Somehow we got away with the whole scheme. Ms. Stone and Bic knew I slept there, but Pixie’s mom seemed to know how much Pixie and I needed each other. Pixie told me about a conversation between her and her mom, saying how much we looked out for each other when she and Bic were away. That I was family to her. I was pretty sure she’d told her mom that I wasn’t safe either. I was just guessing at that part, but it seemed implied.
“You’re taking money from your mother’s family?”
I couldn’t answer. Dad didn’t give me time before the hits fell on my shoulders and neck. He had me trapped by my chair. He was pressing against it with his leg, and my chest dug into the faux wood that I normally used as a step to get out of my window.
“Fuck. Dad. What the hell?”
His fury was untameable, unstoppable.
The blows kept coming. I was having trouble breathing, with my chest pressed against the desk so hard. I was seeing flashes, the sounds echoing like I was underwater.
He was pissed about Mom’s family paying the bills. It had been going on so long, I’d reasoned that he’d already figured it out and was okay with it. I mean, he’d been laid off almost a year now. And we were still in the apartment. Still had the lights on. He had drinking money.
I forgot what I was thinking about and the blows made me weak. This was breaking me. Being trapped by him. I used my growing strength and agility to get away from him usually. But like this there was no getting up. No slipping under the table with him cursing about how I needed to stand my ground like a man.
I wanted to say that a man didn’t hit his kid, but my mouth was numb and in pain. God, I hated this. Hated him. Hated that Pixie was seeing this. I prayed she had tucked herself away like I’d always asked. Pretended I had a normal dad. A normal life.
Pain bloomed up the back of my skull, shooting out sparks in my nervous system.
Maybe he wouldn’t stop. This would be the time where he was the perfect combination of sober enough to coordinate his strength and pissed enough to let it be completely unleashed. Combining that with my current trapped position and things were looking like a surefire ER trip with my favorite excuse, “The basketball pick-up game was rough, and you should see the other guys.”
I felt like my pupils were coming out of my eyes, leaving the whites like pitted olives, unseeing in the night.
I was choking now, and when my pizza bite plate went red, I knew it was the blood coming from my mouth. My lungs struggled to give me more air. I started to see only white and hear only static.
Every blow echoed through my body.
And then it stopped. Thank fuck out loud, it stopped. Pixie’s hands on my face, her murmured words. “It’s okay. It’s okay.”
I couldn’t see; maybe I was permanently blind. The adrenaline of being beat along with the fear of losing a sense made me shiver.
“Move. Your. Huge. Ass.” Pix was pushing at something on the floor. When I heard the moan, I knew it was an injured Bruce. Then she pulled out my chair, finally my lungs filling all the way with clean air, unrestricted.
I choked on more blood. Pixie was back, placing her soft petal hand on my cheek while she held a towel out for me to cough into.
“You need a doctor. This is bad.” Pixie let her fingertips graze my neck and head. I winced. She apologized. From the floor, more moans.
Bruce was coming to, or around from whatever had happened. I heard a sickening thunk of what sounded a hell of a lot like a head bouncing off a floor.
Pixie’s voice. “You stupid fuck. If you killed him...” she trailed off before she could finish. She had her hands under my armpits and pulled my chair back even farther. The sharp pain in my side was a knife. Maybe he broke my ribs this time. Why did I have my back to him? Why didn’t I see this coming? The anger over going to Mom’s family to pay our bills? I should’ve known.
Pixie again wrapped her arm around my waist and carefully placed my arm around her shoulder. “Are you okay to walk? I want to get us downstairs for the ambulance and I’m afraid your dad will wake up.”
I wasn’t sure she could hear me. “No. No doctor. They’ll investigate. No. Can’t afford.”
I wasn’t even sure I said it out loud. My life had changed in an instant. One angry, stupid instant. But my sight was returning, and that was good. Maybe because I had more oxygen and was able to take full breaths.
Pixie took me down the service elevator, the key was jammed, so it worked for everyone. It smelled awful. In the lobby she recruited help, and then I wasn’t trying to walk at all. Maybe a guy from the building? Maybe a cop? All of a sudden I was being carried like a baby with my whole body aching while the ambulance siren bounced off the buildings, coming closer to me.
Pixie said in my ear, “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”
And then I faded out.
Chapter 25
Pixie
IN THE AMBULANCE, I was sitting in the back, trying to find moments to tell Gaze that I was here. The paramedics stuffed me in with Gaze because I was answering all of their questions. I told them where he had been hit, that he wasn’t allergic to anything that I knew of, and before I could tell them about him not taking any medications, the doors were shut. There were two paramedics in the back with Gaze and me and the ambulance driver.
Now, they were working on Gaze and I couldn’t even reach for his hand. As we snaked our way through the city streets, they gave him oxygen. Or what I assumed to be oxygen. The paramedics were not frantic, but focused. At one point, the female medic that I was sitting next to spared me a glance.
“Did your father hurt you?” She looked at me from the top of my head to my toes. I was confused for a few seconds because I didn’t understand where the question came from. And then I figured out that she thought I was Gaze’s sister.
“No. He’s…” I stopped myself. “I’m fine. It’s not my blood.”
I wasn’t fine. My hand hurt where I’d hit Mr. Jones as I came through the door. I’d used Gaze’s desk lamp and clobbered Mr. Jones as hard as I could in the head. It had made a sickening thwack. But all I could do was try to get to Gaze. His father had fallen behind him and the desk was jamming into Gaze’s chest.
I used all my might to roll Mr. Jones away and kick his legs from trapping Gaze. Then I pulled out Gaze’s chair. I slid under him as he, too, fell to the floor. I didn’t want Gaze to hurt his head.
I started shaking as I flashed through the memory of getting Gaze to his feet and helping him to the door. Of pounding my hand on every door we passed until I made it to the elevator.
A neighbor saw what was going on just as the elevator doors closed and met me on the first floor, taking Gaze away from me and easily carrying him. And then the adults were in charge and my job was to stay near Gaze.
Someone called 911 and the police showed up first. I told them the number of the apartment and that Gaze’s dad had done this. I didn’t want Mr. Jones to come down and get angry again and maybe hurt Gaze some more.
Gaze’s lips were blue, and I saw the whites of his eyes as they fluttered up. And then I was answering questions as Mr. Jones was brought downstairs. His hands had blood on them. I looked down at my own hands and they, too, had blood.
Gaze’s hands were clean. And now, lying in the ambulance, he had a needle inserted in his with a piece of tape holding it steady.