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.
“What happened? How did you…I can’t…I’ve got to get my dad,” he says frantically.
“No!” It takes all my strength of will to get the word out forcefully enough to stop him in his rising motion. He drops back to the snow.
“Promise…” I rasp, breaths coming painfully too fast, but it’s important to get his word. “No cops…no parents…promise.”
“Okay, okay,” each promise coming on a gasping breath, and I realize with shock that he’s crying.
“Help me,” I beg him.
“How?” he’s distraught.
“Help me…up.”
He leans down and gently rolls me onto my back. I gasp at the pain.
“I’m sorry,” he moans.
“Don’t be…sorry.”
He slides one arm behind my back and another under my knees, standing slowly and carefully, holding me steadily in his arms.
“I’m…cold.” I say.
“Okay, I’ll get you inside.”
“No…not house…. You promised.”
He nods unhappily, tears still running down his cheeks. He carries me instead into the clinic. It’s intended for animals, but the bed in the exam room is just long enough to fit me on, my heels hanging over the end. He lays me down, carefully placing my arms across my belly, jerking as I cry out when he moves my obviously broken arm.
“Wait here, I’ll get some blankets.”
I try to smile, though it probably looks like a ghastly grimace with the swelling and blood.
“Not…going…anywhere.”
He gives a half-sob, half-laugh at that, leaning to kiss me softly on the forehead. He’s only gone half a minute when he returns with a stack of blankets. None of them are long enough to cover me, so he piles them down my body.
“What happened?” he asks again.
I shake my head, not wanting to tell him just yet. The door opens behind him.
“Henry, your mother sent me to see…”
His father trails off when he sees me lying there. Henry jumps up and places himself defensively in front of me.
“What in the world.… What’s going on Henry? Is that…Kate, is that you?”
I close my eyes.
“I found her, dad, just now, outside the clinic.”
His dad comes over and moves Henry impatiently out of the way. He takes one look at my face, then pulls the blankets down. He takes one look at my wrist lying across my chest and blows a breath out between clenched teeth. I start shivering and he pulls the blankets back up over me.
“Call 9-1-1,” he commands Henry. He moves away and starts opening cabinet doors.
“No,” I grab Henry’s arm with my good hand. “No, you promised. Please, you promised.”
Dr. Jamison turns back at that, lifting his brows at Henry who shakes his head.
“No, Dad, I promised her I wouldn’t do that.”
Dr. Jamison looks at me, and finally sighs, coming to a decision.
“Alright, but we at least need to call her parents.”
“No!” My protest is even more vehement. That’s worse! I struggle to sit up, pulling against Henry’s arm for support. “No…no…I’ll go…. Please, no.”
“Dad…” Henry’s plea matches my own.
Dr. Jamison is immediately at my side, hands trying to keep me from rising.
“Kate, calm down. I won’t call anyone, okay? Calm down before you hurt yourself further.”
I fall back onto the bed, ribs screaming in agony, trying to catch a breath as tears stream down my face. Henry leans down, putting his forehead against mine, agony in his dark eyes shining with tears.
Dr. Jamison sighs again.
“I’m a vet, Kate, not a doctor. I don’t know if I can help you.”
“No help…just rest.”
“I don’t think that will help you now. You obviously have a broken wrist and you need stitches. And that’s just what I can see. You might have internal damage. I can’t leave you untreated.
”
I reach out and grab his hand. He has to understand how urgently important this is.
“No cops…no parents…or she will kill me.” My voice is hoarse from the choking, but he understands clearly enough. If I didn’t look so bad, he might not have believed me, but my injuries make my claim absolutely legitimate.
He clenches his jaw, something I’ve watched Henry do countless times when he’s upset.
“Okay.” He sounds unwillingly resigned. “I’ll do what I can to help you.” I relax at his words, letting go of his hand.
“I’m going to have to tell your mother,” he tells Henry. “She’ll wonder what’s taking so long and it’s better if she knows rather than send one of the girls out here to find us.”
