Continued from He Calls the Cops, I Catch a Flight

Against all wise counsel, I flew back to New Jersey that Sunday night. I did not want to go home. I didn't want to retreat, to come back after leaving for the bright lights and big city, head hung low, with child, alone. I did not want to leave my job and I wanted to make a life for myself. That's why I'd moved out here in the first place. Besides, women did this every day, right? Why couldn't I live in New Jersey and raise my child with the assistance of his father with some kind of reasonable visitation plan? What was wrong with that? And as long as BD had vacated the apartment, we shouldn't have a problem.

BD had assured me that he'd moved out and I believed him. He knew I wasn’t bringing our son back unless he had gone and I trusted that he wouldn’t chance it. Meanwhile, I was leaving all too much up to chance.

As soon as I stepped into the apartment, I began scanning the room quickly for anything that might have been broken or missing. I looked for doors kicked off hinges, holes punched into the wall. I think I expected to see my bed consumed with fire damage or my clothes water logged.

Nothing.

The place was immaculate. Clean, neat, though empty looking without most of BD’s stuff. He even left a few things I didn’t help pay for. I guess they were too heavy for him to haul out with such short notice. Nothing.

There was a vase of flowers on the table in the kitchen along with a type written note from BD saying that he’d moved out upon my request on such-and-such date, yadda yadda, and it was signed.

Perfect. Everything was going to be fine. I told everyone everything was going to be fine. BD was gone and I had my baby. Tomorrow I’d call him and let him know we’d made it back safely and he could pick the baby up form daycare and give him dinner if he wanted.

Sidebar: This is exactly how far in denial I still was. Even after seemingly escaping, I was still trying to deal with this man like he was a reasonable person. Like he was really gonna be ok with picking up his son from daycare, spending a couple of hours with him and meeting me somewhere to give him back. I think I might have been going a little crazy at this point myself, because in hindsight that whole idea was just damned. And not only that, but he had done nothing that should have lead me to believe our co-parenting would ever work. I'm still kicking myself about this.

That night, I lay in bed with the light on. It was my apartment first and it felt good to be back in it, but there was something eerie about it now.

The memories. Every corner reminded me of something. But one look at my baby boy pushed all thoughts of darkness out of my head. I must have looked over at him sleeping next to me a million times and just kissed his cheeks and thanked God over and over and over again.

With a wide smile on my face I made a mental grocery list, whispering the items I’d fill my cart with like I was counting sheep. (Yes, it was that big a deal). Ground beef, catfish and fish fry, chicken wings, ooh, I’ll pick up some fresh Parmesan and some cream (I make a mean from-scratch Alfredo sauce), shrimp, -- I was super excited about the sausage I was gonna pick up – chicken wings –

Then phone rang and broke my train of thought.

I reached over to pick it up before it woke the baby.

“Hello,” I said sleepily. I didn’t wanna talk to anybody. I just wanted to bask in the freedom of my own bed in my own apartment.

“Oh. Melyssa, you’re home,” said an excited, heavily accented voice on the other end.

It was Mrs. Shafik. She and her husband were my landlords. They were an old Egyptian couple.

The night I’d come to look at the place, I ended up having tea with them and chatting in their living room for close to an hour. I told them I wanted the apartment and they handed over the keys. No credit check, nothing. Even accepted a personal, out of state check and agreed to charge me an extra $100 a month on the rent toward the security deposit rather than making me pay the whole thing up front. No one else anywhere would have done that. Grocery stores don’t even take out of state checks. The Shafiks said I had a sweet spirit. Beautiful people. During my tenancy, they’d invite me up to their place for dinner or call me and check on me because they knew I wasn’t from the area. They’d sort of adopted me. They had a daughter my age who was in school overseas and they’d always tell me how much I reminded them of her.

“We got in just a few hours ago,” I said.

“Oh wonderful, I’m glad you made it back safely. I saw your car out front.”

“Yeah I had to park it at the airport.”

“Oh, did you have to walk far?”

“We were running so late, I just put it in short term. $45 a day,” I said painfully.

“Oh my, you left too late,” she said.

It wasn’t that I’d been late, I’d just been scared. Didn’t feel like explaining that tho.

“Yeah,” I said, rounding out the small talk.

“Well, how are things?” Mrs. Shafik asked nervously.

I hadn’t talked to them directly about my fall out with BD. I’d only told them that he was moving out. My name was the only one on the lease though, so even that information hadn’t been necessary. I’d just felt the need to say something. The whole building knew 12 uniformed officers had shown up at our door a week before. One of my landlords’ sons was in the hallway when the cops arrived and it didn’t take long for several other tenants to gather. The trouble that had been was no longer a secret.

“Well, I just wanted you to know, I mean,” she stammered,” Do you know where BD is living now?”

“I have no idea, Mrs. Shafik,” I said. Nor did I care. “I imagine he’s staying in Irving with his cousins. The closest family he has outside of them is in New York.”

“Oh dear,” she said. “He didn’t tell you.”

“I told you she didn’t know,” Mr. Shafik said in a gruff voice form the background.

They always called me in tandem.

“He took a studio over in the next building. 8402,” she said finally.

My address was 8404. When I say the man had moved in right next door, I mean that literally. This really happened. Unbelievable.

“Unbelievable,” I said. I didn’t have any other words.

“Melyssa, you know we love you, and we’d hate to lose you as a tenant, but we understand if you can’t stay. Just let us know as soon as possible if you feel like you need to find another place.”

I don’t even remember how I ended the conversation. I was in such shock. The illuminated lamp on the dresser that had made me feel safe was now casting shadows. I flipped the switch and the room darkened. Not dark enough. I drew the curtains tighter to block out the moonlight. I did the same in the living room and the computer room.

The first thing I’d loved about this apartment was the huge windows, the southern exposure and the light that pours in at the first strike of day. The kind of light that makes you want to get up on a Saturday morning and clean. (Or is that just me? That’s what we used to do at my house when we were kids. Saturday mornings were for vacuuming, sweeping, mopping, laundry, cleaning our week-long neglected rooms and yard work. Saturday nights were pizza and movie nights. Good times).

Anyway, I’d learn to love the dimness of 60 watt bulbs soon enough.

Check back tomorrow as it is proven to Melyssa for the second time -- unfortunately it takes some people longer -- just how crazy this nigga really is.

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*All names have been changed to protect the guilty & the innocent.