Paint Chips

by Susie Finkbeiner

  “Pete?” I said. “Pete, you okay?”

  He didn’t answer.

  My mom reached in and pulled me by the arm. I followed the tug, crawling to the icy pavement. She held me, once again, lifting me in her arms.

  The rescue workers moved quickly to remove Pete from the car. They had to tear the metal back to get him out in one piece.

  A helicopter landed on the road, waiting to rush Pete to a Grand Rapids hospital.

  “You have to let us go with him,” my mom cried as they carried him on the backboard.

  “There’s no room,” the pilot said. “You’ll have to ride in the ambulance.”

  “I need to be with him,” she screamed. “He can’t die all by himself! Not him, too!”

  “You’ve got to back up,” the man said.

  A police officer helped us into her squad car. She drove, siren blaring, to the hospital.

  Pete lived in the Intensive Care Unit. My mom spent every day there, arriving at six in the morning and staying until eleven in the evening when they forced her to leave.

  The doctors advised her to take Pete off life support. They didn’t believe he would ever wake up. A spinal cord injury left him empty. Living dead. His organs could be used to save several other lives.

  She refused. She couldn’t let him go. She had already lost far too much.

  Again, I relied on the West family. But this time, I was even more alone.

  ~*~

  “You know we always loved having you at our house, right?” Paul reached over and held my hand.

  I liked the way his hand felt on mine. But I couldn’t let him touch me. I still had so much to tell him about my life. I pulled my hand back.

  “Sorry. Lola’s rules. No hand-holding,” I said.

  “I totally forgot.” He crossed his arms. “Sorry, but I hate that rule.”

  “It’s okay. We’re just kind of close to breaking rules now anyway. You know, being alone.”

  “So, what happened with your grandfather?” Paul asked. “Was he really dead?”

  “Yes. My mom told the police what happened. They believed her and didn’t press charges.” I stood. “Listen, I need more coffee. You want some?”

  Without waiting for his answer, I grabbed his mug and went to the kitchen.

  “Okay, God, I’m really nervous. I just need to know if I’m supposed to tell him all this stuff.” I prayed out loud as I poured the coffee. “I just don’t want him to think I’m terrible.”

  “If he thinks you’re terrible then he ain’t worth keepin’ around,” Peace said from the kitchen table.

  “I didn’t know anybody was up,” I said, turning around, surprised.

  “But, you know, I think he’s gonna understand. You just gotta trust that he ain’t like the other guys.”

  “Yeah. It’s just scary.”

  “I know. Just trust.” She stood. “I’m gonna be prayin’ for you, Dorothea. You ain’t got nothin’ to worry about.”

  “Thank you.”

  She came near to me, put her hand on my forearm, over the black scar. The reminder of the old life. “All what happened to you, that ain’t who you are. You just gotta remember that.”

  I watched her walk out of the room before grabbing the coffee and stepping back out to Paul.

  “Here you go,” I said, handing him a mug.

  “Thanks.” He looked up at me. “Dot, is this getting too hard for you to talk about? If it is, then I really don’t need to know. I want you to feel comfortable.”

  “Listen, you have to understand something; this gets way worse. And some of it might make you see me differently.”

  “Remember the contract?”

  “Yeah. But, Paul, you don’t know what happened to me. There are things I did that will change what you think of me. You might not be able to handle it.”

  Paul looked at me and sipped his coffee. “I want you to know that you can trust me.”

  “I’m trying.” I sat down. “Let’s just get through Pete’s funeral. Then I’ll need a break.”

  “That’s fine. Take your time.”

  ~*~

  Pete died almost a year after the accident. He got some kind of infection that his body couldn’t fight off. My mom sat with him until the end. She called the Wests to have them tell me. Mrs. West held me until I stopped crying.

  The visitation was the night before the funeral. I came with the Wests. By then people already filled the funeral home, standing in silent circles in the stuffy room.

  Flower arrangements lined the walls and framed the casket. The dull smell of carnations thickened the air.

