Chapter Four - Will Billy Live?
I bucked against the order to stay put.
The car reeked of sweat and fear—too many bodies, too much helpless waiting. Billy fought for his life behind those hospital doors. I couldn’t sit there.
“Let me out, Bobby,” I rasped, throat sandpaper-dry.
“Lizzy, please—stay put. You’ll be in the way.” His voice, gentle but pleading, tugged at me. I jerked forward, pushed past him and his sister, flung open the door.
Rain crashed down, soaking through my dress in seconds. Hair clung to my face in wet, tangled strands. Bobby’s wide eyes locked on mine. I knew how I looked—wild, drowned.
“I have to see him,” I choked, and ran into the storm.
The hospital loomed ahead, steam curling off the entrance glass. Inside, Mama and Sister Cartwright huddled together, faces drawn tight. A few feet away, Daddy murmured with Brother Cartwright, heads bent, their eyes fixed on the linoleum like answers were carved there. Daddy’s jaw pulsed—clench, release, clench.
I hovered in the rain, fear pressing against my spine.
Tires screamed. A car skidded to a stop in the lot. Uncle Harry burst out, slammed the door, and sprinted toward me. His grip swallowed me.
“How’s Billy?”
“He fell. Off the roof.” My voice echoed hollow. “The gutter caught his arm—cut him bad. Blood everywhere. So much blood…”
The dam broke. Hot tears spilled through icy rain.
“Uncle Harry, I—” I stopped, throat tight. The words clung like thorns. I left the shed door open. The words stayed lodged where they hurt most. Slashed through me, over and over, carving guilt into bone. Still locked behind my teeth. I could not utter those words.
Harry scanned the hospital entrance. “Why’re you out here? Did they kick you out? Come on—we’ll see how Billy’s doing.”
I pushed him back. “Daddy won’t like that you’re here. How’d you even know?”
He shrugged. “Remember I volunteer at the fire station? Someone called it in. Everyone’s heard.” Billy wasn’t only my crisis anymore. He belonged to everyone.
Harry said, “Figured they’d call for an ambulance, but your daddy already had him here.” He shoved the door open. “Come on.”
I stepped through, Harry at my back, nudging, using me like a buffer.
Mistake.
Daddy turned. His glare hit like lightning, face storm-black.
Harry had miscalculated. Again.
“Where’ve you been, young lady?” Daddy's words cracked like a whip. Each syllable carved raw wounds across my soul. “You were supposed to watch out for that boy!”
Another lash. Another wound. I tried to speak, but silence strangled me.
Daddy gritted his teeth, fists clenched—fighting not to explode in front of witnesses. I saw him wrestling with it, that awful need to protect his Pastor Johnson mask while rage slashed to get loose.
I rattled. Head bowed. Every syllable he spat rang true.
If he found out about the shed ...
I couldn’t picture it.
Throat cinched tight. Panic wrenched.
Billy. Was he dying? Had he lost too much blood? Would they—no. No. No—would they have to take his arm?
Daddy’s voice tore through again.
“It’s bad enough you let your brother get hurt—but what about those little girls! What if they’d fallen? I never dreamed I’d spawned such an evil child. You’ve lost your soul! You lost it in Harry’s bar…”
More blows. More slashes.
He didn’t stop. I lost my breath. Daddy thinks I’m evil—a lost soul. Doomed. His words drained me. My body folded in, breath shallow. A few more strikes. Just a few more. And I wouldn’t be standing.
Harry stepped in, shoving me toward the entrance. “Alton! Stop!” His voice punched through Daddy’s roar. “She’s a kid!”
Daddy’s eyes burned, rage twisting his face.
Harry didn’t flinch. He carried his own kind of fury—restrained—except with Daddy. But now, that edge sharpened. He angled me toward the exit, shielding me.
“She’s your little girl, Alton. Not your enemy. Not your slave. And not one ounce of her is evil.” His voice cut—calm, lethal. “And where were you when Billy fell?”
Daddy lunged. Fists clenched. Shoulders coiled to strike.
Mama and Brother Cartwright leaped between them, bracing hands against Daddy’s chest, Harry’s arms.
The air reeked of rage—sharp, acidic. I clamped my nose shut. Covered my ears. Anything to block it.
“Go to the car, Lizzy.” Mama’s tone brooked no argument. “I need to see Billy!” The words tore free. Shame flooded me. My body convulsed. Without warning, something ripped loose—fierce, unstoppable. I heaved. Orange bile splattered across the sterile white floor.
