Ch. 3 Mama

Claire’s POV

The room Nick gave us was at the back of the clubhouse, down a hallway far enough from the bar that the voices behind us faded by the time we reached it. It wasn’t much—one bed, a dresser, a nightstand, a lamp, and a small bathroom—but it was clean. Nick carried in a first-aid kit, two bottles of water, and another blanket, setting everything on the dresser before pointing at the deadbolt.

“Locks from the inside. Teo will be up for a while if you need anything.”

Lilly sat in the middle of the bed with Mr. Pickles in her lap and Teo’s enormous black socks bunched around her ankles. “Does he really snore?”

Nick looked over at her. “Like a chainsaw.”

“How do you know?”

“I’ve known him a long time.”

“That doesn’t mean you sleep with him.”

Nick looked at me.

I bit the inside of my cheek. “She’s tired.”

“I’m not tired.”

“You complained about being tired in the car.”

“That was in the car.”

Nick gave me a look that said I was on my own with that one. “Check her arm.”

“I will.”

He opened the door, then stopped. “Try to sleep.”

“I’ll try.”

“Night, Lilly.”

“Night.”

The second the door closed, I locked it. I pushed against it once, checked the deadbolt, then turned around and found Lilly watching me.

“Can Daddy get in?”

“No.”

“What if he has a key?”

“He doesn’t.”

“What if Nick does?”

“He probably does, but he’s not coming in.”

“How do you know?”

“Because he said he wouldn’t.”

She thought about that for a second, then nodded. “Okay.”

I picked up the first-aid kit. “Come here. Let me see your arm.”

“It’s okay.”

“I know. I still want to look.”

She climbed off the bed, leaving one sock behind. I picked it up and held it out, but she shook her head.

“They’re ugly.”

“They’re socks.”

“They’re black. Girls wear pink.”

“Your feet don’t care what color they are.”

“Mine do.”

I dropped the sock back onto the bed. “Fine. Bathroom.”

“I don’t have to pee.”

“You have chocolate and cracker crumbs all over your face.”

She scrubbed both hands over her cheeks. “There.”

“Not even close.”

She followed me into the bathroom with Mr. Pickles tucked under her arm. I wet a washcloth and wiped around her mouth while she twisted her face away from me.

“Cold.”

“It’s warm.”

“It’s cold to me.”

“Hold still.”

“You got my nose.”

“Your nose was dirty.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

“It had chocolate on it.”

“That was from before.”

“I know how dirt works, Lilly.”

She huffed and finally held still long enough for me to finish. When I reached for her sleeve, she tucked her arm against her stomach.

“Let me look.”

“It doesn’t hurt now.”

“I still need to see it.”

She let me push the sleeve up.

The marks around her upper arm had darkened. Four places where Grant’s fingers had dug into her skin.

Lilly looked down at them. “Are they gonna be purple?”

“They might.”

“Like yours?”

My hand stopped.

She pointed at my cheek. “That one was darker yesterday.”

“You saw it?”

“Yeah.”

“When?”

“When we had pancakes.”

I’d covered that bruise before Grant came downstairs. At least I thought I had.

“You never said anything.”

“You said you hit the bathroom door.”

“I did.”

She gave me a look.

“What?”

“You didn’t hit the door.”

“How do you know?”

“Because you always say that.”

I turned toward the first-aid kit and pulled out a cold pack.

Behind me, Lilly climbed onto the closed toilet lid. “Did Daddy do it?”

I cracked the pack and wrapped it in the washcloth. There wasn’t any point doing it again.

“Yes.”

She just nodded.

“Here. Put this on your arm.”

She touched it and immediately pulled her hand back. “No. It’s too cold.”

“It’ll help.”

“I want a Band-Aid.”

“A Band-Aid won’t help a bruise.”

“What about the pink ones?”

“They won’t either.”

“The unicorn ones do.”

“According to who?”

“Me.”

Of course.

“Cold pack first. Then you can have a Band-Aid.”

“Two.”

“One.”

“Two.”

I handed her the pack. “Fine. Two.”

She pressed it against her arm and made a face. “I hate this.”

“You have two Band-Aids coming. You’ll make it.”

She held it there for maybe ten seconds before trying to move it.

“Keep it on.”

“My arm’s already cold.”

“That’s the point.”

“It’s cold enough.”

I sat on the edge of the tub and took over holding it because otherwise we were going to be there until morning.

After a minute, she asked, “Are we sleeping here?”

“Yeah.”

“Both of us?”

“Both of us.”

“Mr. Pickles too?”

“I figured.”

“He sleeps in the middle.”

“I figured that too.”

“Can we leave the lamp on?”

