Huck raced forward, sliding down on his knees and wrapping his arms around his mom. For a half second, he tried holding her up, but she was out cold, her arms rag-dolling behind her, a thick gash across her forehead. Huck lowered her carefully onto her back, still holding her, hugging her. “Mom? Are you okay? I’m here . . . I’m sorry,” he said, pulling her close as the pain woke her up. The blood flowed fast, pulsing from her forehead.
She was weeping now, sobbing, covering her face with her forearm so he wouldn’t see her tears. Nola’s first thought was that she wanted to paint this moment, to see if she could render the pain.
“What the hell is going—？ Mom!” a girl’s voice shouted.
Behind Waggs, the young girl burst into the garage, shoving Waggs aside as her own tears flooded her eyes. Tessa’s daughter, Violet. She scanned the room, looking at her mom, back at Waggs, then to Nola.
“You!” Violet exploded, locked on Nola.
“Mom, I’m sorry,” Huck continued, his voice a whisper. “Please, Mom—say something. I need to know you’re okay. Please be okay.”
“What did you do!?” Violet demanded, shouting at Nola. “Why would you—？ You could’ve left us alone!” she screamed. “Why’d you do this!?”
103
Keenley, Pennsylvania
Thirteen years ago
This was Nola when she was fifteen.
She was trying on shoes—a pair of white Keds that she knew were bootleg for two obvious reasons: first, there was no blue Keds logo at the heel, and second, they were from Royall.
“Traded two cases of paper for ’em,” Royall bragged, as if he’d gotten the better part of the deal. “They’re your size.”
They weren’t. But there Nola was in the kitchen, down on one knee, lacing up the Keds, wearing an oversized Phillies sweatshirt even though it was June and ninety-three degrees. As she got up from kneeling, the blood rushed to her head and down she went, passing out, tumbling unconscious toward the kitchen floor.
“Nola!” Royall shouted, too late to catch her.
Her body started to curl as she hit the linoleum. Thankfully, it wasn’t a bad fall. Racing to her side, Royall quickly tried to pick her up, yet as his hand grazed her stomach . . . What in the—？ Nola had always been thin, built like a tomboy. But now, her sweatshirt . . . the way she filled it out . . .
“When’d you get so fat?” Royall asked.
Nola stayed quiet, unable to look him in the eye.
A pregnancy test later, Royall got his answer.
The baby was due three months later. This far along, abortion wasn’t an option—and as a Catholic, Royall wouldn’t’ve allowed it anyway. Instead, he did the only thing he could think of. He hid it.
It actually wasn’t that difficult. The summer months meant Nola wasn’t in school. As September rolled around, he kept her home. Nola didn’t have friends. It wasn’t like anyone missed her.
For a bit, he considered calling Acne Steve, to tell him what his son, Trey, had done—but Steve was still threatening to sue him for punching his boy. Screw them, Royall thought.
On September 26, while she was taking out the trash, her water broke. Royall rushed her to the hospital. The fourth question the intake nurse asked was, “Is this pregnancy the result of rape or incest?”
“No,” Nola said.
“Teenagers,” Royall clarified, rolling his eyes.
Six hours later, a baby girl was born, with a thick head of black hair, and fair skin like her dad, though her eyes were alert, just like her mother.
They immediately put the baby on Nola’s chest. “Please . . . Don’t . . . Just take her,” Nola begged, trying to look away, trying to not get attached, but already starting to count the baby’s eyelashes.