Adrenalin floods my system until I realize it must be Dad. Then it’s as if my lungs turn solid and sink into my belly.
“What are you doing home?” I snap before he even makes it to my door.
“What are you doing here?” Dad obviously just woke up. He’s leaning on the doorframe, unshaven, his hair standing up on one side, wearing nothing but a pair of boxers. A bottle dangles from his fingers, but his gaze is still clear.
“I needed to change my clothes,” I say evasively.
He blinks a couple of times. “You look pale. What happened? Are you sick?” His eyes rake me from toes to crown. The concern is obvious in his voice. He isn’t drunk enough to dismiss it. He’s trying to be an actual dad for the first time in . . . how long?
I want to snap at him, but instead go back to my laces, which are being stubborn. “No, I just . . . a friend got hurt at school today.”
Dad’s silent and I’m praying he’ll leave so I can leave and we can ignore each other again. But he runs a hand through his hair and steps into my room. “A friend?” he asks. “Is it that boy who came here with you?”
I go still.
So he’s drunk enough to bring it up, but not to mention who else was there that day. Or why I left. Or the fact that we haven’t spoken since. My anger flares. The shaking in my fingers now fueled by rage. Having finally won the war with my boots, I stand and stamp to settle my feet into them. “I’m leaving.”
“Tully—”
“Don’t,” I snarl. I glare at Dad, let him see that I’m pissed. “Don’t you dare. Don’t even speak to me.”
“You wait a second, young lady—”
“Leave me the fuck alone!” I scream at him.
Dad tenses, but doesn’t back off. He folds his arms over his bare chest, the bottle still dangling from one hand, and glares. “Shut your disrespectful mouth.”
“Respectful? You think I can give you respect?” I gape, truly surprised. “Have you even looked at yourself?”
I am filled with revulsion for him. I don’t care how he thinks or feels when he’s sober. I don’t care if he still wants to be a parent. He lost the right to do that two years ago when he forced me into a situation I wasn’t ready to handle. When he made me responsible for our survival. When he asked me to give myself up.
He made me dirty. And I will never forgive him for it.
He’s seething now. “You know it killed me when your mother died.”
“So you decided to drag me into hell with you, I guess?” I hiss.
His head jerks back a little, then away.
I’m not letting him escape this. “I miss her, too! You have no idea how much I wish she was here. But she’s not. Only you. It’s your fault that we live like this.” I gesture around the room. To our house. “It’s your fault we’re both miserable. Why are you even here? You’re supposed to be at work.”
He blinks and I know it before he even says the words. “I . . . I got some time off.”
I go cold. “You lost your job again.”
His face hardens. “You don’t have a clue what it’s like out there. How I bust my butt to keep you fed and clothed.” He throws the hand wide that’s holding the bottle, almost smacking me with it in the process.
Something inside me snaps. “I’m leaving.” I say the words before I can reconsider them. “You’ll never have to feed or clothe me again, asshole.”
I can see the war inside him, between being free of me and feeling even more rotten about himself.
“You can’t leave,” he says thickly. “You’re not eighteen yet. I’ll report you missing. The state will bring you back.”
“If they find me. Then I’ll run away again.” I mean it. He can tell.
One side of his mouth turns up. “I wouldn’t take you if they did. You can rot in a foster home for all I care. That what you want, Tulip?”
I scowl. “Wouldn’t be any different than living in this house.”
The blow lands. I see him blanch. But he covers quickly, scoffs, and runs a hand through his hair so it stands up on both sides.
“You’re not leaving.” He sneers. “No one else will take you.”
Then he’s gone, shuffling across the hall to his room, sucking the wind out of my sails even faster than he sucks that cheap whiskey out of the bottle.
No one else will take you.
He put sounds to my fear.
Ever since Mom was diagnosed, it’s felt like I’m walking on shifting ground, an island in a sea of darkness. Like the weight of everything that happens is pushing me into it and I can’t get above water. My feet sank first, then my knees. The last couple of years I’ve been wading through water to my chest. Always, it gets deeper, and I’m more and more afraid that one day the sand will fall out from beneath me and I’ll sink until I drown.
My head has barely been above water since Chris walked out of my room two weeks ago. And until this moment, I was sure it would kill me.
But I see the truth now.
I see that it isn’t the world killing me.
I am.
I look at my hands. My stupid, cursed hands that leave me open to anyone who gets close. Yet time and time again I pull in the wrong people. Ms. Pine’s words from that first session come echoing back to me.
People like Chris are a lot less likely to harm you. You need more people like that in your life, because they’re good. They can be trusted with things—especially the smaller things. Which means you don’t need to be constantly watching for the moment you’ll be let down.
Half an hour later, thoughts swirling, I get there: I’m done being ashamed of what my father put me through. It’s time to let the right people in.
Just like that, I’ve made the decision. It terrifies me, but I can feel how it’s right.
I’m leaving. Now.
I grab my school bag and dig through the pockets until my fingers reach the bottom and close on Ms. Pine’s creased and softened card with her cell phone number on it.
If you ever need help, or if there’s ever something you can’t deal with on your own, you call me. Anytime. That phone is always on, even in the middle of the night.
