You forced me to forget for so many years. I’m trying to remember. In my mind, I see the silhouette of the brick duplex in Cleveland Heights; the screened porch with a patch of mud underneath that never dried out; the rust-blemished, faded-blue swing set in the back; the lilac tree whose blossoms would, a month or so after we left, dangle like bunches of grapes; our down coats and snow boots and hats and scarves and the other odds and ends that might have kept us warm; your dishes and comforters and towels; the tulip-shaped Arabic coffee cups I used as teacups for my teddy bears; my books and Barbies and purple bicycle; the phone my father called me on; our memories of anything that had happened before you turned the key in the ignition that day.

Before I understood what happened, understood that you stole me, before I escaped you, I used to think about riding a purple bicycle. I didn’t know I was having a memory. I thought I was daydreaming. Sitting on the stoop of a suburban Midwest walk-up apartment or the porch of a California one-horse-town bungalow, I’d touch imaginary tassels, flip the nonexistent bell, rest my foot on the back, and push off down the driveway in my mind. I’d peer back at an imaginary brick duplex shaded by maples. The trees’ helicopter pods would twirl, hover, fall.

The car engine turned over for several minutes while you cursed. I put my fingers in my ears, and when the engine caught hold and sputtered to life, you had to repeat yourself several times and lean your whole upper body toward the back of the car to pull my fingers out of my ears as you waited for the car to warm up.

“For your birthday, we’re going to McDonald’s,” you said.

“No friends?”

“This is better.” The snow had stopped, and the windshield wipers squeaked against the salt-streaked glass. McDonald’s was on the way to the freeway. We passed the big yellow M and the brick building and pulled onto the on-ramp.

“There it is! Mama, we passed it.”

“For your birthday, we’re going to Cedar Point. OK?”

You sped up to merge onto the freeway. I tensed my body and gripped the passenger seat in front of me to keep from falling. My stomach ached, like there was a big rock pressing against my insides, and the pain migrated into my muscles, and my arms and thighs began to ache, too. The achiness would stick with me, stuck with me more than anything or anyone except for you. In the years ahead, my stomach would learn to always brace itself against sudden disappointment, suck itself in so far it might have grazed my spine. With you, everything was always changing in an instant. I could never feel settled.

“But I’m hungry.”

“We’ll eat there.”