As I fold a shirt and place it in my backpack, fingers trembling, I realize that there are no flowers this time.
Jordan brought me orchids the first time it happened. He showed up at my door at 7:00 a.m., eyes pleading. He tenderly kissed the red swell on my cheek and told me he loved me. I nodded my head and went to go find a vase. I loved him too, after all.
The second time it happened, he brought me daisies. I woke up to the bouquet on my windowsill and the smell of pancakes cooking downstairs. I crept down in my nightdress, a cardigan draped over the oblong patches of bruising where my back had hit the railing the night before. There was real maple syrup on the table. He offered me a plate and I took a seat.
And so it went. A year’s worth of flowers and bruises. The third time was tulips, and lilies the fourth. Once, he bought me a potted African violet. I put it in the kitchen window, but it died from lack of sunlight.
I told my mother that I’d fallen down the stairs. I told my co-workers that I crashed my bike into a streetlamp. I began to wear long sweaters and pants to hide the cuts and bumps, the discoloured skin.
I learned to stay quiet when Jordan came home with a bottle in hand. I learned not to talk to other men on the street. I learned to be home early. I learned to nod my head mutely through the rages and subsequent apologies.
I learned which plants need sunlight and which ones need shade. I learned the difference between a hyacinth and a hibiscus. I bought two extra vases to accommodate for the increasing appearances of Jordan’s temper.
My bag packed, I stand up and adjust the straps across my shoulders, wincing a little at a pain in my right side. I lift up my sleeve and examine the blossoms of purple and green bruises colouring my skin.
Last night was particularly bad. Maybe not the worst, but bad enough for me to know I need to leave. My heartbeat quickens as I walk towards the door. By the time he returns home from work I’ll be gone, safe.
I hurry out of the bedroom and down the stairs. There are seven pairs of underwear and seven pairs of socks in my backpack, a credit card and $100 in cash in my wallet. There is a cab outside, the address of a women’s shelter scribbled on a piece of paper in my pocket. The woman on the phone last night promised they had a spare bed for me.
Outside, the cab honks. I am shaking, breathless as I speed-walk past the kitchen, where a chair is still overturned, never righted after last night’s fight. I open the front door and in my haste I almost don’t notice the bouquet of roses lying on the front steps. I pause.
My gaze locks on the crimson flowers and I can feel my heartbeat in my eardrums. For a split second, I envision bringing my foot down on the bundle. I picture myself dragging my heel along the ledge of the step, trailing mashed pieces of petal. I imagine what it might feel like to use the toe of my shoe to grind the stems into the ground.
But then the cab honks again and my thoughts are broken. I climb into the car.
As we pull away, I manage not to look in the rearview mirror.
