Page 142 of Whispers of You
“You think your grades are gonna save you? That you’ll get out of here?” Mom scoffed.
That familiar ache flared to life in my chest. The deep longing for…more. For parents that cared about me. For a true family. For someone who loved me. For escape.
I didn’t give my mom a single word. It wouldn’t matter whether I defended myself or played down my actions. She would still find a reason to hate me.
Her eyes narrowed on me. “You think you’re better than me?”
“No.” Because her blood ran through my veins. Her blood andhis.
“Yes, you do. Ever since you started hanging out with that Hartley boy, you think you’re fancy like they are. But you’re not. You’re trash. Nothing. The only reason they pay you any mind is because they pity you.”
Pain lanced my chest.Lies. Lies. Lies.I chanted the word over and over. I wouldn’t let her in. I wouldn’t let her twist my mind.
“You’re nothing!” Spittle flew from my mother’s mouth. “You’re worse than nothing. You ruin everything!”
A broken sob flew from her throat, and she collapsed in on herself. My throat tightened, but I pushed back from my desk and rose. “Come on, let’s get you to bed.”
I reached out to take her arm, but she ripped it from my grasp. “Don’t touch me! You took him from me,” she wailed.
I hadn’t done anything. I’d hidden every bruise and cracked rib. But he’d gone too far. And the police had stepped in.
I’d never felt more relief than I did when I’d lain in that hospital bed. When the chief told me that my father was going away and that I would be safe.
Mom’s hysteria picked up a notch, forcing me back to the present. “Let me help you. Please.”
“I hate you,” she hissed.
“I know.” I took her arm again, guiding her into the hall of our doublewide and toward her room. The weight of those words was burned into me. The knowledge of her hate. Of living with it every single day.
I flicked on the light in my mom’s bedroom and winced. I cleaned the trailer from top to bottom every Sunday, but it had been a while since I’d been able to sneak into her room. She was home too often. So, I shouldn’t have been surprised that it looked as if a tornado had swept through.
My nose wrinkled. That same stale-alcohol scent was here, but something else, too. Vomit.
I breathed through my mouth and guided my mom to her bed. The tears still came, but her words were indiscernible now. That was a mercy. It didn’t change my knowledge of her hatred, but at least I didn’t have to hear it over and over.
I pulled back the covers, and Mom plopped down, mumbling something. I bent and grabbed one of her boots. With one swift tug, it came off. I moved to the other and struggled to pull it free. Working the boot back and forth, it finally gave way.
“Lie back,” I said, my voice soft.
She obeyed.
Lifting Mom’s legs, I positioned her in the bed and pulled the blankets over her. By the time I got her situated, soft snores filled the air.
The sound brought a margin of relief but not enough. Because waiting for Mom to wake up from one of these episodes was like playing Russian roulette. She’d be remorseful at times. And while she’d never actually apologize, she’d tell me that I looked nice and give me a couple of dollars for school lunch. Other times, she woke in a fury that had me running for cover.
Everything inside me clenched at the thought, my body holding on to a million different memories, and none of them pleasant. But it spurred me into motion.
I headed down the hall and into the living room. The door to the trailer was open, and the contents of my mom’s purse were dumped on the floor. She hadn’t wasted a second getting to me so she could tell me just how much she despised me.
Grabbing her bag, I pawed through the contents until my fingers closed around jagged metal. Taking these risks was stupid. I could end up with a mark on my record. Or worse, be placed in foster care. I knew how rough that second option could be, and there was no way I was going back.
But I couldn’t resist. Because when the worst happened, there was only one place I wanted to be.
I’d just pray that I didn’t get pulled over on my way. At least my fifteenth birthday had brought with it my learner’s permit. It wasn’t like I needed driver’s ed. My mom had made me drive her home from bars since I was thirteen.
I stepped out into the cool night air, pulling the door closed behind me. I locked it and headed to the Plymouth that was on its last legs. I didn’t want to think about what would happen when it went. It was my only saving grace. My one tool of escape.
Sliding behind the wheel, I pulled the seat up and started the engine. It took two tries for it to catch, but I breathed a sigh of relief when it finally did. I backed out of our gravel drive and onto the paved road.
