Rochelle
“Momma,” I yell, as I take the steps to our front porch two at a time. “Momma!”
I grab the door and swing it open, expecting to find her sitting in her chair, but I am met with an empty room. Stunned, my eyes float through the trailer, searching her out.
Where is she? Did she leave?
“Momma,” I yell again.
Hunter stalks past me and begins to look about the room in disbelief. “Where could she be?” he asks.
Walking into the small space, I spin around in a circle. My heart sinks imagining the worst. “I don’t know. I’ve never seen her leave the house.”
At least, I don’t think I have ever seen her leave. Mostly because I was too busy working, going to school, and worrying about stuff someone my age should never have to think about. My eyes find his, and his sad expression fills with pity. It serves to make me furious. I take off down the small hallway and force myself into her room.
It is dark. The shades are tightly drawn. I can barely make out a thing. Hunter’s presence warms my back, and he places a hand on my shoulder for reassurance.
“I…” I stutter. “I don’t understand.”
My eyes begin to adjust to the darkness and everything becomes very clear. The lies. The running. The secrets.
Momma’s lifeless frame lays in the center of her bed. Hunter’s hand tightens on my side and my breathing quickens. My body begins to shake. My eyes grow wide. Adrenaline kicks in and I run to her side.
“No,” I scream, picking up her lifeless hand and laying my ear against her chest.
I hear nothing. I feel nothing.
Looking up, Hunter comes toward me. His eyes are a mixture of shock and disbelief. He fumbles for his phone, then quickly raises it to his ear.
But I don’t hear a word he says. I am too consumed with the fact that my mother, the woman who gave me life, raised me, and made me into the woman I am today, the best she knew how even with all the demons she fought, is laying lifeless in my arms.
“Momma!” I yell. “Hunter, she’s not breathing! Oh my God! Momma! Stay with me, Momma! Don’t leave me! Please…” I look up at Hunter with pleading eyes. Horror fills his gaze as he talks to the person on the other end of the line.
“She can’t die, Hunter! She can’t die, she’s all I have! She’s all I’ve ever had!”
My sobs consume me. My mother’s lifeless body grows colder as I wait for her to breathe, for someone to help, for the worst nightmare of my life to be over. But deep inside I know, the nightmare has just begun. She’s dead.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Hunter
I watch in disbelief as the sheet is pulled across Rochelle’s mom’s lifeless form. I stand like a rock by my Angel’s side, but all I want to do is break. Grabbing her in my arms, I hold her tight. My heart shatters, my own demons threaten to surface.
Margaret Thomas is dead, and there is nothing either one of us can do to bring her back.
Rochelle turns her head into my chest as the paramedics lift the gurney up into the ambulance. The doors close, and they look back briefly, giving me a sad nod.
I saw what they did as they lifted her lifeless body out of the house. Track marks that looked like railroad ties on Rochelle’s mother’s arms. In death she finally couldn’t hide the fact that she’d been shooting up for years. The paramedics walk around to the front of the vehicle, start the engine, and begin to drive away.
Everyone who had gathered in the trailer park, wondering what was happening, begin to part and let the paramedics pass. The group stands, staring, curious as to what just disturbed their little world. But they have no clue the kind of hell my Angel has just begun to walk through. They have no idea how much this will hurt her. Break her. Forever damage the light that shines so bright in her eyes.
But I do. I know it all too well. I’ve lost before. Said goodbye before. It’s a pain I wish I could have shielded her from.
Rochelle’s grip tightens on my arm as she clutches my shirt in her hands, and turns her face into my chest. She screams. Her muffled outburst breaks my heart as I clutch her tighter and promise myself, no matter what happens next, I will help her through this.
Suddenly, she pushes out of my arms and storms back into the house. I follow and expect her to turn around to face me, but she doesn’t. In one swift move, she storms over to her mother’s chair, grabs it by its arm, and hurls it on its side. When that isn’t enough, she flings her arm across the kitchen counter. Dishes, appliances, pantry items go flying.
I know I should stop her. I know I should try and calm her down. But hell hath no fury like a person unleashing the wrath of injustice. So I let her have her moment and stand by ready to catch her when she is done.
