Into the Storm (Signal Bend #3)(9)
“Your precious club got me raped and Daisy killed. You chose them over your family. Why on God’s green earth would I let you risk the daughters I have left? No, Show. Do what you have to do, but you don’t get to see the girls. And if something happens to me, that won’t help you get them. You gave up custody. I have a will. My parents will be their guardians. They. Are. Not. Yours. You have the Horde. I have the girls.” She took a breath. Show heard the tremor in it, but her voice had been steady.
She looked down at the concrete of the breezeway floor. “We leave for school in five minutes. I’m going to call into work so I can be here while you haul our stuff in, after I drop the girls off at their schools. You can come in and spend these five minutes with them. Say what you need to say. But don’t you dare upset them.”
He had nothing to say. He had lost them. Lost everything. He nodded, the fight gone out of him, and, when she turned and opened the door, he followed her into her nearly-bare apartment.
The living room had only four molded plastic lawn chairs and an old tube television on a milk crate.
The dining area had a collapsible card table and four folding chairs. There were stacks of books and toys.
Holly hadn’t been exaggerating their need. Iris came down the hall and took his hand. Looking up at him, she asked, “Are you taking me to school?”
“No, baby flower, I’m not. Mom’s gonna do that, like usual. And I gotta get going pretty soon. I’m glad I got to see you, though. I love you. Always will.”
“But I want you to stay!” She wrapped her arms around his arm, pushing her face into his belly. He looked at Holly, whose expression was resolute, seemingly unmoved by their daughter’s distress.
He squatted down and took Iris’s little face in his big hands. “I can’t stay, girlie. I wish I could. I miss you a lot.” With another look at Holly, he added, “But you can call me or come see me whenever you want, okay? Work it out with your mom, but whenever you want is okay with me. You hear?” Iris nodded, sniffling. Holly looked ready to throw something. He didn’t give a f*ck. He needed his girls to know he was there when they wanted him.
Rosie had come into the living room and was leaning against the wall, her good arm across her chest, holding her cast. She didn’t make a move toward him, but when he came to her, she didn’t back away. She was becoming a great beauty, with her mom’s yellow hair and big blue eyes. She was willowy, though— long and slim. “Hey, Rosie. Your arm okay?” The cast was wrapped in pink gauze and covered in signatures and notes. She had a lot of friends here. She’d made a life.
She shrugged. “It doesn’t hurt anymore. Mostly itches. It was scary, though. My arm bent all the way the wrong way.”
Show raised his brow. “Musta hurt a lot.” She nodded, and he reached down and took her good hand.
“Sorry I wasn’t around to help.”
Rosie shrugged again. “I know. I get it. Mom told me, but I knew anyway. Daisy’s dead because of you.
All that stuff that happened is your fault. So we went away. Iris doesn’t get it, but I do. We’re better off without you.” She pulled her hand free from his.
He stepped back, feeling more defeated and empty than he knew how to feel. His eyes met Holly’s. She looked…victorious.
“Okay, girls. Get your packs and lunches and let’s get moving. Say goodbye to your father.”
oOo
Show waited in his truck for Holly to get back. Then, as quickly as he could, he emptied the truck and trailer. She spoke to him enough to direct him where to put furniture and boxes. When he was done, she ushered him out and slammed the door. He stood in the breezeway and listened as she turned all the locks.
Then he went back to his truck. He had a mind to drive straight back home, but he could feel his fatigue deep in his marrow. He pulled into an anonymous little roadside motel and got a room. There was a liquor store a couple of buildings over. He walked down and bought two bottles of Jack, then spent the rest of the day with his whiskey, lying on the broken-down motel bed, with the blackout curtains closed.
He woke the next morning with his eyes on fire and his head turned to molten stone. He checked out, took a cup of shitty free coffee from the dispenser next to the front desk, and got back on the road.
Three times during that long drive home, he’d sped up and aimed for a bridge support or a rock wall.
Three times, he’d veered away from that conclusion at the last second. Suicide was for pussies. He was many things, but he was not a *. His lot was to live.
oOo
It was nearing suppertime when he backed up to Isaac’s garage. He hadn’t called ahead; he’d been too deep in his head to call. But it didn’t matter. Isaac and Lilli were both home, their house agleam with light, the late summer sun warming the white boards on the west side. As Show stepped out of his truck, Isaac came through the side door and walked his way.
He grabbed Show’s arm and pulled him in for a hug. “Hey, brother. How’d it go?”
Show shook his head. “Not good. Thanks for the trailer, though.” He unhitched it, and they both walked it back, away from the truck.
Isaac put his arm across Show’s shoulders. “We’re just getting ready to sit down. Lilli made some pasta thing—mani-something or other. I don’t know, but it’s great.”