My mom sighs. “Well, there’s no point stressing over it now. We got through it once, and we’ll get through it again. At least there’s no shame this time around.”
I purse my lips. The way she uses the word “we,” she makes it sound like we did it together. We didn’t. There was the Wright family, and then there was me.
Now’s not the time to remind her of that, though.
“But you do have to get in touch with this hockey player. Or his family.” My mom smooths her thin sweater over her curvy hips, where she’s beginning to grow thick as she approaches her midfifties. “He owes you a new car. They have plenty of money. I’m sure he’ll be more than willing to replace it. If not, I’ll get Hansen involved.” My mother has worked as a paralegal at Belmont’s prominent civil law firm of Jeremy Hansen & Robert Shaw for the past twenty-eight years, and it has become second nature for her to look for the monetary gain behind every situation.
My shoulders tense. “I am not asking Brett Madden or his family to buy me a new car. And Hansen is absolutely not getting involved.” At one point that bottom-feeder had my mother convinced that they had civil cases against Scott, the school board, and the paint factory where my dad had worked. She would have gone through with suing them all, too, had my dad not promised divorce. He was as tired of the circus as the rest of us.
Given the chance, Hansen will have Brett Madden served with papers as soon as he’s up to receiving visitors from his hospital bed.
“Well, you need a car, Catherine. How else are you supposed to get to work?” The rare moment of affection has passed, and the Hildy Wright I know is back, her arms folded over her chest, that patronizing tone edging her words. That one that tells me she’s about to take control, to harp on the issue until she gets her way.
“Hildy . . .” my dad warns. He’s a calm, quiet man. He rarely raises his voice, and when he does, it’s because he’s had enough of my mom being, well, herself. He and I are much more alike, both introverts. He’s always preferred working his shift and then enjoying a night with a beer and the sports highlights.
“Don’t get offended.” She heaves a sigh. “I’m not trying to manage your life. I’m just thinking about your welfare. And Brenna’s.”
“And I’m not?” I take deep, calming breaths, reminding myself that my mother isn’t evil. That she does care about me. She just shows it in a way I don’t appreciate. “I will tell people about the accident if and when I’m ready, and there is no way anyone is bringing up the idea of replacing my car with Brett Madden or his family. That is my decision to make, and I’ve made it.” I say it slowly and calmly but firmly.
“And we respect that. Don’t we, Hildy?” my father says, again in that warning tone.
“Why do we need a new car?” Brenna chirps, wandering back into the living room, breaking up the tension in the room.
“Mine doesn’t work anymore, sweetie,” I explain. It’s not even worth the deductible I have to pay on insurance. There is no replacement value. I wouldn’t be surprised if I get a disposal bill from the town for it.
“We’ll revisit this conversation later,” my mother promises under her breath. My dad rolls his eyes. After years of bending to her will, he’s finally growing a spine.
“First things, first.” Mom reaches down to grab her purse. “You need to get that wrist X-rayed. It could be broken. You really should think about seeking compensation for that, too.”
I open my mouth, about to tell her that I’ll find my own way to the hospital, that I don’t want her involved because I don’t trust her to respect my wishes, when my dad clears his throat, catching my gaze. In his eyes, I see only concern. “One thing at a time. Let’s just worry about getting your wrist looked at.”
“You can drop me off if you want. I’m probably going to be stuck there for hours.”
“No, we’re staying. Through all of it.” His expression says this isn’t negotiable.
And for once, I’m relieved.
Chapter 5
I spot three news station vans in the parking lot as soon as we pull in. It’s not surprising that they’d choose Diamonds as the ideal place to squat, given that we’ve been voted the best truck stop diner in the state of Pennsylvania for the last ten years straight.
Still . . . I’m not sure what those reporters know. Keith’s words from last night have kept cycling through my mind all morning, making me skate around every answer I gave the doctors and nurses at the hospital, making me eye everyone through a suspicious lens.
It’ll be fine, I tell myself.
“I just need to grab my paycheck. Two minutes.” I reach for the door handle, hoping to make the stop quick and painless, wanting desperately to get back to the safety of my tiny home.
“I’m hungry. Aren’t you hungry?” Mom’s eyes narrow as she takes in the sign that sits atop the diner. At least a dozen of the flashing red bulbs that outline the diamond-shaped appendage have burned out.
“Chicken fingers and french fries!” Brenna hollers from next to me in the backseat. “I want chicken fingers and french fries!”
Mom turns to me, her gaze rolling over the beige binding that the hospital wrapped around my wrist to help support it while it heals. It only took four hours at the hospital to tell me it’s a bad sprain. “It’s been a long morning. Why don’t we have lunch here? Our treat.”
True to my dad’s word, they stuck by me the entire time, entertaining Brenna in the waiting room while I had X-rays taken and saw a doctor. And, surprisingly, my mother made no more comments about Brett Madden buying me a new car or compensating me for lost work. It could have been the whispered words exchanged between my parents as they lagged behind us in the hospital parking lot. Whatever it was, I’m grateful.
But I don’t know that sitting in Diamonds, where people know me and are bound to ask questions about what happened, is the best idea.
“Please, Mommy! I’m starving! And we haven’t eaten here in forever!”
Brenna’s dramatic flair—and her pouty bottom lip—ends any possible protest from me. “Okay.” I sigh. “But I need you to do me a favor and not repeat anything you may have heard me and Grandma and Grandpa talking about today.”
She peers up at me with wide, serious eyes. “Like what?”
“Like . . . Just, anything.” The last thing I’m going to do is give my five-year-old a rundown of everything she isn’t supposed to talk about. Hopefully she’s already forgotten. She’s pretty good at keeping secrets, I’ll give her that.
The buzz of voices envelops me the second we step inside the busy roadside restaurant, and I can’t help but begin calculating how much tip money I’m losing by not working my shift today. My electricity bill for the month, at least. And because I left them one waitress short at the last minute, Lou’s working the floor, apron on and cheeks flushed.