We were living as part of another farm community, this one smaller, in the country outside of Atlanta. It was nearly midnight, and as far as Janet was concerned, the yelling had gone on long enough. She'd had enough. She was over it. Done.
She got a paper bag, put a few clothes in it, and stomped down the road. The dark, gravel road. But she was stomping. She didn't notice.
Janet stomped a good long way before she began to feel the rocks under feet, hear the night noises, realize what she had committed herself to. But if you know Janet--well, she's stubborn. Let's leave it at that.
A few steps more, and she began to hear footsteps on the gravel behind her. Still mighty dark. She sped up, not daring to turn around. On came the footsteps, getting faster behind her. Louder.
And finally--"Janet?" It was Dan, wonderful, safe, Dan. Linda's boyfriend, personal Prince Charming to each of us. Janet's relief quickly turned to sobs. Dan knew all the right things to say, respected Janet's anguish, got her safely home without forcing her to concede her point. After all, she was right. She shouldn't have to put up with it anymore. But there we were. Just kids.
Janet was the only one of us who ever took a stand about our parents' fighting, the only one who ever physically got between them. And therefore she was the only one of us who ever got hit herself. But she was also the one who took care of my dad in his last year of life, found him a place to live, did his laundry, made sure he had food, checked in on him daily. Janet was the one by his bedside when he finally slipped away.
The girl's got guts. And heart.
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