“Sure.”

“Daddy says you’re supposed to turn lights off.”

“Daddy isn’t paying this electric bill.”

She smiled at that, then leaned sideways trying to look at her arm under the pack.

“Stop moving.”

“I’m checking.”

“I’m the one checking.”

“Can I be done?”

I took the pack away. “Yes.”

“My Band-Aids.”

“You really weren’t going to let that go, were you?”

“No.”

There weren’t any unicorns, which apparently made the entire first-aid kit a disappointment. She dug through it herself until she found two with little red dots and made me put them on perfectly good skin below the bruise.

“That one’s crooked.”

“It is not.”

“It is a little.”

“You have got to be kidding me.”

She peeled at one edge until I slapped her hand away.

“Leave it alone.”

She hopped down and looked at herself in the mirror. “Can you do my hair?”

“We don’t have your brush.”

“Oh.”

“Come here. I can use my fingers.”

I started working through the tangles carefully. She complained anyway.

“Ow.”

“I barely touched you.”

“You pulled.”

“Sorry.”

Her eyes met mine in the mirror.

“What?”

“You said sorry.”

“Because I pulled your hair.”

She looked down at Mr. Pickles.

Then she asked, “Are you gonna tell Daddy sorry too?”

My hands stopped.

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m not sorry.”

She turned around to look at me properly. “But you always tell him.”

“What do you mean?”

“When he gets mad.”

I leaned against the sink. “I do?”

“Yeah.”

“For what?”

“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “You just do.”

I looked at her.

She had already started fixing Mr. Pickles’s ear.

“When Daddy gets mad, I say sorry?”

“Yeah. Then he doesn’t be mad anymore.”

Except he did.

Maybe not right then. Maybe not that night. But there was always another reason waiting.

Lilly looked up again. “You clean too.”

“What?”

“You clean really fast.”

“When?”

“When Daddy’s mad.”

I stared at her.

“You wipe the counters and stuff. Even when you already did them.”

I knew exactly what she meant. There had been nights I wiped the same counter three times because looking busy meant I didn’t have to look at Grant.

Lilly slid down from the toilet lid. “Can we go to bed now?”

“In a minute.”

She groaned.

“What?”

“I’m tired.”

“I thought you weren’t tired.”

“That was before.”

Of course it was.

I put the first-aid kit back together while she leaned against my leg.

“Do you remember my blue cup? The one with the flowers?”

She nodded immediately. “Daddy broke it.”

I looked down at her. “What?”

“The blue one.”

“I thought I lost it.”

“No. Daddy threw it.”

“When?”

She shrugged. “When I had my cough.”

Three months ago.

I remembered coming home late from my mother’s house with groceries in the trunk. Grant had barely spoken to me because I hadn’t answered one of his calls while I was carrying bags.

“Were you there?”

She nodded.

“What happened?”

“He was mad because you weren’t home.”

“Where were you?”

“At the table.”

“Did anything hit you?”

“No.”

“What did he say after?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did he tell you not to tell me?”

“He said you’d get upset.”

I sat down on the closed toilet lid.

Lilly climbed between my knees because apparently if I sat down, that meant I had become furniture.

“You knew I was upset when I came home?”

She nodded against me. “You cleaned fast.”

I put my arms around her.

She kept talking into my shirt. “Then you went in the bathroom.”

I knew where this was going before she said it.

“You turn the water on when you cry.”

I looked down at the top of her head.

“You can hear me?”

“Sometimes.”

“I thought you were asleep.”

“Sometimes I am.”

“And when you’re not?”

She shrugged. “I put my pillow on my head.”

“Why?”

“Daddy’s loud.”

I held her tighter.

“Mom, Mr. Pickles.”

I loosened my arms because the rabbit was smashed between us.

“Sorry.”

She fixed him, smoothing his ears down.

“I sleep with him when Daddy yells.”

I brushed a curl away from her forehead. “Does he yell at you?”

“Sometimes when I’m bad.”

“What do you mean bad?”

“When I don’t listen. Or I’m loud.”

“You’re five. You’re loud.”

“I know.”

That almost got me.

I kissed the top of her head instead.

After a minute she said, “I was bad tonight.”

“No, you weren’t.”

“Yes, I was. You told me stay upstairs.”

I pulled back enough to see her face. “You were not bad.”

“But I came down.”

“You came down because you heard us.”

“You said stop.”

I couldn’t answer.

“I heard you.”

Her fingers started rubbing Mr. Pickles’s ear again.

“You said it two times.”

I looked at her.

“And Daddy didn’t stop, so I came down.”

She said it like there hadn’t been another choice.

“You should never have had to come down.”