He looks at me for approval. I don’t want to be the cause of distress for any of his sisters, so I have no choice but to nod my consent. He instructs Henry to hold some gauze against the cut on my brow and leaves to return to the house to tell Emma.
Henry pulls a rolling stool over and sits at my side, smoothing my hair back, holding the gauze gently over the oozing cut. His tears have stopped, but the expression on his face alternates between grief and anger. He doesn’t talk, and finally, I let my eyes drift closed. I’m not sleeping, but resting, peaceful and safe for the moment, the pain a thrumming background against my relief, as long as I’m still.
Soon Dr Jamison returns with some clean quilts. Emma had told everyone that he had an emergency, and since that isn’t uncommon, they don’t question it. He pulls out a suture kit and sets to work on my laceration, after getting my assurances that I know he isn’t a doctor, and that it will probably scar.
He stitches me up swiftly, then has Henry get some wet cloths to clean my face. He decides the cut on my lip doesn’t need sutures, but that I definitely need x-rays. Henry lifts me up carefully, though it still causes me pain, and carries me into the x-ray room. He lays me on the table, and leaves while Dr. Jamison takes the pictures, having to take more than usual because the x-ray films aren’t as large as needed.
He tells me I have three broken ribs and two cracked. My wrist is broken, but it’s simple, though painful, for him to set it. He does that, and I watch him and Henry wince as I cry out. As soon as he’s finished, my arm feels better. He x-rays it again, splints it, and explains that it will need a couple of days for the swelling to go down before casting it.
He sends Henry to the house to get Emma to help wrap my ribs, as it requires my clothing to be removed, and he wants to protect my modesty. When she comes and sees me, she gasps and immediately starts crying, which nearly sets me off, that this woman would cry over the injuries that had been caused by my own mother. Between the two of them, I’m soon bandaged, and wrapped in one of the quilts. Dr. Jamison says lying in the cold snow had probably helped my injuries. It had been like laying on a large icepack.
“She can’t go home,” Dr. Jamison tells Emma meaningfully, and though I see the curiosity in her face, she keeps her questions inside, ordering Henry to carry me into the house and put me in the guest room.
“I’ll distract the others for now so she can go in privately. Take her through the front door.”
Henry again lifts me, pulling me close without hurting me, tucking me under his chin, caressing his jaw against my hair. He carries me into a guest room that’s just off of the entry way behind the formal living room—another room I hadn’t noticed before.
Henry and his father settle me carefully into the bed. Dr. Jamison checks my temperature, which is still a little low, piling a few more blankets on me, helping me to swallow a pain pill.
“Come on, Henry; let’s get back to the family and let Kate rest.”
“I’m not leaving her,” Henry says, eyes on mine.
Dr. Jamison sighs again.
“Somehow I knew you were going to say that. Alright, but let her sleep. She needs sleep more than anything right now.”
Henry nods, pulling a chair up next to the bed and tucking his arm under the blankets to hold my good hand.
“You’re going to be fine, Kate,” he says, and it sounds like a command.
I want to assure him, to thank him, but already my eyes are drifting closed. I’ve never been so tired in my life.
When I open my eyes again it’s dark in the room. For a minute I don’t know where I am, but when I try to move, my body immediately reminds me. The day’s events come rushing back, and I groan in pain.
“Kate?” Henry is immediately next to me, hands soothing my head.
“Henry,” I whisper, all my throat can manage.
He reaches over and turns on the bedside lamp, and I watch him flinch at the sight of my face. Humiliated, I turn my face away. He grasps my chin lightly and turns me back toward him. He leans down and kisses me lightly on the undamaged corner of my mouth.
“Who did this to you?” his own whisper is ravaged.
I shake my head, tears falling from the corners of my eyes.
“I’m not a violent person—mostly—but I would happily kill whoever did this to you.” My eyes widen at this. He’s absolutely serious.
“Was it Frank?” I have to think for a minute of who he means, remembering that he had stopped Frank from bullying me at lunch.
“No.” My answer is a croak.
