Heart on a Chain (16 page)

He laughs softly. “You scared
me
to death!” I just burrow in deeper. “You really haven’t ever been to a haunted house or anything like that before?”

“
No.”

“
I’m sorry. If I would have known I would have warned you. I can only imagine what that must have looked like…”

I picture it again and shudder.

“
You know you’ll make those actors happy, right?”

I peek up at him. “Why?”

“
That’s what they work for, to scare people. Yours was probably the best reaction they’ve had all night.”

“
Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

He shrugs. “Think of it as a charitable act.”

I sit up a little more, looking at him questioningly, a wry smile in place.

“
Sure,” he says, “they don’t make squat for working here; their only reward is in the reactions they get from people. So you gave them what they wanted. Charitable.”

“
That’s warped,” I tell him, smiling.

“
I do what I can.” He smiles back. “Do you want to go home, or should we wait and get ice cream with the others?”

“
Let’s wait.”

It’s some time before the others return. I move to sit next to Henry on the hay bale, and we sit there talking, waiting.

“
So, why don’t you play football?” I ask him.

He looks at me, surprised at the question.

“
I mean, you’re big, built like the rest of them.”

He shrugs, “I missed tryouts. They were done when we moved back.”

“
You played before?”

“
A little,” he says, and I get the impression it was more than a little. I’m glad he’s not—otherwise he’d probably be dating a cheer leader and not hanging out with me.

We obviously lose since we didn’t even finish, but everyone comes back laughing and out of breath from running from the chain saw guy. I’m glad to see that fright is normal, though I suspect their fear is put on, rather than real, as mine had been.

We go to the Ice Castles Ice Cream Parlor. It’s fun pretending to be normal, though I don’t say much, mostly just sit quietly and observe. I have to watch Brock’s date watch Henry, but also have the joy of being the center of his attention so completely that by the end of the night she’s alternately pouting and glaring daggers at me.

When Henry finally drops me off, it’s much later than I had planned, and I walk home with the familiar dread. I sneak in my bedroom window, unsure if my mom’s asleep or awake, but I’d seen the glow of the TV through the window. I decide my story will be that she’d been sleeping when I came home, which is entirely feasible, and so I had gone to bed. I’ll probably get a smack or two, or maybe an insult, but she won’t have much proof otherwise, and won’t be able to recall clearly if she’d seen me come in or not.

I guess there’s one advantage to having a mom gorked on drugs.

Chapter Twelve

Since that night,
Henry’s thrown out my ruling about not letting anyone see us together. He always either holds my hand or has his arm around me, walking me to classes and kissing me when dropping me off. And I no longer care to try to get him to stop—no matter the threat from Jessica.

Most weekends I’m able to get away one night to see Henry, and sometimes during the week as well. At home, I’m as beyond reproach as much as possible, though
she
still manages to find fault; but since her dinner date with my dad, there’s a slight change in her.

She isn’t ideal by any means, but sometimes she tries a little bit, by asking about school or even allowing me some dinner. She and my dad aren’t fighting quite so much; I haven’t seen a bruise or fat lip on her since their dinner date.

October rolls into November, and snow begins to fall. At first, it only lasts a day or two and then melts, but the week before Thanksgiving a heavy snow falls that seems determined to stay for a while.

Because of how happy I am in my life with Henry, and because of the calmer atmosphere at home, I become somewhat content and hopeful—hopeful that there might be a chance for us to become a real family—maybe not as good as the Jamison’s, but at least a shadow of them.

I decide to make us a traditional Thanksgiving dinner. Usually Thanksgiving passes unnoticed as do most holidays. In the past, I would pathetically prowl the streets to watch families gather in their homes. Not this year. This year I’m determined that
our
family be the one having a happy, laughing meal together. Maybe the laughing, happy part won’t happen, but I’ll settle for together.

I know of a place where I can go get food provided by the food bank. I’ve been there a few times previously out of desperation when there was seriously no food in the cupboards at home, and no money to buy any. Of course, I have to tell my mother that the money came from the pitifully thin grocery funds she places in a can. She hates charity.

They provide a small turkey, some potatoes and dressing, some noodles, two cans of veggies and a can of cranberry jelly—all expired, but at least still edible. It’s not the elaborate layout I’m sure they’ll be having at Henry’s house, but it’ll have to do. It’s better than we usually have.

Thanksgiving morning I get up early to start the turkey cooking. I follow the directions on the box and stuff the turkey. After it’s cooked a few hours, and the house is filling with the mouthwatering aroma, I go into the kitchen to start the potatoes.

By four o’clock the mini-feast is ready. I’ve set the table for three as fancy as I can with what we have, including a few late fall leaves I’d found on the back porch under the eave, miraculously not completely dried out. I have to say, I’m pretty proud of myself—it’s nothing like Claire’s table, but not bad.

My father had come home quite late last night, and I heard him get into the shower twenty minutes earlier. I sit at the table, waiting for him to come down the stairs, and then I’ll go into the living room and bring them in for my surprise.