  What I remember about that day is gray, black, and white. As I walked in, hushed whispers roamed around the room amongst the mourners.

  “That’s his sister.”

  “Poor girl.”

  “They lost their father not long ago.”

  “Her mother isn’t well.”

  I walked between the circles. No one stopped me. They all parted to one side or the other. They didn’t want to touch me. Tragedy might rub off on them. My feet seemed to glide across the floor in my black patent leather shoes. The people followed me, but only with their eyes.

  I stood at the coffin, looked at Pete. He was alone.

  I touched the smooth, gray outside of the casket. Traced a trail in the soft, blue velvet lining.

  Pete’s face looked calm. Makeup caked his skin. His eyes were sealed shut. Lips were pulled into a straight line. They’d parted his hair on the wrong side. I wanted to fix it, but couldn’t reach up that far.

  Instead, I put my small hand on his. He would have grown to have large hands. Like our dad’s. I imagined him using those hands to help other people. Holding his wife’s hand on their wedding day. He would have cradled his babies with those hands.

  But all of that wouldn’t happen. I’d known that for a year. He hadn’t moved on his own since before the accident. When he hugged me to comfort me. Machines did all the breathing for his lungs and the beating for his heart. A tube in his side had pushed food into his stomach. A needle in his arm gave him water. He hadn’t lived for a year. My mom just couldn’t understand that.

  I rubbed his stiff, cold hand with my warm fingers. I didn’t know what I should feel. Sadness or joy or relief? I couldn’t understand the grief.

  I moved my face inches from his ear. The boy smell of dirt and sweat and warmth was gone. I whispered to him, knowing that he didn’t hear me. But I needed to say it all the same.

  “Pete, I love you. I’ll miss you every day.”

  I walked away, my hand cold and smelling like death. My heart raw.

  Cora – 47

  “How did you sleep last night?” Lisa asked, handing me a coffee and brownie.

  “Thank you.” I smiled. “Actually, I slept great. I didn’t even take a sleeping pill.”

  She sat next to me. “I’m so glad.”

  “How about you?”

  “Well, not so well,” she said. “I was up all night thinking about you and Marlowe.”

  ~*~

  The end of the driveway had a dip in it before it exited to the dirt road. After all the rain, it had turned into a trench of mud. The truck got stuck as I tried to pull out. Neither Marlowe nor I were strong enough to push the large hunk of metal through the muck.

  “Are you strong enough to walk?” I asked my sister.

  “I don’t think so.” She held her sides. “I think I might have a few broken ribs.”

  “He’d catch us anyway.” I turned to her. “We have to kill him.”

  “No, Cora. We can’t do that.” She spoke through a fat lip and missing tooth.

  “You really think he should live? Look at what he did to you. He’s done nothing but try to destroy us.”

  “Let God take care of that, Cora.”

  “God? As if He really cares.”

  “He does,” Marlowe said, quietly. “God is going to get us both out of here somehow. We just have to trust Him.”

&nbs
p; A flashlight jerked around in the darkness. I saw it in the rearview mirror.

  “Father’s coming,” I said.

  A string of acid words flew from his mouth. He shoved his weight at the truck. Unsuccessful, he trudged around to the driver side door and opened it.

  “You.” He pointed to Marlowe. “Get out here and help me push.”

  “She’s too hurt,” I cried.

  “Are you back-talkin’?” The whiskey on his breath burned my eyes.

  “Let me do it.” I tried to climb out past him.

  Marlowe grabbed my hand.

  “I’m coming,” she called to our father. He went to the back of the truck. She whispered to me, “Cora, when we get you unstuck, you just drive away. Leave me here to deal with him. If you take me with you, Ducky will find us and kill us. I’m serious.”

  “Girl, where is ya?” my father bellowed.

  “I don’t want to lose you again, Marlowe,” I said.

  “Then let’s pray that God brings us back together.” She smiled at me. “Just do as I say.”

