Chapter Sixteen

It was unreal, the way an entire body could be consumed by pain. Whitney was less flesh and more burn, her intense desire to get to Fayetteville outweighing any sort of common sense. She sped, going ninety to ninety-five and was mystified that a cop wasn’t waiting around a corner to find her. 

She had left her mother in a state of numbness, the both of them really—Marge unsure of what had come over her daughter and her daughter unsure of how the thing that was her life was her life. She had every good intention of living a much better one; now she figured her intentions were merely bricks paving the way to hell.

The night before, she had snuck into her mother’s room. Marge had always been a heavy sleeper whereas Whitney was spooked by the sound of her own breathing. Still, she had tiptoed her way across Marge’s squeaky wooden floors, past her thigh puncturing nightstand and into the closet where Marge kept an assortment of ill-fitting, lightly stained clothes. Up at the top of the wooden shoe cubby sat a shoebox. And inside that shoebox was Marge’s gun.

Technically, it had been Lenny’s gun. Lenny was always a strong proponent of the Second Amendment, even though he wasn’t much of a proponent of anything else. But he felt strongly about personal safety and his desire to keep his wife and child protected. Thinking about it now, Whitney figured it was a lot easier to purchase a firearm than to play the role of an actual father.

You’re just angry, she whispered in her brain, unwilling to challenge the theory that Marge could sleep through a level 5 hurricane. She was, and she didn’t mean to take it out on her deceased father. Her body was charged with Jamal’s secrets, with Denise McGovern’s smug smile, with Franklin’s brokenness. With her mother’s substantial presence. She watched her mother in her bed, flat on her back. Her chin was raised up to the ceiling, her mouth open and a damp line of drool having escaped from the side of her lip. Whitney was overwhelmed with grief. What had gotten them here, to the point where Whitney was so disgusted with herself, it turned her against the only person who had ever truly loved her? She wanted to lie down next to Marge and hold her tight like she did when she was a girl. But instead, she just sobbed quietly, jarringly as she covered her mouth with her one hand and held the gun with the other.

She made it out, placing the empty gun in her underwear drawer for safe keeping with the worn box of bullets that had accompanied it in the shoebox. What are you doing? was the song on repeat in her head. But she just blinked the refrain away, opting for sleep over any sort of self-reflection.

She had left, taking the Lincoln and leaving her son in her mother’s arms. Her son. She wanted his face to stop her. She wanted his face to mean something. But her feelings were stacked so high, she couldn’t even peek over them. So instead, she kissed him hard on his cheek and turned before she lost her footing.

She was two hours into the trip. Her bladder screamed, having packed up and left so quickly. She decided to stop at a Flying J and call her mother. The call was quick—she didn’t need another inquisition—and she then went to relieve herself. She washed her hands in warm water and her face looked back at her dripping wet. Her blue irises looked faded as did her very pale skin. She wondered if it was because she was so odd looking that the father of her child would rather be with men.

A lady flushed the toilet and opted for the sink right next to Whitney. She had caught Whitney’s eye, flashed her a big smile and asked, “Let me guess. Heading down for Thanksgiving? Isn’t it a little early for the University to be out, Sweetie?”

“Yes, that’s right. Heading back to see my family.”

“Well, that’s great. You have yourself a nice holiday.”

“You too,” Whitney said as the woman and her damp hands left the bathroom. She turned back to look at what that lady must have seen—someone so tiny and small they must be afraid of their own shadow.

In the car—her hands wrapped around the steering wheel, knuckles threatening her thin skin—Whitney vowed to never look that way to anyone again.