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I turn to find him in the doorway, holding a huge bouquet of wildflowers. Surprisingly, he’s dressed like he gives a shit about his appearance. He’s wearing a short-sleeve button-down shirt that’s about two sizes too big, black dress pants that are an inch too short, and a pair of old running shoes that have been polished to hide the scuff marks.
The worst part is the way my mother’s face lights up.
My dad’s eyes skim over me, narrowing slightly before he plasters on a smile. “Hey, kiddo, it’s good to see you here.”
“Is it?” I glance between them.
He ignores me and rounds the bed, setting the flowers on the side table. He kisses my mother on the forehead. “How’s my girl? Glad you’re awake. Hopefully you’ll be able to come home soon.”
It’s like I’ve entered the Twilight Zone. What if she never remembers? What if she does and she stays anyway? What if the next time she doesn’t survive?
He turns to me. “You should come home too. Running off to your friend’s house doesn’t look good.”
“Why? Because people might find out the truth about you? That you’re an abusive asshole and the reason Mom is lying here?” My stomach twists into a knot of panic and anger.
His eyes flash with ire, and he glances toward the open door. He lowers his voice to a threatening whisper, “You’d be wise to watch your mouth.”
“Or what? What could you possibly do to hurt me? Especially here, with all these witnesses.”
His gaze darts to my mom and back to me.
“Please don’t fight,” Mom whispers.
I don’t have a chance to respond because a nurse knocks on the door. “Hi, Lucy. It’s good to see you’re awake. The doctor wants to run some tests this morning.”
My mom’s relief is palpable. And I get it. I really do. My dad’s anger is a trigger, and she’ll do anything to avoid it.
“What kind of tests?” I ask.
“Do you need to?” Dad narrows his eyes. “How much they gonna cost?”
“The doctor has ordered a CT scan, X-rays, and some bloodwork. It’s all routine, but it’ll take a few hours and most of it will be covered by your insurance policy. We have payment plans for the balance.”
“The Hockey Academy is helping, too.”
“We’re not looking for handouts,” Dad snaps.
“It’s not a handout. They have a family fund and they’re helping me with supplemental insurance forms. These tests are important.”
He seems to realize fighting with me in front of a nurse over Mom’s care probably isn’t the best idea. “Okay. If she needs them, then.”
I check the time. It’s almost nine thirty. “I’ll come back later, unless you want me to stick around, Mom.”
“It’s okay. The doctor and nurses will take good care of me.” She smiles.
I lean over and press a kiss to her cheek. Dad does the same and tells her he’ll be back when his shift is over.
I thank the nurse and leave. I don’t wait for my dad. I just rush through the doors and take the stairs to the parking lot.
Panic hits me as I ride home. Hope is slipping through my fingers, fear taking its place. Worry that I’m going to end up stuck here forever, unable to escape this life, wraps around me like choking vines.
It takes me a little better than twenty minutes to bike home from the hospital. I don’t know how long my mom will be there, or how long the Ballistics’ invitation to sleep in their spare room will last. But I don’t plan to stay in this cabin. Not with my dad.
I see this place through different eyes as I walk my bike around to the side, out of sight in case Dad comes down the driveway. There’s a path that leads through the woods to the road, so I can leave without running into him again.
With my bike stashed, I open the front door. The smell of cigarettes seems stronger than ever. Empty beer cans litter the counter and the sink. My hands itch to clean up, but it’s not my mess. I don’t even glance at the deck, not yet. First I need to gather as much of my stuff as I can.
I fill a small duffle with clothes and slide my notebooks and the textbook for my online class into my backpack. Once both bags are stuffed to bursting, I leave my bedroom. My throat feels tight, and my stomach rolls as I open the sliding door and step outside into the hot summer morning. Guilt tears through me. An entire section of railing is missing, a gaping hole left behind.
