Protector - Laurel Dewey [81]
The hours dragged on that Saturday afternoon. Shifts changed outside and the Memorial Day holiday weekend patrol went on duty. Two cars stayed out front and the police cruiser made its rounds down the back alley every thirty minutes. The whole thing was monotonous for Jane. With every hour that went by, she could feel herself sinking deeper into a dark pit. By sunset, a slow rain fell outside. It quickly turned into a steady downpour that pelted the windows and added an extra dose of misery to the scene.
There had been few words exchanged between Emily and Jane after Jane’s abrupt statement to the child. Emily busied herself drawing pictures and later, taking a nap on the living room couch. It was when Emily lay fast asleep that Jane found herself staring with greater interest at the living room liquor cabinet. The longer she went without a drink, the more she couldn’t shut out her father’s berating voice. “You are nothing! You understand me?” There was no escape for Jane and it was driving her into a primal place of existence.
By 7 p.m., the house felt cold and lifeless. A strong wind whipped the treetops outside the back door. Emily sat quietly on the living room couch, playing with the mini-flashlight Martha gave her. At one point, she was able to get the flashlight halfway into her mouth. She delighted in squeezing it with her teeth and making her cheeks glow red.
“Stop it,” Jane said tiredly.
Emily popped the flashlight out of her mouth. She turned on her side and looked at Jane’s bandaged hand. “Do you ever change that bandage?”
“Of course I do.”
“It looks real dirty—”
“I change it, Emily.” Jane lit yet another cigarette. After taking a long drag, she nervously rubbed her fingers across the scar on her right temple.
“Does your scar hurt?” Emily asked.
“What?” Jane said, unaware of her actions.
“The scar on the side of your head. You’re rubbing it.” Jane jerked her hand away from her head and let out an exasperated breath. “You think if you rub it hard enough it’ll disappear?”
“Emily, stop it!” Jane was at her wit’s end. Emily watched Jane with renewed intensity. Jane stared straight ahead, all too aware of the child’s prying eyes. “And stop watching me.”
“You’re the only other person in the room. Who am I—”
“Don’t be a smart-ass, Emily!” Jane’s voice raised an octave. “I said to stop watching me and I mean it!”
Emily sat up, confused by Jane’s confrontational behavior. She directed her glance across the room and spoke, “Why are you so nervous?”
Jane turned to Emily. “What are you looking at?”
“You said not to watch you,” Emily said, her eyes pinned across the room.
“Hey!” Jane slapped her hand across the couch. Emily slightly jumped and turned to face Jane. “I also said don’t be a smart-ass.”
Emily felt cornered. “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to be a—”
“Don’t argue with me!” Jane felt the walls closing in on her.
“Okay,” Emily said almost inaudibly. “How come you’re scared?” she whispered.
“I am not scared! Stop asking me that!”
“But your hands are shaking . . .”
Jane looked down and saw that, indeed, her hands were trembling. She stood up and walked across the room, taking hard drags on her cigarette and stealing a peek at the liquor cabinet. “I’m fine!”
“Maybe you should change that bandage. Maybe your hand got infected—”
“My hand is not infected!”
“Tell me how you got hurt.”
“You want to know?!” Jane screamed. “I fucked up! Okay?! I tried to save her and I fucked up!” Jane felt light-headed.
“Who were you trying to save?” Emily said in a hushed tone.
“It doesn’t matter. I didn’t save her.”
A wave of fear hit the child. “But you can save somebody, right? I mean, if you had to—”
“She died, Emily! She burned to death in a fucking car! And it’s all my fault!” Emily froze. “And this,” Jane held up her bandaged hand, “is what I’ve got to show for it!