Everything in me screams not to leave her right now. It’s like my feet are latched to invisible sandbags as I forcibly drag myself through her house.
On the way out, my eyes snag on the open refrigerator. I walk over to close it, because the last thing she needs is spoiled food. Hanging on the refrigerator door is a magnetic notepad—with Grandma Mae’s phone number on it.
Should I…
I don’t overthink it. I rip a blank sheet from the pad, grab a pen from the counter, copy the number onto it, and leave.
As soon as I step into my bedroom, I shut the door and pull out the paper. Mae’s a night owl, according to Gracie, so she should be awake. With shaky hands, I dial the number and wait for her voice.
“Hello?”
“Mae?”
“This is she. Who am I speaking with?”
“It’s, uh, Daniel. Danny. Danny Thompson? You might remember me. I live next door to Gracie, erm, Susannah.”
“Yes, I remember you,” she says, a worried edge to her tone. “Is she okay?”
I stumble over my words, not even knowing where to start. “She, um. Well, she doesn’t know I’m calling.”
Silence greets me on the other end of the line. I steady myself and try again.
“She’s, um, fine. It’s just…”
Now is not the time to panic.Just say it, I think.
“Actually, no. She’s not fine. I’m calling because I think you should come out here. I know you don’t like flying, but it’s important that you see what’s going on with Gracie, and…and her dad. Come. Please. I’m…well, I’m begging you.”
There’s a long pause as I wait for her response. This was a stupid idea. Gracie’s going to kill me. I never should’ve?—
“I’m on my way,” Mae replies.
Relief washes over me like warm water, replaced quickly by a cold wave of discomfort.
“She can never know I called you.”
Chapter 24
Grace
Seventeen Years Old
Iinspect my wound in my bedroom mirror and wince. I’m still reeling from the incident two days ago. There’s no way I can go to school tomorrow. I don’t know how I would cover the nasty purple-blue bruise forming around the goose egg on my forehead. Makeup wouldn’t work, and the area is too swollen for a hat to fit around it. I gently reach up and touch it with two fingers, lightly pressing down, and hiss in pain. My head feels like…well, it feels like I was pushed into a brick fireplace.
While there’s a little redness surrounding the wound, it doesn’t look infected. I won’t need stitches. If I did, it wouldn’t matter anyway. I’d take the scar over going to a doctor. Grabbing some petroleum jelly and checking the expiration date, I’m grateful to find it’s still okay to use. I haven’t needed it in months. As I smooth some over my wound, it feels like I’m starting all over again.
Yesterday, Danny and I didn’t talk at all. Granted, it was Saturday, so it’s not like I saw him at school. I asked him toleave, and he gave me my space to stew in my thoughts. The bruises on my skin will heal. They always do. It’s underneath the surface I’m most worried about. Because deep down in the caverns of my heart, I know my best friend’s right. I shouldn’t accept my dad’s abuse. But making allowances is what you do when you feel trapped.How else would I tell myself it’ll all be okay?
Excuses aren’t copouts. They’re coping mechanisms.
I told him that I’m not a child, but my dad makes me feel like one. I know I need to give up my ongoing defense of him, but I don’t know if I’m strong enough. When he’s drunk, he’s cruel. When he’s sober, he’s absent.
I’ve been running the household since I was thirteen, getting groceries with the money he sometimes remembers to leave on the kitchen counter. On the days he forgets, I manage until school or go to Danny’s house if he’s not at football.
Sometimes, I don’t eat. But I’d rather be hungry than get hit.
At first, I thought adults might’ve suspected things weren’t right at home, but I quickly learned that the only thing people notice about me is my stutter.
