The Between Years

my phone had been flashing, so I figured that there must have been some substance to it. So I decided to pick up the phone to make sure. All I heard was heavy breathing. I don’t know why that should’ve convinced me it was really you, but it was enough to make me slam the receiver down.
    I refused to cancel my afternoon classes that day. Going home early because of you would have been like admitting defeat, and I’m well beyond that. So I kept on, struggled through my classes, and hoped that my students wouldn’t notice my whirlwind of emotions.
    I worried you would be waiting for me in the hall after I finished class. And don’t say that it’s ridiculous, because you’d already phoned my office, panting like some kind of pervert. And I’ve had friends whose parents have suddenly shown up at their workplace (much to their horror). Alas, the hall was devoid of you.
    When I returned home, I saw the lights on inside my house. The smell of Du Maurier cigarettes struck me before I was the even halfway through the door. That you knew where I worked (and phoned my office for Chrissakes!) was bad enough. But that you knew where I lived, and knew how to sneak into my house, panicked me enough to phone the police. And that you would sit in my house and smoke your filthy cigarettes was an insult.
    I mean, how fucking rude is that? Hey, did you hear that one, Dad? I just said fuck .
    In spite of my anxiety, I didn’t phone the police, not immediately anyway. Why? Frankly, I didn’t know what to tell them, and I wasn’t prepared for their reaction. No signs of a forced entry, the spare key back in its hiding place, and no missing property. All I had to prove that you were here was the rank smell of tobacco (and no cigarette butts were left behind, very smart, Dad).
    When I dressed for bed that night, I knew I wouldn’t sleep a wink. Not when I knew that you were out there, that you knew where I lived, where I slept. You seemed intent on picking up where you left off, to exercise the same iron-fisted control over my life that you had twenty years ago. Somehow, my eyelids grew heavy, and I drifted into a light sleep.
    And then, the click from the doorknob turning startled me from sleep. I opened my eyes and there you stood. At first, I thought you were something from a nightmare. A bit of underdone potato, a blot of cheese, Ebenezer Scrooge would’ve called you. But your smell of Du Maurier cigarettes wafted into the room, powerful enough to wrinkle my nose. You wore your plaid shirt and showed your yellow, tombstone-like teeth, and whisked me back to the girl I used to be.
    At first, neither of us spoke, but I wasn’t interested in anything you had to say. Chances for reconciliation died years ago. I told you to get out, but you wouldn’t leave. Then I told you to get the fuck out (there I go with that word again), but you were intent on staying. Before I could try and throw you out, you leapt onto my bed, wrapped your fingers around my neck, and squeezed. My windpipe shrunk, I gasped for what air I could steal, but the room went blurry.
    Why you walked back into my life after all these years was a mystery to me, but I suppose you had a reason. If it was only to lay one more whipping on me, I suppose . . . I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised. But you shouldn’t have been stunned that I would fight you. After all, I’m a grown woman and too proud to take your whippings. So you released your grip and paint-brushed my face, if only to keep me at bay.
    Was I going to sit there and take it? Hell no! Once I broke free from you, I crawled to my cell phone and called the police. To their credit, they showed up on my front door within minutes. They noted the bruises that had blossomed on my arms and neck, and the red marks and scratches on my face. An officer stayed with me while the other probed the house for you.
    But could he find you? Oh no, you managed to evade the officer that night, just as you bested police trouble when I was a girl. I gave the officers your description. The first one scribbled it on his pad, and promised to try his best to find you, but I think he was humoring me. Sometimes the bad guy wins.
    The beatings continued most nights, and I gave up on police help. Some nights, you broke up the monotony and expanded your interests. One night, you sat beside me at the piano bench, and I wore welts on my fingers once more. Blood dried between my fingers again. It wasn’t that I couldn’t play The