Big Girl Boots

Twenty-Seven

I snuck into the house Wednesday night with my tail between my legs and my swollen, bandaged hand hidden under the sweatshirt I'd been clutching since putting the Ranger in park. I hadn't heard a word from either my parents or my aunt and uncle since being ordered to go to the hospital and the fact had me at least a little on edge.

Ignoring my protests, the doctor had shoved a needle full of numbing compound into my hand and stitched the split skin back to the way it was supposed to be. He had, however, complemented Torrin's patch job. Apparently it was impressive for anyone to get a cut like that to sit the way it should using nothing but neosporin and cheap plastic band-aids.

When crunching through the snow on my way inside, I'd noticed a that most of the lights in the house were off, which was odd because it was barely seven. The hospital visit had taken nearly two hours and then they made me hit the drugstore for a weird bandage I didn't want. It didn't really surprise me that Coda's light was off but I had expected everyone else to still be up and at least watching TV. These days Coda barely moved from her room. I wasn't even sure if she'd had a shower since Sunday when the whole mess blew up.

None of the hallway lights were on and I fumbled clumsily out of my snow boots and heavy coat, letting the sweatshirt fall on the floor. Whether I liked it or not, Uncle Mark and Mama Callie would find about my little accident at some point. Bootless, I took a few cautious steps further into the house, straining my ears for the low buzz of the TV. Instead of catching snippets of Duck Dynasty like usual, I heard only the hushed murmur of adult voices coming from the kitchen. Instead of going in to confront my aunt and uncle, I stopped about five feet from the doorway and listened, even though I probably wasn't meant to hear any of their conversation.

"I'm just so tired," Mama Callie whispered. Even though I couldn't see her face, I knew exactly what she was doing. Her face was in her hands, fingers rubbing the fine lines by her closed eyes.

"I know, honey." Uncle Mark's voice was deeper and soothing as he spoke to his wife. "And I know you don't want to be dealing with this, but it was our decision to let her live here."

"I know," she parroted, "and I don't regret that for a second. Lord knows that girl needs someone to take care of her and love her. I'm just exhausted."

"Has the lawyer called back yet?" I heard the soft sounds of my uncle's massive hand rubbing her back.

"Yeah," she responded, voice dull, "he said we can't really do anything unless she wants to get emancipated."

My heart sunk. There was a good reason I wasn't supposed to be listening in on this conversation, that much was obvious. I'd known for a while that my aunt and uncle were stuck between a rock and a hard place when it came to Coda and her situation, but nobody had ever admitted it aloud until now. No matter how much we all loved her, Mr. and Mrs. Paxton still technically had control over Coda and both of them could use her against the other just for the hell of it if they wanted. As far as I knew, her dad had kicked her out because he was sick of her being gone all the time. Her mom, on the other hand, was a different story.

The way I heard it, the woman had neglected and abused my best friend her entire life, then cheated on her dad and became an all-out alcoholic. I'd never even met the psycho but I hated her guts with a passion. It really tore me up that any mother could grow to despise their own child and spend so many years making them feel worthless. My mother and I had ups and downs for sure, but all the pressure she put on me was out of love and fierce drive to succeed that had been passed down to me, just carried out in a different way. Coda had been put through hell by her own mother out of spite and that disgusted me.

Uncle Mark's deep voice broke through my thoughts with a new wondering. "Do you think she will?"

"I don't know," Mama Callie sighed shakily. The defeat in her voice hurt me almost as much as the realization that we were stuck. That woman had always been the one who taught me to never give up. She was the person who made me get back on the horse when I fell off at four years old. She had also taught me to be fearless when asking a sprinting horse to turn a barrel and chase a calf with horns that could do some damage. Now my aunt was slouching at the kitchen table with her head in her hands while Uncle Mark worked to calm her down.