Page 87 of Road Queens
“Wise,” her mom replied with a chuckle. She was moving slower than usual. Cass suspected Dad had kicked her in the side again, but knew better than to ask. “Here.” She tossed Cass a bag of M&M’s, then quickly turned away, but Cass saw the wince of pain anyway. “To tide you over.”
“Thanks.” As usual, when thinking of the abuse her mother suffered, she had to deal with a roil of emotions: fury, despair, love, and, yeah, it had to be said, contempt. Mom could leave him. Divorce him. Fight back. Call the cops. Meet him at the door with a baseball bat. Just up and leave in the middle of the night. It wasn’t 1955; she had options. But for whatever reason, her mother preferred her status as the official family punching bag.
But that was an old, tired thought, and it got her nowhere. So she tucked the bag of candy under her chin and hustled down the hill to where her dad fulminated. “Here you go.” She set the box down and raised her chin, putting her hand out so the bag plopped into her palm.
He looked her over, frowning. “Lunch isn’t for half an hour.”
“It’s just to tide me over.”
“Mmmmm.” Dad did the sidearm-cast thing and let the line fly. Then he let a string of curses fly as well. “Son of a bitch!”
Cass swallowed a giggle. He’d misjudged the distance and was tangled up in the bushes across the bank. He stomped down the short dock, then back up, glanced around at the tackle boxes, and let out a groan. He halfheartedly tugged at the line; the bushes bent and rustled, but nothing came free.
“Well, at least I’ve got the range. Cass, scoot over there and free it up, wouldja?”
She was already in the water. Thank God it was August.
“And hurry up!”
Or you could get it yourself, but I’m assuming that’s TOTALLY UNTHINKABLE.
She splashed through the water, entertaining dark thoughts.To think I could’ve gone to the MoA with the girls to scope the new Kate Spades and gobble Cinnabons.Amanda could eat two. One right after the other! And didn’t even need a nap after. She was an insatiable miracle. And Cass had long copied Sidney’s trick of triple frosting a mini Cinnabon. The bread was just a vehicle for the frosting anyway.
Cassandra reached the far side, saw his line, pulled gently; the hook wouldn’t come. She cursed herself for being in such a rush to obey that she hadn’t brought the nail clippers.
“Jesus Christ, in the time it took you to do that, I switched reels and put on fresh line and baited the hook!”
“Almost got it, Dad.”
She straightened and turned (“See? Watch!”), and then something hit her eye and slashed a trail of fire all the way up her forehead and into her hairline. She screamed in shock and surprise, and clapped a hand to her face; her fingers were instantly wet with blood.
Then he set the hook.
Hard.
She screamed again. The pain was bad, but the surprise was devastating. Five seconds earlier, nothing hurt, and the only parts of her getting wet were her feet.
She fell to her knees and groped for the line.Gotta grab it, gotta get some slack, it hurts, IT HURRRRRRTS ...
Her father’s voice from far away, like, coming from Mars far away: “Cass? Cassandra? I’m—”
Then a splash she barely registered as she felt for the fishing line again, wound it around her fist, pulled hard, and snapped it off even as her blood streamed ... everywhere.I can’t see! Oh God, did it rip up my eye?
Get a grip, Cass. You’re gonna scare Mom to death. Calm down. You snapped the line; nobody can yank it again, focus on that.
It took a minute, but right around the time she took her own advice
(Remember when you fell off the swing and cut your head? Remember how Mom said scalp wounds bleed a lot and look scary, but they’re usually not serious?)
she heard more splashing. She wiped more blood out of her eyes and looked up to see a partial, blurry, red-tinged vision of her mother crossing the creek. In seconds, her cool hands were locked around Cassandra’s wrists.
“Let me see.”
The voice—the tone—calmed her as nothing else could have. “Is it bad? I can’t see out of my left eye. Mom, I can’t see!”
“You’re not blind,” the most beloved voice in the world assured her. “You can’t see because the blood from your forehead laceration is streaming into your eyes. Hold still.” Cass heard a sharp snip, felt a careful tug, and realized Mom had slowed down long enough to grab Dad’s multitool. It wasn’t the first time she’d had cause to be grateful for Iris Schmitt’s unflappable nature.
Both pieces were now in her mother’s palm.At least it’s an Aberdeen hook.They were softer and quicker to bend, but the longshank made hook removal easier. God forbid if he’d been casting with a circle hook.