I hear his footsteps on the stairs, and almost immediately my mother starts in on him about having been out all night. He begins yelling and within minutes it escalates into a screaming match. I sit at the kitchen table, hands vainly over my ears, tears running down my face as my plan unravels. Then I hear the tell-tale sound of fist meeting jaw—a sound I know better than most sounds—then his car pulling quickly away.

I don’t move, looking at what I’ve done. What a fool I am.

“
What the hell is this?”

I look up at my mother, hulking in the doorway. Her face is filled with rage above her swelling jaw.

“
It’s Thanksgiving,” I tell her lamely.

“
Where did all of this come from?” she screams.

“
I got it,” I murmur, fear threading its way through my veins.

She takes a step toward the table, looks at the perfectly cooked turkey, lying on the plate, waiting to be carved.

“
Did you steal from me again, or is it charity?” her voice is low, more of a warning than her screaming. I blanch. She knows I steal from her? I can’t answer, frozen in my terror.

She touches the turkey, then in a quick movement picks it up, plate and all, and hurls it at my head. I duck too late, the heavy glass platter glancing off my eyebrow. Immediately blood begins spilling down my face from the cut it leaves there. I dive sideways off the chair, cowering where I fall. She strides over, kicking me in the ribs. I try to protect myself, but this only angers her further, and the kicks come more frequently and harder. That isn’t enough to vent her anger, so she picks up the chair. She swings it down towards me, and I put my arm up in unthinking defense. I feel my wrist snap as the wooden spindles break.

With an enraged shriek, she reaches down and gathers my shirt in one fist, pulling me up into a half-sitting position, using the other to pummel my face. With only one good arm for protection now, she has the advantage. She takes turns raining blows on my face and kicking my screaming ribs. I feel when she starts to tire, which is a good thing since consciousness is fading.

But she isn’t done. She releases me and I fall back to the floor. Then she’s on me, straddling me, both hands wrapped around my throat as she cuts my airway off. She’s shouting again, but I can’t hear her words above the ringing in my ears. The world fades around the edges, and the last thing I see is her face, contorted and purple with rage before blackness blissfully finds me. My final thought as I give in to the pull of the darkness is:
this time, she’ll kill me
.

When I come to, I’m still lying on the kitchen floor where she left me. I’m lying in something sticky. The juice from the turkey?

I roll onto my side, crying out at the pain in my ribs, stopping and gasping for painful breath. I concentrate on my breathing, getting it under control, knowing from experience that this is the only way to ease the pain somewhat. I push myself up with my good arm, leaning against the wall and taking slow deep breaths again when the world begins to spin. When I feel a little better, I look down at the floor and realize the stickiness I had been laying in was my own blood. Nausea rolls through me.

I use the edge of the table to pull myself up onto my knees with one arm, then onto my feet, fighting the new round of nausea and dizziness that comes with that. I look at the table, which is just as I had left it, minus the turkey. It sits there contemptuously, mocking my efforts. I stand unsteadily, trying to catch my breath enough to get upstairs and clean myself up. When I finally move, I go instead to the back door.

I look at my swing hanging there, blowing softly in the cold breeze—and make a decision.

I leave my house, moving slowly and carefully around to the front. I don’t know if she’ll be able to see me, but I’m not going to give her the chance. Once I’m down the street, undetected by her or any of the neighbors, I cut across to the field and eventually make my way through the trees to the other side.

I fall several times, each time taking longer than the time before to get back up. I know what I have to do—I have to get to
him
. His face keeps me going, pulling me up out of the snow each time I fall and red stains the untainted white.

I finally make it to his house, unsure of how much time has passed. It’s beginning to get dusky, so I figure it’s been a while.

What now?
I ask myself. I limp up the drive, but instead of going to the front door, I make my way around back and collapse again near the clinic. I try to get up, but I’m unable to push myself up. I give up. I lay in the snow there for I don’t know how long, when a miracle happens.

“
Henry, the cherry and apple pies are on the top shelf, but the banana cream and pumpkin are on the bottom, so don’t forget them,” I hear Emma calling as the back door opens, light and warmth spilling from his house.

“
Okay, Mom,” Henry calls back, stepping out onto the deck and letting the door fall closed behind him. “As if that isn’t where they are every year,” he grumbles to himself as he walks, zipping his coat. “I haven’t forgotten them yet, have I?”

He’s clearly been sent out to fetch some pies from out of the clinic. His low grumbling continues. “You store them out here every year. It’s not, like, a surprise, or anything.” He doesn’t see me lying there, intent on his purpose so that he can get in out of the cold.

“
Henry,” I call weakly, lifting my hand. He starts and looks my way, not recognizing me beneath my swollen and bloodied face. He approaches cautiously, not getting too near.

“
Who’s there?” he says.

“
Henry,” I say again, and see the change in his face as he hears my voice.

“
Kate!” He rushes to my side, dropping in the snow, hands everywhere and nowhere, since he doesn’t seem to be sure of where to touch me not to hurt me.