it would be best just to get rid of her.” It surprised me a little that he didn't try to deny what he had done. He had just admitted to me that he caused the death of two women. My father looked me in the eye. “I'm sorry,” he said. I wanted so badly to stand and shout at him that I could never forgive him. That the price for what he had done would never be repaid. But I could see my father was trying to make a difference. He was trying to change, and he had to take it step by step. I took a deep breath, unsure of what I was about to say.

“I hope you realize what you have done can never be taken back,” I said steadily. My father bowed his head.

“I do,” he said, the regret thickening his voice. “I hope that you'll someday be a woman like your mother. And I hope someday you'll forgive me.” And that statement was the one that set me off. My eyes welled up again. The fact that my usually crazed father had finally realized he had previously loved the best woman God had blessed the world with made me feel like he was ready to change: if I was willing to let him. I swallowed.

“I can't say I will ever forget the the things you have inflicted me with,” I said. “But I forgive you.”

After I visited my father in prison, he had to be taken to trial. The judge had sentenced him to life in prison, with no parole. He had excepted it willingly, knowing the world would be better off without him. Ten years later, he still sits in a cell, having way too much time to reflect on things he had done. As for me, I can say that even though the physical hurts have healed, the mental scars have never healed. I still dream about my mother's perfect face, and Ms. White's eyes watching me as I live my adult life. Every time, I wake up in a cold sweat, my husband and baby there to reassure me. I hold on to them both tightly, silently promising them I won't ever go down the road my parents did. I continue to work and raise my own child, my own early life playing in my head. As a child, I promised I would never inflict the life I had on my own children, and I still promise myself that. I hope they will never have to endure the things I have. My husband knows my story only vaguely; I don't like to get into details. He knows I grew up abused and virtually unloved. I couldn't have asked for a better man; he holds me tightly whenever the memories invade my mind, and whispers how much he loves me in my ear. We both take care of our daughter with love and kindness, and hope only the best for her. That's the best way to get over things. Take a deep breath, and hope for the best.