Seven

Winnie

I’m only asleep for an hour when the front door opens and slams against the side of the trailer. Scurrying out of bed, I press my ear against my bedroom door and listen to someone tearing apart the living room. Glass shatters, tables sound like they’re being overturned, and then it all stops. But I’d know Tess’s scream anywhere, and when I run to the window, she’s lying facedown in the middle of the street. Whoever was inside the trailer hops in their car and speeds away, leaving Tess passed out in the dirt.

I wait a couple of seconds, hoping she’ll come to and pick herself up. When she doesn’t, I run through the house in my pajamas and bare feet, forgetting about the shattered glass. A shard pierces the bottom of my foot, and I fall to the linoleum on my hands and knees, waiting for the stinging to stop. It doesn’t, and I’m bleeding all over the kitchen.

But I’m so used to the blood, I ignore the crimson droplets, and I peel myself off the floor. All I care about is getting Tess out of the street before someone runs her over.

When I get to her, she’s breathing softly, still knocked out with her lip split down the middle. She’s dead weight, and no matter how hard I try to pick her up, I’m just not strong enough. With two fistfuls of her satin slip in my hands, I drag her toward the trailer, praying the fabric doesn’t rip apart. It’s all I have to grab on to.

“Wake up, Tess, please,” I beg.

She doesn’t move—not a twitch of her fake eyelashes or wiggle of her gaudy, manicured fingernails.

I only manage to drag her a couple of feet before I have to lay her back on the ground and catch my breath. I’m still working against the clock though. Because, at this hour, anyone who drives by won’t be paying attention. As soon as The Whip closes, this street will be full of wasted drunks.

I’m adjusting my grip when the motorcycle pulls into the driveway next door. The guy dressed in leather sees me struggling, and without hesitation, he jumps off his bike and picks Tess up. He carries her lifeless body in his arms and lays her on the couch.

Like this is a perfectly normal scene to come home to, he never asks a single question or bothers to call the cops. All I can do is stand there, grateful for the help and confused about who this man is and why he stays hidden during the day, seemingly taking care of all his business at night.

For a few seconds, we stand, staring at one another. He sees all of me, and all I have is the scent of his leather and the reflection of my own face in his helmet.

A slew of questions are on the tip of my tongue, but I don’t have a chance to ask a single one of them. Because, as soon as Tess moans and rolls onto her side, he’s gone.

I prop pillows underneath her head, so she won’t choke on her own vomit if she gets sick. And then I leave her on the couch to sleep off whatever it is she took. Come morning, she won’t remember the fight that landed her in the street, and I won’t waste my breath, trying to tell her about it. There’s no use; she’ll never change. Just like her messy life, the destruction around here will always be my responsibility to clean up and deal with.

After I lock the door, fix the end tables and chairs, and scrub the blood off the floor, I wash my foot off in the tub. The bleeding has mostly stopped, and I stick a butterfly bandage over the cut to help it heal.

And then I take one last look out my bedroom window, toward the neighbor’s trailer. His bike is still parked in the driveway, and there’s a light on in the room across from mine. Like he was waiting for me, the blinds part, and a piece of paper is shoved in between the slats, pressing up against the window.

Does she need help? is written in black marker.

I tell him, “No,” forgetting that he can’t hear me. I’m not even sure how well he can see me, but I grab my sketchpad and tear off a sheet of paper. With purple marker, the darkest color I can find, I scribble, No.

His first question disappears, and another piece of paper is forced against the window. This time, he asks a much harder question, Are you okay?

If he’s asking if Tess hurt me, the answer is always no. She’s never physically struck me; it’s only her words that sting. But, if he’s asking beyond that, it would take me an entire tablet of paper to explain it to him.

Other than the cut on my foot, I’m still in one piece. Or as close to whole as I’ve been since I lost my dad. Without him, my heart will remain cracked down the middle, and my body will always tremble when I’m left alone in the dark. And, if the sun ever decides to shine within me, I’ll still continue to walk with my head down, protecting what little I have left.

I print in all caps on the paper and hold it up to the window. I’M FINE. Then, I take it down and add, Thank you, and hold it against the glass again.

The next one he holds up says, Get some sleep, and our conversation ends.

I haven’t taken orders about bedtime since I was five, but for some reason, I listen to him and climb back into bed. My head rests on the pillow, and I stare through my sheer curtains at his window until he turns the light off and his shadow disappears.

No matter how hard I squeeze my lashes together, I still can’t sleep. All I see is him, dressed in black leather with his fingers holding the white letter. I’ve never had a cell phone, and this simple form of communication is the closest I’ve come to text messaging. And, after what he did for me tonight, I realize that I’m not as afraid of the neighbor as I thought I was.

Even though I’ve never heard him speak, he has a voice. A voice that cared enough to ask if I was okay.

We’ve never been close enough to touch, but his fingertips held me safety, helping me when I was struggling to pull Tess out of the street.

“Thank you,” I whisper to whoever is listening to me in heaven. I like to think this was Dad’s doing, that he sends guardian angels to places he can no longer be.