“He’s just Dad,” the girl whispered.
“Okay,” Wylie said in resignation. “Oh, hey, I meant to give something back to you earlier after I washed your clothes.” Wylie got to her feet and went through the darkened kitchen to retrieve the toy she found in the girl’s pocket hours earlier.
Wylie shivered when she left the relative warmth of the living room and, using her flashlight, scanned the countertops until she found it.
Wylie took a closer look at the toy. It was a figurine of one of the lesser-known action heroes. His green mask was nearly worn away, his white gloves were now a dingy gray, and the plastic exterior was scratched and dented from years of play.
Wylie hadn’t seen one of these in years. A wave of nostalgia swept over her, but she quickly brushed it away.
“Here you go,” Wylie said, returning to the living room and handing the toy to the girl. Wylie smiled at the way the little girl’s face lit up, the way her eyes snapped with joy at being reunited with her toy. Then Wylie’s smile faded. She stood there for a moment, trying to think.
“Thank you,” the girl said, holding the toy tightly in her grasp, and she climbed back onto the sofa and beneath the covers next to her mother.
Wylie reached for a flashlight that sat dormant on the end table and flipped the switch. She did the same with another flashlight and another and another until the room was filled with light. Wylie took a seat opposite the woman and child at a loss for words. The fire popped and crackled ineffectually; Tas snuffled.
Wylie moved to the kitchen and returned with two bottles of water. “Here, you need to drink.” Holding the lantern, Wylie went to the woman’s side and knelt so that she was looking down on her.
The woman, now awake, squinted painfully against the glare and held up a hand, fingers slightly black at the tips from necrosis.
“I brought you some aspirin,” Wylie said. “It might help a bit with your pain. I don’t want to give you anything stronger in case you have a concussion.”
Wylie broke the pill in half and laid the pieces in the woman’s open palm and that’s when she saw the horseshoe-shaped scar. Instinctively, Wylie grabbed the woman’s hand knocking the pills to the floor.
“Ouch,” the woman said, pulling away.
“Sorry.” Flustered, Wylie bent down to retrieve the aspirin. “Here you go,” she said handing the woman the pills again.
The woman looked at Wylie suspiciously, but placed the pills on her tongue and grimaced at the bitter taste.
“You need to take a drink,” Wylie said softly and carefully tipped the bottle to the woman’s lips spilling water into her mouth.
Wylie stared down at the woman’s battered face. One mistrustful brown eye looked back at her. Wylie looked down at her own hand, where a matching horseshoe-shaped scar, though less pronounced, marred her palm.
35
At night the girl dreamed she was drowning, of her nose and mouth and lungs being filled with dank, dark water. She’d wake up gasping for air. Her mother would hold her close and tell her that it was going to be okay. But it wasn’t.
The basement was so cold that the space heater couldn’t keep up. She ate her soup, she colored her pictures, and she watched television with the sound on low.
She never knew what to expect when her father came down the steps. Sometimes he had a roll of duct tape in his hand; sometimes he brought cupcakes with pink fluffy frosting or pizza in a box.
But even on the days he brought treats and touched the girl’s hair and told her she was pretty, he was quicker to slap and push and pinch.
It was worse for her mother.
One morning the girl woke to find that her mother wasn’t next to her in the bed. She rubbed her eyes and looked around the room. It was empty. She crawled from the bed and pushed on the bathroom door. It was empty too. There wasn’t a closet door or furniture to hide behind.
Despair poured over her. She was all alone. Her mother had left her.
She heard the shuffle of feet overhead. Her father was coming. He would want to know what happened to her mother. What would she say to him? The door creaked open and the girl scurried back to the bed, pressed her soft, worn blanket to her cheek, and slid her thumb in her mouth.
The footsteps came closer and the girl’s heart beat so loud she was sure her father could hear it.
“Sweetie,” came her mother’s voice. “It’s time to get up.”
The girl was bursting with questions. Where had she gone? What did she do? Why had she gone up the stairs?
Her mother just pressed a finger to her lips and said, “Shhh. Remember our little secret.” She had brought down a plastic bag filled with all kinds of things. There was an apple, a few dollar bills, and a pile of quarters, dimes, and nickels that jangled together in the bottom of the bag.