Dare You To (Pushing the Limits #2)

Dare You To (Pushing the Limits #2) Page 35

More pickpockets hang here than people with high school diplomas.

Denny slaps his hand on the counter when I step into the bar. “Get out, kid.”

Pool balls click against each other as a guy in jeans and a leather vest plays solo. Two older men in blue factory uniforms slouch over beers at the bar. My heart drains of any shred of hope I had gained in Groveton when I see the blond-haired mess at the table in the corner.

Holding myself proud, I glide to the bar.

“Whatever Isaiah is paying you, I’ll pay you double to keep your mouth shut.”

He chuckles darkly. “That’s the same offer he gave me concerning you. Go play with your boyfriend and stay out of my bar.”

“Isaiah isn’t my boyfriend.”

Wearing a smart-ass smile, Denny grabs a wet shot glass out of a tub and dries it with a towel. “Have you told him that?”

When I say nothing back, Denny gestures to Mom. “She’s been crying today. Trent was arrested by the cops last night for drunk driving and they impounded her car. Get her out and spend some time with her.”

Yay and damn. Without Isaiah on board, I need a car and Mom’s piece of crap is our only way out of Louisville. On the rare good side, I don’t have to worry about Trent beating the shit out of either one of us today.

“Next time you come into my bar, I’m calling Isaiah to drag you back out,” Denny says. “Even if she’s crying.”

Next to a half-empty bottle of tequila,

Mom’s head lies in her folded arms. She’s thinner. The rush of emotions creates a light-headed sensation. This poor, pathetic creature is my mom and I’ve completely failed her.

“Let’s go, Mom.”

She doesn’t stir. I sweep the hair from her face. Several of the strands fall to the floor and stick to my hand. God, has she eaten at all?

Yellow-and-brown patches litter the left side of her face. On her right wrist, Mom wears a black brace. I nudge her with a tender touch.

“Mom, it’s Elisabeth.”

Her eyelids flutter open and her hollow blue eyes have a sunken quality. “Baby?”

“It’s me. Let’s go home.”

Mom reaches out as if I’m a ghost. Her fingertips barely brush my leg before her arm drops to her side. “Are you a dream?”

“When was the last time you ate?”

With her head still on her arms, she surveys me. “You used to buy food for me and make it, didn’t you? Ham and cheese on white with mustard tucked in the fridge. That was you.”

My insides wither like a plant without water.

Who did she think took care of her? I close my eyes and search for my perspective. Being at Scott’s has made me soft. I need to be more aware for both me and Mom. “Let’s go.”

I place an arm around her shoulder blades and yank at her body. “Come on. You need to stand. I can’t drag you home.”

“I hate it when you yell, Elisabeth.”

“I didn’t yell.” But I’m being a bitch.

Like most toddlers, Mom obeys a strong reprimand. Also like most toddlers, she often obeys the wrong person.

“Yes, you did,” she mutters. “You’re always angry.”

Even with me holding her up, she still sways from side to side. The door to the back room is shut. Hell. This means we’ll have to go out the front. Baby steps are a struggle for her and I calculate how long it will take me to get her home at this rate. So many things to do before I meet Ryan—grocery shop, figure out how to get the car out of impoundment, and nail down the date to leave.

Mom stumbles when we meet daylight. She tries to shield her eyes, but it affects her already fragile balance and I have to use both of my hands to keep her upright. She’s right. I am always angry, because right now a volcano is stewing inside of me. “What else are you taking?”

“Nothing,” she says too quickly.

Right. Nothing. “That bottle of tequila wasn’t empty. Are you becoming a lightweight?”

She says nothing and I let it go, reminding myself that there are things better left unknown. I drag her forward and occasionally she lifts her feet to help with the progression on the sidewalk. Several guys I used to go to school with fly past on skateboards. Two whistle at me and ask if I’m back to stay. The other…

He flips up his skateboard and takes a ten-dollar bill from his pocket. “Run out of money again, Sky? I’ll take a blow right now.”

Shame heats my face, but I force myself to stand taller as I haul my mother toward her home. “Fuck you.”

“I’ve missed seeing you around, Beth, but your mom’s more fun without you babysitting.” He drops the board and rolls away. Yes, being at Scott’s has softened me and it makes this experience a million times worse.

I wish Scott would have left me alone.

“We’ll move to Florida.” We slowly pass the pawnshop. “White sandy beaches. Warm air.

The sound of water lapping against the shore.”

My mom’s not a whore. She’s not. Please God, please let her not be. “We’ll sober you up and we’ll get jobs.…” Doing? “Something.”

Because Scott has custody of me we’ll have to be careful. I’ll be labeled a runaway. “We’ll go to the ocean. Give me a date and we’ll leave.”

“I have to bail Trent out first,” Mom whispers. “Then unpound the car.”

“Fuck Trent. Let him rot in jail.”