I bite my lip. There’s only one way to find out if she meant it. Pausing in the hall to make sure Dad’s still in his room, I hustle back to the kitchen, to the phone, and dial the number.
When it begins to ring, I allow myself a tiny prayer.
Let her pick up. Please, let her pick up.
“Tully? Is that you? Are you okay? Where are you?” Ms. Pine’s voice is frantic. The fear inside me breaks and I almost laugh. I can’t get a word in to reassure her that I’m fine.
“I—I’m at home,” I whisper. “I need to leave here. Forever. I was wondering if you could help—”
On the other end of the line she lets out a huge breath. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
~
I’m a whirlwind. I grab my backpack, throw in the clothes, Mom’s jewelry, a second pair of shoes, my toothbrush . . . I pack like I’m not coming back. Because I’m not. I won’t let Dad drag me into death, too. He’s wrong. About all of it. About me. Chris saw something worthwhile in me. Ms. Pine, too. If they could, there must be others who would, too.
Faster, faster. I pack all the small things that won’t hurt when I see them. I empty the envelope in the back of my underwear drawer of my pathetic savings. I’m almost done when a creak from the hallway floorboard sounds. I whirl, then go still.
Dad is standing in the door, mouth slack, an erratic light in his eye.
“You’re really doing it?” he says, his voice chillingly low.
I need a window, a door, a chance.
But there’s no room. No place to go. No fight for me.
I take a single step before one of his great paws closes on my upper arm. I twist, try to get a
way. But he’s bigger and heavier and stronger. Especially when he yanks me around and throws a punch, right at my jaw.
Starbursts flare behind my eyelids. A second later the pain explodes in the side of my face.
He cranks his arm back again. I twist and kick and cry out. He doesn’t even respond. Just pounds at me again, and again, and again. Each punch punctuated by a word. “You. Ain’t. Leavin’. Ever.” Until I’m on the floor, my hope and strength seeping out along with the blood I can see now. The blows stop for a moment and I push to my hands and knees, shaking.
Then his hand closes on my throat, throwing me backward onto the floor, cutting off the words, strangling me.
“You think you can leave? Tell people what a bastard I am? Huh?”
I can’t get any oxygen. I bat at his arms, but I can’t get a grip.
A tunnel opens before me, the darkness creeping in on the edge of my vision. His face turns from red to purple. He shifts his weight and for a fraction of a second there’s release.
I suck in air, along with his putrid breath, but then with a garbled noise in my throat, it’s gone again.
His hands are on my throat. His knee is in my stomach. His face is twisted, crazed.
I’m clawing.
Dad’s squeezing.
There’s no air.
No air.
He’s killing me.
“Not gonna let you . . .” he pants, again and again. “Not gonna let you . . . not gonna let you . . .”
He’s closer now. My struggles are weakening. The pressure behind my eyes is immense. Painful. Clouds my vision with a haze of lightning.
I bat at him again, then feel myself sliding.
That’s when I remember my curse can be a gift.
I can’t get pry him off. But I can touch him. His skin.
So I do. I claw at his cheeks, let my fingers and palms catch on his skin. And with each pass, he feels what it’s like to have the air stolen from you, and he turns more purple. He ducks his head and gasps like a fish. His eyes widen, bloodshot and yellow.
I give him more.
I force myself to ignore the growing pain in my chest, the panic screaming at me. Instead I remember the years we’ve had since Mom died. The fear he brought to my life. The pain. The shadows in my mind that won’t leave even after the real shadows left my room.
He shrieks a ragged cry. I feel something wet and cold on my cheeks. I’m crying.
He ducks his head, but I grab at him with both hands. I’m weakening. But I will force him to confront this before he takes me.
Then I find his wrist, hold on while he struggles, hold the images in my head.
His whispered voice, telling me to give myself to a stranger. The shadowy shapes of a man I didn’t know, the pain, the ugliness that stayed with me forever after that night. The way it stole everything. And he didn’t care enough. He took the money and told himself he’d fed me. But he’d caged my soul.
He groans again, but I’m losing my grip.
“Stop it, Tulip! Stop it! You have to stop!” He’s crying, too, I think. But I can’t be sure because my vision is narrowing. Then I’m scrabbling for his skin again because he keeps moving. Shifting head, hunching shoulders. Using his weight on his arm. But he’s sobbing, too.
“Can’t you see, Tulip? It’s her fault. It’s all her fault. She shouldn’t have left us. If she was still here we’d be happy. So you can’t leave, too . . .”
My strength dissolves.
My hands slip away.
The tunnel deepens, echoing with his cries.
And then the darkness slides over everything.
Chapter 40
I’ve woken after too many beatings not to know the feeling: the disorientation. The slow awareness of pain. But something is different this time. My eyelids flutter open to a dark room that smells sharply of disinfectant. Something beeps incessantly, and the sounds aren’t right—the rolling of carts. The buzz of an intercom. Chatter outside the door.
I gasp and sit up—or try to. My muscles aren’t working properly and the pain in my throat is so bad I don’t even want to breathe.
