I frown at the thought, thinking of all the time Frank Wilson spent with my mother while my father was on patrol. I push the anger and those thoughts away, turning to her. “What else do you need me to do before I get some air?”
She holds my eyes, and I swear I see a flicker of amusement. “Just roll me to my room and get me the remote. I had to wash myself on my own, since you were late.”
“Okay,” I ignore the jab and reach for the wheelchair still sitting at the table. Blood smears across the handle of the chair, a warm, slick feeling against my injured hand. I ignore it and roll her to her bedroom.
This time, I don’t bother to look at the family photos hanging along the hallway walls. I keep my mind on the task at hand and guide her to the side of her bed.
“I don’t want to get in bed.” My mom’s voice takes on the whine of a child. “I want to sit in a chair.”
“Youarein a chair,” I deadpan, grabbing the remote from the nightstand and turning on the small flat screen TV. Despite the place being a run down fuckery, it still has internet access.
“I want the recliner from the living room.”
I pause, just as the home screen illuminates the dimly lit space. “So you want me to move you in there?”
“No,” she says, shaking her mop of gray hair. “That TV doesn’t work.”
“Okay, so then do you want me to put you in the bed?” I hold the remote with my uninjured hand, still pointing it toward the screen.
“No,” she huffs, like my inability to read her mind is an inconvenience. “I want the recliner from the living room moved in here.”
My lips part, but nothing comes out.
Mom lets out another heavy, pained sigh. “After everything we’ve done for you, I wouldn’t expect you to balk at such a menial task, Rue. All it takes is?—”
I don’t wait for her to finish before I exit the room, tossing the remote on the bed.Thisis the reason I’m here. She could ruin me with one simple phone call. The rational part of my brain tells me it’s just a bluff.
But the other part—the small, terrified child inside—still gives in to her every demand.
I latch onto the back of the tan leather recliner, and tug at it, the legs scraping so loudly against the floor that even Bullet turns to look. We make eye contact, and I shrug.
“You know what she’s got over my head.”
He seems to understand and turns back to face the window.
I grit my teeth and lug the big fucking chair down the hallway and bump it over the transition piece between the hardwood and the carpet in her room. Somehow, I manage to get it positioned on the other side of the bed, where there’s the most space for it.
My mother watches the entire time, keeping quiet about the nasty crimson stain I’m leaving on the side. When it’s finally done, and I’m left trying to catch my breath, I go for the wheelchair.
“You’re going to have to take the side handle off for me to move into the chair.” Mom huffs as I ready for the transition of her from one chair to another. “And don’t pull me too hard. I’m too old for that.”
I nod, and inwardly grimace through the awkward moving of my mother’s small frame. She’s no bigger than me, which is the only reason it goes somewhat smoothly. Still, she whines and wails through the whole thing, and I’m left with sweat beading up across my forehead by the time I reach for the remote.
“Here.” I set it on the arm of the chair. “I’m going for a walk now.”
She picks up the remote with a careful two fingers, her lip curling in disgust. I’m about to ask her what the problem is, when I see I used my bad hand. There’s a smear of blood on the remote and the arm of the chair.
“I’ll clean it,” I say with a sigh, my shoulders dropping.
She glares at me, and then wipes it across her black sweatpants. “Just go get yourairfirst, Rue. It might help with your attitude.”
I bite down on my lip, but don’t wait around in case she changes her mind. I grab my flannel jacket hanging on the back of the couch and slide my feet into my shoes.
“Don’t forget it’s hunting season,” Mom calls from the back bedroom. “Plenty of trespassers out and about, I’m sure.”
“Okay,” I mutter, though I’m not sure she hears. I rip the front door open, and as soon as I do Bullet shoots through the small gap like, well, abullet.He darts out into the trees, his bay echoing in the evening sun.
I step out onto the porch, shivering as the cold breeze brushes against my skin. Part of me wants to turn around and walk back inside the house—where the only threatening presence is my mother—but I force myself to take a step forward.
