Keep Her Safe(40)

“And I was inside?” My words finally seem to be sinking in.

“I got home from work in time to get you out.” There’s no way I’m telling her who carried her out.

“How bad is it?”

“I’m guessing everything’s gone.”

It’s a long, slow moment of dull shock as I stand there, quietly watching her try to process that truth. And then her eyes widen with panic and her hands fly to her throat. “Everything?” She whispers, the words strangled, her face going even more pale. “What about the closet?”

“I don’t know,” I say slowly. Shit. I completely forgot about the closet—about the few things she managed to whisk away with us when we ran from Austin. A handmade quilt from my great-grandmother, my first pair of tiny, pink cowboy boots, the menu from dinner the first night my parents went out, a shoe box brimming with photos.

Back when she wasn’t a full-fledged junkie, she used to drift off each night with a picture of my dad resting on her pillow.

Suddenly, Mom’s fumbling with her sheets to push them off. She struggles to climb out of bed.

“What are you doing?”

“I need to go. I need to see if—”

“Mom!” I pin her down by her forearms. “You’re in detox. You can’t leave!”

“I need to get the box!”

“I’ll go.”

Her head’s shaking back and forth furtively as she writhes against my grip. “No, you can’t. You don’t know . . .”

“You need to stay here. Look at you! You can barely stand!”

Tears well in her eyes. “It’s all I have left.”

“I’ll leave now and go straight over to the Hollow. If it survived the fire, I’ll bring it back. Just tell me which box it is.”

“The only one that matters!” My mother’s brow furrows deeply with distress. She wrings her trembling hands, fumbling with her bare finger where her wedding ring should be. She traded the simple gold band for a few Oxy pills years ago. She was high when she made that swap, and hysterical when she sobered up and realized her terrible mistake.

That ended up being a turning point for her. For the worse.

“It was in the closet?”

“Yes! I mean, no. I mean . . .” She hesitates, as if she doesn’t want to tell me. “The floor, there’s a hole in it. Pull the carpet up and you’ll find it. Bring it to me. Just . . . bring it.”

My suspicion flares. “If you think I’m going to bring you drugs—”

“It’s not drugs! It’s not. It’s . . . paperwork. You know—your birth certificate, stuff like that.” She swallows hard. “Everything that’s important to me. Promise me you’ll bring it to me and you won’t open it?”

It’s got to be more than paperwork. “Okay. If it survived the fire, I’ll bring it.”

“It’s a metal box. It was your father’s. It’s all I have to . . .” Her breathing is ragged. She’s exhausted herself.

“Okay. I’m going now.”

“You’ll come back after? You’ll bring the box with you?”

“Sure.”

She curls up into a ball and runs her palm against her cheeks to wipe away her tears. I still remember glimmers of the old her—the real her, I’d like to think—when she lived by the “smile, even when you’re crying inside” motto. She has her hospital room to herself for the moment, at least.

“Get some sleep.”

“Okay.” A long pause. “Where did you stay last night, anyway?”

I was wondering if she’d even ask. “At a friend’s. I’ll be fine.” I have a bag full of money to help solve the housing problem, if I can bring myself to ignore my conscience and use it. A bag of money from a woman who she believes helped frame my father.

I don’t know what’s true. The money alone could paint a convincing story where Dad’s hands are as dirty as they say. But then there’s what Jackie Marshall told Noah. That my dad was a good man.

I lay in bed last night, trying to come up with a reasonable explanation for the money. A reason why Jackie Marshall would send her son. And tell him to not ask questions.

What did she even know about us? Did she know that Mom has had one foot in her grave for years now? That this money would change our lives?

Why would she care to help now? Why this secret parting gift after her death?

So many questions that lead down so many dark paths.

I’m beginning to think Jackie said more to Noah. Something he doesn’t want to tell me.

My mother’s voice cuts into my suspicion-laced thoughts. “This place is horrible, Grace. I hate it here.”

“You have nowhere else to go. So focus on getting better.”

Her despondent gaze drifts over the dull green wall across from her. “That manager. What’s his name . . .” Her face furrows as she struggles with her thoughts. “The manager at the Hollow.”

“Manny?”

“Yes. He’ll have a unit available to rent. They let people move in the same day. You know them. They don’t care.” Her eyes are shutting, the lids heavy. “Go see him.”

“Why? You think we’re going back to the Hollow?”