Too much time to sit and think in this hospital bed. Her mind conjured those final moments with her father. The gruesome cycle of one snapshot after another played nonstop in her mind, like one of those View-Master toys that came with a disc of pictures that told a story. His fist inches from her face, right before he punched her. Her father pointing the gun at her. The flash and smoke exploding from the gun barrel when she shot her father. The blood in full bloom on his chest. His face contorted when he rushed her and pushed her out the window. His ominous black figure standing in the window as she fell.
“Gillian.” The doctor said her name like he’d already tried to get her attention.
“What? Yes.”
“How are you feeling today?” he asked, full of false cheer.
“Fine.”
He frowned. She said the same thing every time he asked. He’d tried to get her to open up about what happened, the days, weeks, and years leading up to the shooting. She’d given him the gist of life with her father. Moving from one place to the next. Scrounging for money to pay the rent and buy food. Living on just this side of starvation and homelessness when she was too young to understand that others had a place to call home all the time and a refrigerator full of food that didn’t come from a drive-thru or discount store.
She knew that life, and she’d tried so hard to make sure she and Justin didn’t end up on the streets. As it was, they lived one paycheck away from that devastating life.
She’d given the same watered-down version to the police the other day, though they’d insisted on more details. To get out of trouble, she’d reluctantly supplied them with enough information to condemn her father and keep herself out of jail. Not that she wasn’t justified in killing him. He came after her. Not the first time either. She’d suffered the slaps, the punches, and the beatings too many times to count. She’d feared him, probably from the day she was born, but nothing like the other night. She’d seen death in his eyes and known it was her or him.
Her own father made her make that choice.
He also freed her. She no longer had to fear him taking Justin away if she didn’t stay and help with the bills, keeping him from ending up in the gutter, where he belonged. As much as he’d hurt her, he’d had an obsessive need to keep his children close. He’d sworn that if she ever took Justin, he’d find them, and she’d never see Justin again. When she was eighteen, he found her stash of money and clothes, along with her map and checklist for running away to give Justin a better life. He’d made sure she never tried to do that again. She felt the agony of that beating in her bones even now.
She’d tried to give Justin a good life, within the boundaries of the leash of threats her father kept tight around her neck. Every time she’d pulled, gotten just a little further in trying to take Justin away, he’d pulled that leash tight. Thoughts of what he could do to her and Justin made her fear actually leaving. The one threat she could never let happen—her father taking Justin and eventually losing him to the broken foster care system—made her give in every time. No way would she have allowed Justin to be left in a system where at best he’d have been ignored by strangers, or, worse, hurt and abused. She’d met other kids in the system and heard their awful stories. What if she’d tried to get him back and they’d deemed her unfit? She couldn’t take that chance. Justin was better off with her loving him despite her father’s erratic and hurtful behavior.
Her sweet baby. The only person who ever loved her. Her saving grace when everything seemed hopeless. Her eye of the storm when hurricane Ron blew in and turned her life upside down again and again. She’d do anything, everything, to protect him.
“Do you need any more pain meds?”
“I’m fine.”
“You’ve been through a major trauma. Your injuries are severe. It’s understandable if you need something to take the edge off.”
“No more drugs. I need to go home to Justin.”
“I just finished my interview with your social worker. She’ll be in to see you in a moment.”
“What did you tell her?”
“That while your injuries are severe and will make it difficult for you to care for Justin for a few weeks, they will not prevent you from doing so.”
“I can take care of him,” she assured the doctor, staring him down to make sure he knew she meant every word.
“I’m sure you can, but you’ll need help.”
“I don’t need any help. I don’t need anyone.”
The doctor unclipped a fat envelope from his clipboard and handed it to her. “Your grandfather sent you this. Sometimes, Gillian, the only thing you can do is pick the best option available to you even if you don’t like any of them.” With that, the doctor stepped out as the social worker walked in. Great, they were tag-teaming her.