By: Christine McFarlane
The day of my great escape began like any other day. I woke up only to find myself staring at the four dull light brown walls around me. My small bedroom consisted of a set of wooden bunk beds, a dresser and a desk and chair that faced a window. Sunlight could have poured in, but my curtains were often drawn. My bedroom served as my prison. It had bolts on the door and there was an alarm that would go off shrilly if I even touched the doorknob. There was no jumping out of my bed, or feeling any excitement at the new day ahead, because to make any noise meant punishment. Punishment that came in the form of a few good swats on my behind with a flyswatter, a sting of flesh, if they felt like striking me with their hand, or a yelling that made me cringe inside and want to cry. Crying was done in private when I thought there was no one around to hear me.
As soon as there were footsteps outside my bedroom door, my little body tensed, and my heart would pound. I would never know what would greet me that day, a sarcastic smile or if some imagined sin would make me the culprit for another beating. That day I was tired. Tired of being held hostage, I wanted to be free. I remember clearly, the sound of the bolts on my door being undone, the sharp ping as the alarm was shut off. The door opened and there was my adoptive father with a tray in his hands, my breakfast. A breakfast that consisted of two slices of white bread with peanut butter and jelly spread thinly upon it, cut into four little perfect squares. The tray was put down onto my desk, I was told to eat, and my adoptive father exited. I did not leave the edge of my bed until he had left the room, and I heard the locks going back into place, and the alarm being turned back on. I ran over to my desk, as soon as I heard my father’s footsteps disappear down the hall. I looked at my food, sat at my desk and hungrily gulped the sandwich down. My stomach grumbled but not in hunger, it grumbled with anxiety and a fear that my seven- year old mind could not figure out. As I ate, I was careful to not make a mess of any kind. In essence, I was trained, trained well. I learned to be as quiet as possible and to only do what I had to do when I was given the okay. Just like a puppy obeying his master.
What seemed like hours was only mere minutes. I recall eating my sandwich, rearranging everything on my tray, making sure that everything was lined up perfectly, getting up from my desk and tiptoeing to my bedroom door to knock and let someone, anyone know, I had to go to the washroom. Though the bathroom was across the hall from my bedroom, it felt like an eternity, when my door was opened and I was marched across the hall to do my deed, and then marched back to have my door close and locked behind me once more.
My adoptive mother was a stay- at- home mom. She did not have to work because our adoptive father was the breadwinner in the family. But for some reason that day, everyone had left the house early. My sister and I were left behind. I did not know where my older brothers were and I really did not care, because they never paid any attention to me anyways. I listened anxiously as I heard the rest of the family leave. When I knew in my mind I could relax and let my guard down.
Playing in my room got boring. I could only play so long with my Barbie dolls, dressing them up and pretending they were my friends or that I was a mom, as I carefully brushed their hair and spoke to them. They were my only company in that bedroom. I remember having some paper, and a short stubby little pencil. My sister could have given it to me, my memory is not too clear here, but I would pass some of my time by drawing. I would sit cross-legged or lie down on my stomach and just draw whatever came to my mind. I shared my drawings with my sister by passing them to her under my door. Ten months older than me, my sister was my friend and my supporter. She would look at my drawings, and I can distinctly remember her telling me “good job.” I yearned to hear kind words, to hear appreciation of some kind, and my sister would do that when we had those rare moments of keeping each other company through my closed door. When my sister sat outside my bedroom door, we would talk about anything that came to mind. That day, I whispered to her through the locked bedroom door, that I wanted to run away. I wanted to be free.
My sister and I were allies in the situation that we lived in and I know that she must have pondered how I was feeling, and known that by letting me go free, even if it was only for an hour or so, that I would feel happy. I do not think she really thought of what could happen to her, let alone me, by unlocking my door and letting me go. I remember hearing her go down the hallway, hearing the dragging of a chair so that she could reach the bolts on my door and unlock them. I remember my elation when I heard my bedroom door become unlocked, heard the ping as the alarm was turned off. I was FREE!!!
