Dissociation.
Like her mind is a balloon, bobbing just behind and above her body.
She has faith that they’ll be reunited soon.
It’s not as scary because it’s happened before, and because her babies are safe now.
But she still has work to do.
“Can I borrow someone’s phone?” she asks, hating that she never got hers back from Arlene.
Ella holds hers out, her hand trembling, and Chelsea takes the cracked screen and faded cover like she’s being handed something precious.
“Go let Indigo out of the bathroom,” she says, because Ella needs something to do to stop the shaking.
Chelsea goes to the front of the bus, where a Post-it is taped to the dashboard with all the pertinent numbers on it. The world outside is dark now, and the groupies stand and shift in the puddles of orange light like a school of fish, unaware of the sharks that have swum past them tonight. Sitting in the driver’s seat of the bus for the first time, Chelsea makes a group text for Arlene, Harlan, Chris, and Sienna. No point in leaving anyone out.
It’s Chelsea. Husband came to tour bus to kill me and my girls. Need your help. NO POLICE. I stormed.
Only one of those things is a lie, but she’s not about to admit in any traceable way that she is responsible for killing David.
She…killed David.
She’s imagined it multiple times while sitting through his abuse, but not in any way that was concrete, nothing like what actually happened.
She was there for every second of it, and she also wasn’t. She felt like a portal to something else, some deep, boundless pit of simmering rage that could no longer be contained. She welcomed that connection, was glad to let it move her hands, to bring them down, firmly, with conviction, to disallow any sort of pause or consideration.
When she was little, Ella got a horrible stomach virus once, and Chelsea spent days sleeping on the bathroom floor with her. When she puked, it was like a fire hose from hell, a pressure and volume and sound far too big for that tiny little body.
This feels like that, but like hell was trying to help her.
Chelsea shakes her head and hits SEND.
Strange thoughts for strange times.
As she sits in the driver’s seat, staring out at the light glimmering on groupies smiling and waving at her from some other world, her hearing comes back, first a loud buzz and then complete words.
“Mom, do you have any ibuprofen? Nana’s got a really bad fever.”
Chelsea glances back down the long line of the aisle between the bunks. This place felt so safe only a few hours ago. She won’t be able to sleep here again. Maybe no one will. All these strong, brave women reclaiming their lives don’t deserve to be haunted by some asshole like David.
Ella is by Nana on the couch, Brooklyn still clinging to her older sister’s orbit. Patricia looks terrible. To get to them, Chelsea has to step over what’s left of her husband. She…doesn’t even remember doing that to get up here. Human brains are so good at creating holes where terrible things dwell.
“The cabinet above the kitchen sink. Glasses for water on the right.”
Her voice comes out strained and husky, as if she’s been silent for decades and is learning to speak again.
Part of her feels that old, familiar tug of expectation and duty. She shouldn’t make her child do this work alone. She should get to the other side of the bus and check her mother’s temperature and find out why she’s so sick. But there’s a definite weakening in the chains that bind her to obedience just now.
Ella can hand someone pills, fill a glass with water.
Chelsea herself needs to sit here until she knows help is in view.
She looks down at the phone in her hand.
She didn’t even notice it buzzing.
There are messages.
Arlene: On the way. Hold tight.
Chris: Is he still a threat?
Sienna: Is Indigo with you?
Nothing from Harlan, but he’s probably still by the ring or otherwise on camera.
She fumbles to text Sienna, to let a fellow terrified mother know her child is safe.
A sharp rap on the glass door draws her attention.
It’s Chris, looking deadly and furious in a way she’s never seen before.
Why doesn’t he—
Ah, yes. The door. David locked it.
Chelsea reaches out, noting the red speckles up her arm, above where she washed her hands, and unlocks the door.
Chris steps in and up and past her, a small black gun as slender and hard as a blade pointed forward in both hands.
“It’s okay,” Chelsea says.
The words aren’t quite working right, but Chris must see David on the ground. Anyone who takes one look at what’s left of his head knows he’s not a threat.
Chris slides his gun back into a hidden holster in his waistband and turns to Chelsea.
“Did he hurt you? Is anyone hurt?”
Only for the last twenty years, she wants to say. But she just shakes her head.
“He left his gun on the counter,” she adds, wanting to be helpful. “It’s loaded.”
“Chelsea?”
Now Arlene is standing at the bus door, already stepping up. Arlene doesn’t ask any questions. She glances inside, sees Chris, and envelops Chelsea in a hug.
“It’s okay,” she croons. “It’s over. You’re safe.”
Chelsea gulps a weird little laugh.
It doesn’t feel okay. Nothing is ever really over. She doesn’t feel safe.
“He found me,” she whispers to Arlene in this new, husky voice, as if she’s torn her throat without a single scream. “He cornered us here. He had a gun.”
“I know. I know. This is not your fault.”
And those five simple words are the ice pick that pokes a hole in the dam of her emotions, and the balloon floats back to her shoulders, uniting body and mind, and Chelsea draws a screeching, animal breath and lets out a tremendous, shaking sob. She’s gulping for air between jagged moans, fat tears already drenching her twice-bloodstained shirt.
“Mommy, are you okay?” Brooklyn shouts from the back of the bus, but she can’t get here to hug her mommy because her daddy is dead on the floor and Ella is surely doing her best to shield Brooklyn from the worst parts of it all because she’s a good, noble, selfless, wonderful girl who learned from a young age to sacrifice herself. Just like her mother.
“Your mama’s okay,” Arlene calls back, still holding Chelsea’s head to her shoulder and rocking back and forth. “Everybody’s got to cry sometimes.”
There’s movement, too close, and Chelsea startles like some tender forest creature, but it’s just Chris. He always looks compact and competent, but now he looks dark and crafty, too.
“I put a sheet over him. We should wait for Harlan. We’ll need hotel rooms tonight.”
Arlene looks up, her hand still gently cupping Chelsea’s skull like she’s a baby, but her voice is hard and certain. “Sienna can do that. Have TJ keep everyone in the greenroom once it’s over. Tell him to order pizza.”
“Got it.”