22
Haven
Idon't thinkmy finger should be bleeding this badly, but Mom and Daddy seem to think I'll be okay. "We're just going to bandage that right up, and you'll be as good as new," Daddy says.
"Frederick, that needs stitches," Mom argues. "It's split wide open."
"Honey, wait right here while I have a quick word with your mother, okay?" Dad says, patting his hand on my knee a few times.
The two of them walk out of the bathroom to talk, but I can still hear them. "I realize it needs stitches, Pamela, but what are we supposed to do?"
"We need to take her to the clinic," Mom snaps back.
"We have no medical insurance. Do you have any idea how much it will cost to get Haven stitches?"
"I don't think I care," she says. "We're talking about our eleven-year-old helpless daughter, Frederick."
"Damnit, I can't live like this anymore," Daddy shouts.
"Then it's time you stop it with this stupid law practice and get a job that will pay you a salary."
The silence makes me wonder if they forgot about me in here, and I hope they didn't because the blood is already seeping through the bandage Daddy just put on my finger.
"Mom?" I call. "I don't think the bandage is working."
She walks back into the bathroom just as I hear the front door slam. "Come on, sweetie. I'm taking you to the clinic."
"What about Daddy?" I ask, wondering how their argument ended. All they do is argue, and it's always about money or me.
"I don't know what he's doing," she hisses. "Come on, let's go."
As we walk down the street toward the center of town, Mom eyes my finger and the blood trickling out from the side of the bandage. "You should squeeze your hand around your finger, honey. It will help stop the bleeding." I do as she says and peer back up at her, feeling scared about going to the hospital. "What were you doing with that kitchen knife?"
"I was trying to cut a thin slice of bread. I just wanted to make sure we had enough for our dinner tonight. The knife slipped. It was just an accident," I tell Mom.
"Why didn't you just ask me to help you?" I didn't ask her to help because she was crying in the bathroom, and I didn't want to bother her. Daddy was yelling at someone on the phone. When they get like that, it’s easier to do things myself.
When we arrive at the clinic, they tell us there is going to be a small wait, but they bandage my finger back up in a way that makes the blood slow down. It doesn't hurt too much, so I try to keep my attention on the TV above our heads. Plus, mom looks like she has a headache, so I don't want to bother her.
The door to the clinic flies open, and Daddy barges in, looking in every direction until he spots Mom and me. Running toward us, he sits down in the seat on the other side of me and places his arm around my shoulders. "Sorry," he says. "I had to take care of something."
"Where were you, Frederick?" Mom snaps at him.
"You remember I told you about that death last week?" I'm not sure what he's talking about, and I didn't hear him mention a word about anyone dying last week.
"Yes, of course. Did you find out when the funeral is?" Mom asks him.
"It was two days ago. That's irrelevant," he says, speaking quickly.
"Frederick!" Mom scolds him.
Daddy leans across my lap, whispering to mom. “I have a plan," he says, while rubbing his thumb and forefinger together.
"What? How? What kind of plan is this now, Frederick? Your plans keep getting us into trouble."
"Not this time," he argues.
"We are not stealing someone's money," she says firmly, under her breath. Daddy straightens his posture then slouches into his blue cushioned chair. "How much are we talking, exactly?"