“I can’t.” Mom pulls on my hair to stay upright and the pain makes me want to scream.

Instead, I bite my lip. Screaming will draw more attention to us.

We reach the end of the sidewalk. Mom falls forward when she misses the step, and collapses onto the pavement. “Come on,

Mom!” I want nothing more than to sit on the ground and cry, but I can’t. Not with people watching. Not with Mom right here. “Get up!”

“I’ve got her.” The deep, smooth voice causes my heart to still and my lungs to freeze.

Isaiah effortlessly scoops my mother into his arms. Without waiting for me, he heads right for Mom’s apartment building.

Isaiah.

I blink.

My best friend.

My heart beats twice and both beats hurt.

Mom slips in and out of coherence as Isaiah carries her. When we reach her door, I slide the string of keys I used to wear as a necklace in elementary school from around Mom’s neck.

I briefly catch Isaiah’s gaze and I cower from the pain in his eyes. He wears his uniform shirt for the garage he works at. Grease and oil stain the blue material. Every day for three weeks, Isaiah has texted and called and I haven’t answered him. I bury the guilt. He’s the one that betrayed me and there’s nothing I can do about not responding to him now.

A horrible rancid odor slaps me when I open the door. I’m dizzy with dread. I don’t want to know. I just don’t. We’re going to Florida.

We’re running away.

Isaiah follows me in and swears. At the smell, the damage, or the trash, I don’t know.

Nothing has changed from the last time I was here, except the refrigerator door hangs wide open.

“Did you forget to pay the cleaning lady?”

Isaiah asks.

I half smile at his attempt to defuse the situation. He knows I hate for anyone else to see how Mom lives. “She only accepted cash and Mom was insistent that we use the credit cards for the frequent flyer miles.”

I step over trash and broken pieces of furniture and lead Isaiah to Mom’s bedroom.

He gently lays her on the bed. This isn’t the first time he’s helped me with Mom. When we were fourteen, Isaiah helped me pick her up from the bar. He’s used to the cracks in the wall, the worn green carpeting, and the picture of me and her taped over her broken mirror.

“Give me a few minutes,” I say. “Then I’ll go grocery shopping.”

He gruffly nods. “I’ll wait in the living room.”

I remove Mom’s shoes from her feet and sit on the bed next to her. “Wake up, Mom. Tell me what happened to your hand.” As if I don’t already know.

Her eyes barely open and she curls into the fetal position. “Trent and I had a fight. He didn’t mean it.”

He never does. “The faster we get away from him the better.”

“He loves me.”

“No. He doesn’t.”

“Yes, he does. You two just don’t know each other real well.”

“I know enough.” I know he wears a ring that hurt like hell when he punched me in the face. “You’re leaving with me, right? Because if not, I can’t take care of you.”

I want her to say yes and say it quickly. The pause feels like someone ripping my intestines through my belly button. Finally, she speaks.

“You don’t understand. You’re a gypsy.”

And she’s high. “Are you going to leave with me?”

“Yeah, baby,” she mumbles. “I’ll go with you.”

“How much do we need to get the car out of impoundment?”

“I need five hundred to get Trent out of jail.”

Trent can die in jail. “The car. How much to get the car out? I can’t find regular rides into Louisville and I can’t take care of you if we don’t leave town.”

She shrugs. “Couple hundred.”

Mom begins to sing an old song Grandpa used to sing before he drank himself to sleep. I rub my forehead. We need that damn car and I need a damn plan. Mom and I should have been gone weeks ago, but Isaiah ruined that. My windows of opportunity keep closing and I’m not sure how much longer Mom will last on her own.

I pull out Echo’s cash and place half of it on Mom’s bedside table. She stops singing and stares at the cash.

“Listen to me, Mom. You need to sober up and get the car out of the impound lot. I also want you to pay the phone bill. We’ll be leaving soon. Do you understand?”

Mom keeps her eyes on the money. “Did Scott give you that?”

“Mom!” I yell and she flinches. “Repeat what you need to do.”

Mom produces an old stuffed animal of mine from under her pillow. “I sleep with this when I miss you.”

I slept with that stuffed animal every night until I turned thirteen. It’s the only thing my father ever gave to me. The fact that she kept it rips me into pieces. I can’t focus on that now. I need Mom to remember what she needs to do.

Her life depends on it. “Repeat what I said.”

“Get the car. Pay the phone bill.”

I stand and Mom grabs my hand. “Don’t leave me alone again. I don’t want to be alone.”

The request feeds on my guilt. We all have our fears. Those things that exist in the dark corners of our mind that terrify us beyond belief. This is hers. My fear? It’s leaving her. “I need to buy you food. I’ll make some sandwiches and put them in the fridge.”

“Stay,” she says. “Stay until I fall asleep.”

How many nights as a child did I beg her to stay with me? I lie on the bed next to her, run my fingers through her hair, and continue the song where she left off. It’s her favorite verse.