“Then who?” he asks. I can’t tell him.
I’m saved from having to answer when Dr. Jamison and Emma come into the room. They’d seen all their guests out and had left Claire in charge of the two younger girls.
Emma hurries over to my side, cooing and soothing, something only a real mother knows how to do. Dr. Jamison is looking at me watchfully, as if deciding something in his head.
“Okay, you two, I need to examine Kate. Leave us alone for a few minutes.”
“Dad, I’m not—”
Dr. Jamison lays his hand on Henry’s shoulder, cutting him off.
“Henry, it’s only a few minutes. Go get showered and then you can come back and stay with her tonight.”
Henry’s reluctant, but nods his agreement. He kisses me again and leaves.
“Emma, she could use some ice packs, maybe some broth?”
Emma nods, tears in her eyes as she looks at me. And then she does an amazing thing—she leans over and kisses my forehead. It’s the strongest maternal love I’ve received in as long as I can remember.
When we’re alone, Dr. Jamison checks my wrist and the binding on my ribs, taking my temperature again and looking at the stitches. I feel like he’s just fussing, finding something to do. Finally, he sighs and sits in Henry’s chair.
“I don’t suppose you’ll tell me what happened?” He looks at me, but I can see in his face that he already knows the answer even before I shake my head.
“I’m better at taking care of animals than people, of course, but I can read an x-ray.” He glances up at me, holding my gaze with eyes so like Henry’s. “There were a lot of old, healed injuries. This isn’t the first time you’ve been hurt.”
My eyes drop.
“There is a reason you didn’t want to go home.”
I don’t answer.
He clears his throat. “Does Henry know?”
I could ask him what he’s talking about, pretend nothing untoward is going on at home, but the truth hangs in the air between us.
“No.”
“There are people who can help you, places you can go…”
I meet his gaze again.
“Dr. Jamison, I’m seventeen years old, almost eighteen. What happens, the state puts me in foster care? Who takes in a seventeen year old?” My injured throat pushes the words out. “Someone who’s in it for the money, maybe. Or, I don’t know, someone who wants to get something out of it. Those who want to get a family out if it adopt babies. You think things would be different for me somewhere else? At least this way I know what to expect.”
His head drops into his hands as he acknowledges the truth of my words. “I don’t like this,” he mutters, probably not meaning
for me to hear. Then he looked up at me again. “You’re pretty badly injured. Has it been this bad before?”
I think of the other times I’ve been beaten, but I have to admit, this is the worst. I shake my head.
“What if it gets worse? Worse could mean dead.”
I know that. I sharply remember thinking she would kill me this time. She hadn’t, though. Something had stopped her. Would something stop her next time?
“I can try to help you.”
“No,” my throat is on fire, talking painful. It’s imperative I make him understand. “I couldn’t live with it if Henry knew. I couldn’t stand it if he pitied me. He’s my friend. That would change if he knew.”
Dr. Jamison shakes his head. “You don’t give him enough credit.”
“Please,” I beg.
“This isn’t about Henry, or what he thinks. It’s about you.”
“Right. And I’m asking you to let it go. If it makes it hard for you—legally, I mean—I’ll leave. I’ll find somewhere else to go for a few days.”
He doesn’t answer, asking instead, “What will happen if you don’t show up at home for a few days?”
I glance out the window, as if the answers are there in the stars.
“She won’t contact the police. She won’t want them investigating. She probably wonders if she killed me,” I rasp, remembering the pool of blood on the kitchen floor at the foot of my failed Thanksgiving dinner.
Dr. Jamison jerks in surprise—whether at my admission, or the fact that I said she instead of he, I don’t know. He blows out a breath full of uneasy resignation.
“Okay, well, you need to rest for a few days. Broken ribs can be dangerous, and if you puncture a lung you would have to go to the hospital to live.”
“I’ll stay down,” I promise.
He walks to the door, taking a breath without turning to look back at me, hand on the knob.
“She should be in prison for this.”
Chapter Thirteen
Heart on a Chain Page 11