  “But you aren’t strong enough.”

  “No. But the Lord is.”

  I nodded in agreement, incapable of winning that argument.

  She climbed slowly from the cab and walked to the back of the truck. She leaned her small, thin, battered body into the hard metal and pushed alongside my father. Somehow, the truck started to move.

  I hesitated. The beating of my heart sounded in my ears.

  “Do what I told you, Cora! Go!” Marlowe screamed, standing in front of our father, protecting me yet again.

  As I drove away, I looked in my side mirror. I watched him punch her in the back of the head. I knew that he would kill her.

  It took me the rest of the night to drive down the mountain. Terror struck me whenever I saw headlights, sure that the sheriff or Ducky came to take me away. But no one came after me.

  I followed signs that pointed north, driving until I ran out of gas. The sun crested the horizon. I walked to a gas station. Sold the truck to a man for seven-hundred dollars cash. He thought he got a great deal. But what he got was part of a dirty secret, a portion of a ruined family.

  The man gave me a ride to the bus station.

  “I need a ticket,” I said, to the lady at the counter.

  “Where you wanna go?” she asked before looking up.

  “How far can I get?”

  “Furthest ride tonight is goin’ to Michigan.”

  “Then that’s where I want to go.” I pulled cash from my bag. “How much is it?”

  She looked at me. A long scar went from her left temple all the way to the corner of her mouth.

  “You know it’s gonna be cold there. Probably snow up to your belly button by now.”

  “I don’t care,” I said.

  “And ain’t ya’ too young to be goin’ all that way by your lonesome?”

  “Do you get paid to ask questions or sell tickets?” I asked, covering my fear with attitude.

  She rolled her eyes and passed a ticket under the glass. I slipped my money to her.

  “If you don’t mind me sayin’, you need to eat somethin’. You’re too skinny around the face. You gotta have a little more meat on your bones to make it through northern winters.” She pointed to a sandwich truck. “Go on and get yourself somethin’ to eat there. Put it on my tab. Just tell ’em I sent you over.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.” I looked at my feet. “I’m sorry I was so rude.”

  “Oh, it ain’t no thing, darlin’.” She laughed. “Ain’t nothin’ I never heared before. You gotta be strong sometime. Don’t always know who you can trust.”

  She looked me over.

  “You okay, honey?” she asked.

  “No. But once I get a little farther away I will be.”

  “What ya’ runnin’ away from, sugar?”

  I looked toward the mountain.

  She nodded.

  “You from up there, ain’t ya?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’ve never been this far away from home.”

  “I know what you’re runnin’ from. Used to live up there myself. Got myself a job servin’ drinks, but it turned up bein’ different. Had to let men ‘visit’ me and do all kind of stuff to me.” She pointed to the pink scar on her face. “See that? Ducky had his man do that to me.”

  “Why would he have done that?”

  “I runned away.” She felt it with her fingertips. “That’s what he done when he catched me.”

  “How did you get away?”

  “Got sick. They kicked me out. Best thing ever happened to me.” She smiled. “Darlin’, you’re gonna get froze up north without a proper coat.”

  “I’ll figure something out.”

  “Nah. There’s a church in Johnson City collects coats.” She turned and pulled a large coat from a box behind her. “This here’s one of them. Take it.”

  She stepped out from behind the counter and handed me the coat. She walked with a limp.

  “What happened to your leg?” I asked.

  “Well, before Ducky cut me loose, his man broke my leg so I’d never forget him.”

  “I am so sorry.”

  “Well, weren’t none of your doin’.”

  “If you see a girl come through that looks like me, will you give her a ticket to Michigan?”

  “Sure will,” she answered.

  I handed her more money for Marlowe’s ticket.

  “When you get up north, give my cousin a call. She needs a babysitter.” Her thick fingers worked writing on a piece of paper. “This here’s her name and number. She done married herself a preacher man. They got ten kids. She needs a little help.”

  “Thank you.”

  “God bless you, honey. I’ll be prayin’ for you.”