“Shhhh, don’t try to talk. You’re in the hospital. You’re safe.” A warm hand lands on my shoulder. I flinch, try to twist out from under it. But I can barely move. My throat feels as if it’s full of broken glass. My neck aches and I can’t turn my head.
The sound of chair legs scooting on a linoleum floor is followed by rustling and a click. Suddenly, the room is bathed in dull light from a small lamp to my left.
There’s a shadow and I tense, but it’s Ms. Pine.
I see her and the whole nightmare comes rushing back.
I was leaving. Dad tried to kill me.
Frantic, I grab for her. She pulls me into her chest, one hand smoothing my hair, the other wrapped tightly around my shoulders.
“It’s okay,” she whispers in my ear. “It’s okay. You’re going to be okay.”
I want to cry, but the pain in my throat is intense, and now I remember why.
We sit that way for a few minutes, me trembling like a leaf, her murmuring soothing words.
When I finally feel strong enough I sit back. She doesn’t move away, one hand sliding back down to the sheets, to tangle with mine.
She’s in bad shape. Her hair is half out of its bun, trailing down the back of her neck. Her blouse is wrinkled, and before she sits down I notice the jeans she’s wearing have a large, brown stain on the knee.
I open my mouth, but she holds up a hand.
“Don’t try to talk. We have a notepad here for you, if you need anything you can ask that way. Your throat . . . you’re going to be all right. But your throat needs to heal.” She bites her bottom lip. “Do you understand?”
I nod, screwing my eyes shut against the tears.
“Tully, look at me, sweetheart. Please.” She uses one cool hand to push hair off my face. “Just nod or shake your head, okay?”
I nod once.
“Do you remember what happened . . . with your father?”
I nod again, slowly.
A range of emotions chase one another across her face, but she forces them back and offers a watery smile. “Well, he’s with the police now, okay? You don’t have to be worried about . . . about anything.”
I stare at the ceiling for a few seconds, trying to figure out how I feel about that. Dad is gone and I’ll never have to live with him again, but that creates a whole new set of problems. I am finally, terrifyingly alone.
Was it only a few hours ago I felt strong, like my life could turn out okay? Then it occurs to me that I have no idea what time it is, or even what day.
I pull the notepad back into my lap and write HOW LONG?
Ms. Pine reads it. “How long have you been here?”
I nod.
“We arrived in the ambulance a little over a day ago. You had to be intubated because your throat swelled and you were having trouble breathing. They sedated you, which is why you slept so long. But it was to give your body a rest. They removed the tube this morning. You’ve been breathing on your own since.”
I swallow and wince. Scribble again.
DAD?
I don’t miss that she keeps looking at the notepad instead of me. “Your father was arrested,” she says quietly. She touches her cheekbone and I realize that the dark smudges under her eyes extend to her nose on the left side. When she catches me looking she drops her hand quickly.
HE HIT YOU?
She takes my hand. “When I got to your house all the lights were on, but you weren’t answering the door. I could hear a voice . . . I, uh, was concerned. I called the police. Then I heard crying.” She blows out and squeezes my hand.
“I opened the door and . . . You were on the floor and he was lying next to you, crying. He was . . . he was asking y
ou to wake up. At first I thought, well . . .” She glances at me apologetically.
She thought I’d taken pills, or something.
“I rushed over. The police dispatcher was still on the phone, so I told her we needed an ambulance. But it wasn’t until they asked me to take your pulse that I saw a mark on your neck. When I turned to your dad he started babbling. I wasn’t thinking. I asked him outright if he’d done this to you. He . . .” She frowns and looks away. I squeeze her hand because it’s okay. I know what he does.
She clears her throat. “Luckily, a police officer arrived before too long. The dispatcher at the hospital must have heard him hit me. She’d radioed to say I needed help, so he barged in and arrested your father.”
She takes our entwined fingers in her other hand and squeezes again. “He was crying, Tully. He kept apologizing to you. I want you to know that because I’ve taken a restraining order out on him myself, and the police are requesting one for you. He won’t be allowed to see you or speak to you, or get within a mile of you.” Her gaze is clear and flinty. “You never have to go back there, okay? I’ve already been to the house and packed up everything that was in your room. If there’s anything else you want, you tell me and I’ll go get it. We’ll keep you safe. You’ve already got a social worker—”
I tense, but she raises a hand to calm me.
“You don’t need to worry! I called in a favor. The woman who’ll handle your case will take good care of you, and she’s not above bending the rules if it’s necessary.” She winks at me then, but I can’t find a smile to give back to her.
Ms. Pine drops her head. “Don’t worry, Tully. We’ll find the right place for you, okay? You won’t have to change schools, or anything like that if you don’t want to. And we’ll make sure you get everything you need. I’ll make sure you get everything you need.”
I tug my hand from her grip to write.
SCHOOL COUNSELORS ARE FULL SERVICE PROVIDERS
She chuckles when she reads it. “Not usually, Tully. But you’re worth it.” She hesitates, then says more quietly, “You remind me of me when I was your age. So maybe I’m biased, but . . . I’m going to do everything I can to help you.”
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