At first, I was afraid to come out of my room. I was like a little deer frozen in headlights, not knowing what to do or what to say. But then I smiled, the biggest smile I could muster up from inside. I sprang into action, my freedom had come and I think at the time it meant more to me than the fear of what could happen to me or to my sister if it was found out that she had set me free. I remember leaving that big house; where our neighbors thought my family lived the perfect life. I had my coat on, and I carried a backpack, with a couple of books, after all I could not miss school! I had twenty dollars that my sister had carefully taken from our oldest brother’s room, and a loaf of bread. My sister told me, “the loaf of bread is for when you get hungry.”
I recall my little legs pumping as I ran out the front door of our house, and my heart pounding as I got myself to the asphalt on our street. I looked both ways as I left my front yard, and walked along as nonchalantly as I could. In my mind, I was telling myself, “I am on a mission.” As I walked, I knew that I had to be careful about my parents seeing me, so every once in awhile, I would see a bush, hide behind it, pop out from behind it, run for a little bit, stop and then hide once more.
My first stop in my great escape was stopping at a convenience store. I walked into the store, and walked around looking at everything. As I did, I noticed that the store clerk was looking at me kind of funny, so I grabbed a brown bag from the counter-the bag the size of a lunch bag, that I had often seen other kids carry to school. I went to the candy section, and began to fill my bag with everything that I could possibly think of. Oh the days of five cent candies and penny gum! After I filled my bag, I went to the counter, reached up and gave my twenty dollars to the clerk. In my seven-eight year old mind, I did not see anything wrong with buying a huge bag of candy. I was in heaven!!
I left the convenience store, and carried on with my journey. By that time, I had walked across six big blocks. It was a feat that I felt proud of. Somehow I made it to my friend’s house. Here it was, bright and early, and I was standing below her bedroom window. Knowing that I could not yell, I picked up a few pebbles, and threw them at her window. My friend’s name was Natalie. She poked her head out her window, and asked me “What are you doing? My mom is going to hear you!’ But I did not care, I told her “ I am free, I ran away and I am never going back.”
In my mind, I fantasized that I could go and live with my friend Natalie and her family, and my adoptive parents would never have to see me again. But that thought was quickly squashed, when out of the corner of my eye, I saw my friend’s mom come around the corner in her pajamas. She softly asked me “What are you doing Christine?” and I burst into tears. Through my tears I told her that I had run away, that my parents would not miss me and that I wanted to live with them because I did not ever want to go back to my adoptive parent’s again.
The enormity of my situation finally hit me. I was more afraid than I thought. My friend’s mom gently pulled me into her arms, hugged me and then steered me towards their house. I remember sitting in their living room, looking around anxiously, and my friend coming out of her bedroom in her nightgown. For a few minutes, I was allowed to see my friend’s bedroom, and then we had to have breakfast. I gobbled my food down as though I had not eaten in weeks, and then the news came-I had to go home.
Since it was a school day, my friend’s mom drove us to the school. I sat in the secretary’s office as my friend’s mom quietly spoke to the principal. My heart was heavy. The principal called my mother, and after what seemed like an eternity, she showed up. I sat up straight and put my best defiant look on my face. To keep up appearances-my mother apologized to my friend’s mom for my unexpected visit, she grabbed me, and I went home, rather grudgingly.
Years later, I found out that when my parents discovered me gone from my room, they grilled my sister. My sister would not admit to unlocking my door. She let them believe that I had somehow managed to open my bedroom window, climb out the window; slide down from the roof and onto the sidewalk. I call this adventure, my great escape because for the longest time my parents never understood how I got out of my room. When I look back on it now, it makes me laugh because I realize that the bond my sister and I had while we lived in that situation was what got me through the roughest moments. We taught each other courage and we had each other’s back, and that was something that we both needed in order to survive.
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