  I got a sandwich and some milk and put them in my bag. When I climbed on the bus, I found a seat closest to the back. Watching all the others board the bus, I scanned the faces, fearing that someone would come looking for me.

  After the bus started moving, I felt around my bag for the milk and food. My hand touched the small box. I’d forgotten taking it from my mother’s bedside table. Pulling it from the bag, I smelled the cedar wood. The box was made simply. Just wood and a small, brass clasp. I opened it. The bus hit a bump and I dropped the box. The contents spilled out. Tiny blue paint chips littered the floor.

  Dot – 48

  “Dorothea,” Lola called from the kitchen, with an off pitch song in her voice. It made me nervous.

  I walked down the steps and into the kitchen. Right to the coffee maker. I didn’t want to make eye contact with her. She was sure to be upset about how late Paul and I were up talking the night before.

  “You got a few pieces of mail yesterday,” she said, pushing two envelopes toward me.

  “What are they?” I asked, sipping my coffee.

  “One is from the college. The other is from the state hospital.”

  “The mental hospital?” My stomach turned. I set my mug down. “Why didn’t you tell me about these yesterday?”

  “I’m sorry, dear. I was just a little distracted by the phone call with Promise.” She winked at me. “And I didn’t want to bother you at half past two this morning when you finally came inside from talking with Paul.”

  “Oh, about that. I’m sorry.”

  “Just be more mindful next time.” She touched the envelopes. “Why don’t you open them?”

  I tore into the college letter first.

  “Dear Ms. Dorothea Schmidt,” I read out loud, skimming the words. “Accepted. I was accepted into college!”

  Lola nearly jumped over the table to pull me into a tight hug. She held me tight, crying and laughing all at the same time. The other girls came into the kitchen, dressed and ready for church.

  “Who’s filming a flip-flopping Lifetime movie in here?” Grace asked, helping herself to my coffee.

  “Man, it’s so cheesy in here I gotta get me some chips,” Faith said.

&n
bsp; “Dorothea was accepted into college,” Lola told them.

  Grace joined our hug. Then Peace and Faith and Mercy. They crushed me.

  “I knew you’d make it,” Grace said. She cussed when she realized that her mascara got smudged. “Do you even know how hard it is to get these lashes right? Shoot.”

  After our hug, Lola looked at me.

  “And the other letter?”

  “Later,” I said. “Maybe after church. I need to be alone for that one.”

  After church, Paul picked me up for lunch at his house. While we ate, I couldn’t take my mind off the letter I had stuffed in my jacket pocket. The words could say that my mom was getting worse again. That the woman she’d once been disappeared. That she would never recover. I worried about her wasting the rest of her life in that institution without allowing me to see her again.

  I made it through lunch and helped Kristi with the dishes. But that letter nagged at my mind constantly.

  “Hey, Dot,” Paul whispered into my ear as I dried the dinner plates. “You okay?”

  “Sure,” I answered, not looking at him.

  “Good. I have something to show you.” He turned me toward him, his hands on my shoulders. “It’s a surprise. You have to close your eyes and promise not to look.”

  “You’re a crazy person.”

  “I know. It’s great.” He grinned as he led me outside.

  I closed my eyes, and he spun me around until I got dizzy. He pulled me by the hand, steadying me as I stumbled. I heard the click of a doorknob turning, the creak of an opening door.

  “Step up,” he said. “Ten steps up.”

  I followed his instructions, holding on to him for fear of falling. After a few more turns, he stopped me.

  “You didn’t open your eyes, did you?” he asked.

  “No. I love surprises.”

  “Okay.” His voice filled with excitement. “Open your eyes.”

  The color yellow surrounded me. Yellow walls, yellow carpet.

  “This was my bedroom,” I whispered, putting my hands on my cheeks.

  The room was empty of all my old things. But my memory filled in the space. I imagined my bed against the wall, my stuffed animals lined up on the pillow. The posters and pictures that hung above my dresser.