Page 34 of Pretty Broken Things

I can’t dwell on that right now, because I need to get to my mom. Putting my shoulder against the door, I push with every last bit of strength I’ve got. While he wasn’t able to budge the door with his punching and kicking, I am able to move the dresser a couple inches thanks to my bulk and football training. A few more shoves, and I’m able to squeeze myself in the door.

My mom lays in a heap in the middle of the room. Every visible inch of her skin is red and bruising. There’s dried blood in her hair, and still trickling down her face. For a long minute I stare at her, sure when I get closer I’m going to realize she’s gone. Then I get the first sign of hope, her chest moves. I’m afraid to pick her up, because there’s a gurgling sound when she breathes, but I know she’ll die if I leave her here.

As I suspected, her phone lies next to her, on a call with emergency services. I pick it up and hear a bored sounding dispatcher asking for my mom’s status. “Ma’am, can you let me know where your ex-husband is now?”

I heard him say something about serving him with divorce papers, but it would be impossible for them to be divorced already. As a child, my biggest wish was that she’d divorce him and we could leave this place forever, which is what led me at ten to look up the divorce laws in California. That’s how I know that there’s a six-month delay after filing before a divorce is finalized.

These are all questions I can get to the bottom of later. I clear my throat and tell the dispatcher, “Thanks for nothing. I just got home from a football game and found my mother unconscious on the floor of her room, and my father trying to break down the door to finish the job.”

“Where is your father now? Are you safe?” she asks, but I get the feeling she is reading from a script.

“I knocked his ass out. I’m sure the deputies are familiar with the layout of the house whenever they decide to put down their donuts and do their fucking job. I’m going to take my mom to the hospital in Playa,” I say, and end the call. Staying on the line isn’t going to do shit.

As gently as I can, I scoop her into my arms, and carry her out to my truck. Praying has never done shit for me, but I do it anyway all the way back into town. These are not the prayers of a man, but the last vestige of my inner child hoping at least this once the worst won’t happen.

I make the thirty-minute drive to the hospital in about twenty minutes. I pull into the emergency loading zone in front of the ER and start screaming for help. At least these people give a shit. Emergency medical workers jump into action, and my mom is put on a gurney and wheeled into an exam room.

The moment they take over the responsibility of her my exhaustion takes over. I answer questions, not fully registering what I’m asked. Somehow I give them all her important information, but it’s like I’m not really here anymore. It could be minutes or hours later, but I eventually wander out the sliding doors.

I can hear the metallic buzzing of the fluorescent lights outside. For the first time I notice the blood on my hands, and on my sweatshirt where I cradled her to my chest on the way out to my truck. I try and scrub them on my pants to get rid of the blood, but it just spreads everywhere.

My chest tightens, and my eyes sting with the urge to cry. I haven’t cried in years, but I might now, and it pisses me off. I know I need to move my truck, so I jump in and drive around the parking lot. It’s the one thing I can do, and I pass by several spaces, because once this task is complete, I’m not sure what to do with myself.

Do I go inside and wait for the doctors to come out and tell me I’m alone? Wait for the cops to come and decide to haul me in for knocking out my dad? I honestly don’t know what my next step is, so I drive in circles until my gas light comes on. Only then do I pull into a spot.

I need something to hold on to, to help me hold it together. Without even thinking twice, I pull my phone out of my pocket and call Tessa.

Her voice is groggy, but she answers after only one ring. “Ford?”

My voice breaks when I try to speak, so I clear my throat and try again. “I need you, Tess.”

She doesn’t question me, instead she simply says, “Tell me where you are. I’m on my way.”

“Playa Pacifica Memorial. Hurry, baby, it’s my mom.” I hang up, because even if it’s been years, the tears won’t be held back, and I don’t want her to hear me break. She might see it when she gets here, but for a little bit longer I can keep her from seeing me and all my broken pieces.

ChapterSixteen

Tessa

For the firsttime in years, I sneak down the stairs to leave my house. It’s after one in the morning, and I have no idea if my dad’s return home means he plans on playing at being my parent again, but I’d rather not deal with him tonight. When I make it to the bottom of the stairs, a lamp switches on in the front sitting room. It has a straight view of the front door, and I find it a bit creepy that he’s been sitting here in the dark. What possible reason does he have to camp out there, to catch me sneaking out?

I jump a foot in the air. “Holy shit, Dad!” I put my hand over my heart to keep it from bursting free from my chest. “What are you doing just sitting in the dark?”

He sets a man’s razor down on the coffee table. “Care to explain this?”

I don’t have time for this bullshit. “I’d rather like to know what you were doing in my room, but I don’t have time to listen to you right now.”

“Contessa, get back here right now,” he demands.

“I’ve got to go. My boyfriend needs me right now, and you lost the right to order me around about the time you decided visiting me was too much of a bother,” I tell him as I start out the front door.

“If you take that car, I’ll call the cops and report it stolen,” he threatens.

I narrow my eyes and drop my keys on the floor. “Go for it.” I call his bluff and walk out the front door.

Pulling out my phone, I call a number I’ve had, but haven’t used. “Shane, I need your help.”

“What’s wrong with Ford?” he asks immediately.

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