I nodded in what I hoped was a thankful way and closed the door behind them.
It stuck on one side, the hinge at the top bent from the forced entry.
Oh well. I managed to lock the small chain in place. It wouldn’t keep us safe, but it would offer a warning if anyone tried to enter.
“Callie?” The pitiful sound of Mom’s voice trickled into the emptiness. She sat propped against the counter, her head in her hands. “What happened?”
“It’s okay, Mom. Everything is going to be okay.” I repeated it to her five more times while helping her onto the couch and covering her with a blanket.
The entire trailer smelled like booze, but her room with Wade smelled even worse.
I didn’t want her sleeping in there.
Mom turned on her side and drew the blanket up beneath her chin. “Thank you, Callie.”
“You’re welcome.” I choked on the words and wiped both hands down my face.
My arm throbbed, and I remembered the officer mentioning a cut on my arm.
I twisted my forearm to check.
A long, ugly cut ran half the length of my arm.
Blood trickled from it in a slow stream, running all the way to my fingertips. I stared at it, then the living room floor.
Drops of blood littered the carpet and sections of the linoleum in the kitchen. I had no memory of when it happened.
Maybe when Wade shoved me into the mirror when I tried to keep him from kicking Mom.
I shook my head. Didn’t matter.
Three steps down the hall and I hooked a right into the bathroom, flipping on the bare bulb that swung overhead.
I opened the medicine cabinet and riffled through Mom’s bottles and Wade’s mess. Not a band-aid in sight.
Great.
Scowling at my haggard expression in the mirror, I slammed the cabinet closed and stalked to their bedroom.
Wade was not coming back.
I intended to make sure of that. And he could take all his shit with him.
I yanked a black garbage bag from beneath the bed and stuffed his smelly clothes into it.
I moved from the floor to the closet, yanking the flimsy door so hard it groaned.
Mom’s clothes draped over hangers.
Wade’s lay in piles on the floor.
Touching them made my skin crawl, so I kicked as many as I could into the bag.
My toe hit something solid. I grunted at the impact and shoved a bundle of clothes to the side, revealing an old Adidas shoe box. Wade wore biker boots.
He wouldn’t touch Adidas with a ninety-foot pole, and we were too poor for name brand.
I kicked out a clear spot in the floor and yanked the lid off the box. A bundle of receipts flew out.
