Dare You To (Pushing the Limits #2)(73)

I briefly catch Isaiah’s gaze and I cower from the pain in his eyes. He wears his uniform shirt for the garage he works at. Grease and oil stain the blue material. Every day for three weeks, Isaiah has texted and called and I haven’t answered him. I bury the guilt. He’s the one that betrayed me and there’s nothing I can do about not responding to him now.

A horrible rancid odor slaps me when I open the door. I’m dizzy with dread. I don’t want to know. I just don’t. We’re going to Florida.

We’re running away.

Isaiah follows me in and swears. At the smell, the damage, or the trash, I don’t know.

Nothing has changed from the last time I was here, except the refrigerator door hangs wide open.

“Did you forget to pay the cleaning lady?”

Isaiah asks.

I half smile at his attempt to defuse the situation. He knows I hate for anyone else to see how Mom lives. “She only accepted cash and Mom was insistent that we use the credit cards for the frequent flyer miles.”

I step over trash and broken pieces of furniture and lead Isaiah to Mom’s bedroom.

He gently lays her on the bed. This isn’t the first time he’s helped me with Mom. When we were fourteen, Isaiah helped me pick her up from the bar. He’s used to the cracks in the wall, the worn green carpeting, and the picture of me and her taped over her broken mirror.

“Give me a few minutes,” I say. “Then I’ll go grocery shopping.”

He gruffly nods. “I’ll wait in the living room.”

I remove Mom’s shoes from her feet and sit on the bed next to her. “Wake up, Mom. Tell me what happened to your hand.” As if I don’t already know.

Her eyes barely open and she curls into the fetal position. “Trent and I had a fight. He didn’t mean it.”

He never does. “The faster we get away from him the better.”

“He loves me.”

“No. He doesn’t.”

“Yes, he does. You two just don’t know each other real well.”

“I know enough.” I know he wears a ring that hurt like hell when he punched me in the face. “You’re leaving with me, right? Because if not, I can’t take care of you.”

I want her to say yes and say it quickly. The pause feels like someone ripping my intestines through my belly button. Finally, she speaks.

“You don’t understand. You’re a gypsy.”

And she’s high. “Are you going to leave with me?”

“Yeah, baby,” she mumbles. “I’ll go with you.”

“How much do we need to get the car out of impoundment?”

“I need five hundred to get Trent out of jail.”

Trent can die in jail. “The car. How much to get the car out? I can’t find regular rides into Louisville and I can’t take care of you if we don’t leave town.”

She shrugs. “Couple hundred.”

Mom begins to sing an old song Grandpa used to sing before he drank himself to sleep. I rub my forehead. We need that damn car and I need a damn plan. Mom and I should have been gone weeks ago, but Isaiah ruined that. My windows of opportunity keep closing and I’m not sure how much longer Mom will last on her own.

I pull out Echo’s cash and place half of it on Mom’s bedside table. She stops singing and stares at the cash.

“Listen to me, Mom. You need to sober up and get the car out of the impound lot. I also want you to pay the phone bill. We’ll be leaving soon. Do you understand?”

Mom keeps her eyes on the money. “Did Scott give you that?”

“Mom!” I yell and she flinches. “Repeat what you need to do.”

Mom produces an old stuffed animal of mine from under her pillow. “I sleep with this when I miss you.”

I slept with that stuffed animal every night until I turned thirteen. It’s the only thing my father ever gave to me. The fact that she kept it rips me into pieces. I can’t focus on that now. I need Mom to remember what she needs to do.

Her life depends on it. “Repeat what I said.”

“Get the car. Pay the phone bill.”

I stand and Mom grabs my hand. “Don’t leave me alone again. I don’t want to be alone.”

The request feeds on my guilt. We all have our fears. Those things that exist in the dark corners of our mind that terrify us beyond belief. This is hers. My fear? It’s leaving her. “I need to buy you food. I’ll make some sandwiches and put them in the fridge.”

“Stay,” she says. “Stay until I fall asleep.”

How many nights as a child did I beg her to stay with me? I lie on the bed next to her, run my fingers through her hair, and continue the song where she left off. It’s her favorite verse.

One that talks about birds, freedom, and change.

I SLICE THE LAST sandwich in half and place the full plate in the fridge, along with the remains of the ham and cheese Isaiah bought while I sang Mom to sleep. Isaiah busies himself by putting the boxes of cereal and crackers in the pantry. He bought food Mom can easily fix for herself.

“Haven’t you punished me long enough?”

Isaiah asks.

The chains that permanently weigh me down become heavier. “Are you going to sling me over your shoulder and force me to leave again?”