“But he was hurting you.”

“I know.”

“I thought if I laid on you, he couldn’t hit you.”

I pulled her into me again.

This time she didn’t complain about Mr. Pickles right away.

Her cheek rested against my shoulder.

“I was gonna make him stop.”

“You don’t have to make grown-ups stop things, baby.”

“But you were on the floor.”

“I know.”

“He was bigger than you.”

“I know.”

She leaned back. “He’s bigger than me too.”

“Yes.”

“So how was I supposed to make him stop?”

I wiped a curl away from her eyes.

“You weren’t supposed to.”

“But nobody else was there.”

I opened my mouth and nothing came out.

She looked toward the bedroom. “Can we go lay down now?”

“Yeah.”

I carried her even though she was getting too heavy for it. She wrapped her legs around my waist the same way she had since she was little, Mr. Pickles wedged between us.

When I put her on the bed, she immediately crawled to the wall.

“You sleep here.”

She patted the other side.

“Bossy.”

“You have to be by the door.”

“Why?”

“So Daddy has to get past you first.”

I stood there looking at her.

She was already fluffing Mr. Pickles’s ears.

“Mommy?”

“Yeah.”

“Come on.”

I climbed into bed.

She put Mr. Pickles between us, changed her mind, moved him closer to her pillow, then tucked the blanket under his chin.

“Can we get my stuff tomorrow?”

“Not tomorrow. But we’ll get it.”

“My purple shoes?”

“Yes.”

“My sparkle shoes?”

“Yes.”

“My tablet?”

“Yes.”

“My pink blanket?”

“Yes.”

She went quiet.

“What?”

“I don’t want Daddy there.”

“He won’t be there when we get your things.”

“Promise?”

“Yes.”

She studied my face for a second, then nodded and rolled onto her side.

“Are you still married to Daddy?”

“For now.”

“Can you not be?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“It takes paperwork and some other stuff.”

“So you can just sign it?”

“It’s a little harder than that.”

“Why?”

“Because grown-ups make everything harder than it needs to be.”

She accepted that immediately.

“Can I not be his kid?”

That one took longer.

“No, baby.”

She looked down at Mr. Pickles.

“I don’t want him mad at me.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I told him no.”

“You’re allowed to tell him no if he’s hurting you.”

“He doesn’t like when people say no.”

I stared at her.

“No. He doesn’t.”

She pushed Mr. Pickles toward the middle of the bed.

“Is Nick your friend?”

“He used to be.”

“Why isn’t he now?”

“I haven’t seen him in a long time.”

“Did you have a fight?”

“No.”

“Then he’s still your friend.”

Apparently that settled it.

“Was he your boyfriend?”

“No.”

“Did you kiss him?”

“No.”

She narrowed her eyes.

“What?”

“I think you did.”

“You weren’t even alive.”

“That doesn’t mean you didn’t.”

“I did not kiss Nick.”

“Did he want to?”

“Go to sleep.”

Her mouth curled.

“You’re smiling.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“Sleep.”

She giggled and buried her face in the pillow.

For a few minutes she was quiet. I thought she had finally drifted off until her hand moved across the mattress and found mine.

“Mommy?”

“Yeah?”

“You don’t have to tell Daddy sorry.”

I turned toward her.

“He should say sorry.”

“For what?”

She looked at me like I was being stupid.

“For hitting you.”

Then she lifted the arm with the two useless Band-Aids and pointed at the bruise.

“And for this.”

“Yeah.”

“He needs two sorries.”

“At least.”

“Maybe three.”

“Maybe.”

Her eyes closed.

I thought that was it.

Then she whispered, “Mommy?”

“I’m here.”

“Don’t go in the bathroom.”

“Why?”

She opened her eyes just enough to look at me.

“If you need to cry, you can do it here. I won’t tell anybody.”

I couldn’t get anything past my throat.

Lilly squeezed my fingers.

“And Mr. Pickles won’t tell either.”

I turned my face into the pillow and pulled her hand against my chest.

“I’m staying right here.”

“Okay.”

A few minutes later, her breathing changed. Her fingers loosened around mine, but I didn’t let go.

I lay there with the lamp still on, Mr. Pickles shoved between us and Lilly’s hand tucked against my chest.

She knew about the bruises. She knew about the bathroom. She knew I cleaned when Grant was angry and apologized until the house went quiet again. She had been hiding under blankets while I stood downstairs telling myself I was keeping all of it away from her.

Tonight she had thrown her little body over mine because she thought that was the only way to make her father stop hitting me.

I had stayed because I thought leaving would tear her family apart.

My five-year-old had been waiting for me to leave.

We weren’t going back.