Billy would’ve loved that. I saw him laughing—head thrown back, reckless and wild.
If he lived. The thought hollowed me.
My knees buckled. Ice crawled across my skin. Mama caught me before I hit the ground. “Sit.” Her voice snapped me into stillness.
A cleaning crew swarmed the mess.
I sagged into the chair, throat raw, stomach twisted.
The truth was bare. I had to leave home. I needed peace, needed to give them peace.
Mama pressed a damp towel to my forehead. Sister Cartwright fanned me with a newspaper. She leaned close. “Stay away from your dad for a while, Lizzy. He’s not himself.”
My heart sank. Humiliation slammed into me. A church lady said it—she knew more about his temper than I’d guessed. Something twisted inside me.
I bent forward, gagged again. Nothing left.
Sister Cartwright patted my wrist, fingers hunting for my pulse. I let her fuss, grounding me in the now.
But my spirit had already slipped away—through the doors, chasing an escape I didn’t know how to make.
She cries when I’m hurt. Flies to hide. She begs me to run. Today, shattered, she flew like a homing pigeon—straight to my cave on Mount Thompson. Her pull was stronger this time.
Run! Follow me, she pleaded. Inside my battered mind, I answered. Soon.
But I didn’t deserve escape. Not after today. Not after Billy.
The room spun. Something curdled deep inside. My thoughts scrambled, grasping for something real to hold.
A whisper. Daddy’s voice, laced with conviction: You can always pray for God’s help, and He will be with you instantly.
So, I tried. If you’re there… If you’re listening… I wasn’t sure about God. But I needed Him.
Desperately.
My little spirit had tugged at me for years—whispering dreams of the cave, the crumbling farmhouse, the stream, the wild creatures.
It was heaven.
But today—the hospital, the fight, the fear—freedom stopped being a dream. It became a need. The day my little spirit became my closest friend.
For months, I’d stocked my cave. Canned food, dry beans, rice, salt, pepper. A picnic basket with old plates, a tin cup, spoons. Packs of orange drink.
Clothes. A coat. Boots. Books.
The crumbling farmhouse was a treasure-trove. I’d scavenged scraps, building my sanctuary piece by piece. Inside the cave, a burlap and maple-stick hammock swayed gently—sheltered from the world beyond, where sun and wind erased everything.
I thrived on birdsong and solitude.
But now, crumpled in a cold metal chair, I waited for news of Billy. My soul rattled as hollow as my sour stomach.
A nurse stepped into view and handed Mama a small cup. “Give your girl this. It’ll settle her stomach.” She winked—a quiet smile softening her face. I loved her instantly.
No judgment. No blame. Just care.
Her eyes—the bluest I’d ever seen—held only kindness.
At sunset, another rainstorm battered the windows. Heavy. Unbroken. Adding to our rancid moods. My chair groaned beneath me as I shifted. Its grip stiff, unforgiving.
On the sick green wall, the hospital’s clock loomed. Each hour the minute hand collapsed onto the number six, groaning through the hours like a broken spirit.
Outside, water gushed from a clogged gutter, flooding the lot, turning pavement into swamp.
Like Billy, I had no patience for waiting. My arms ached. Unease coiled tight and punishing. Everything in me strained toward the cave—the only place peace still touched realness.
Daddy and Harry squared off nearby—chins raised, eyes locked, bodies rigid. The cleaning crew mopped around them as Brother Cartwright pressed against their chests, murmuring words meant to cool their fire.
I swallowed hard. Daddy’s shoes and pant legs showed streaks of my vomit.
Each breath stirred my nausea deeper. He reeked of me. What kind of daughter did that? Almost fourteen and still making messes. Still mortifying myself.
My fingers dug through damp hair, shoving it back as heat rushed into my cheeks.
Miraculously, Uncle Harry had escaped untouched. No puke on his boots. No stain on his jeans.
That tiny win gave me strength—it was enough to summon a faint, fleeting smile.
He’d notice soon.
The hours droned on.
Midnight dragged itself into being.
The angel nurse returned, clipboard in hand. “The doctor will be right out.” Her voice flickered soft against the smothering dark.
The doctor stepped from the shadows. Skinny face. Thick glasses.
“Mister and Missus Johnson?”
“That’s us.” Daddy pulled Mama close, turned his back on Harry. His grip was firm. Possessive.
“How’s our boy? Is he alright? Let us see him.”
Mama trembled. Wobbled. Barely upright. “Take me to my Billy.” Her fingers clung to the doctor’s hand.
Something cracked in Daddy’s face—pain or fury, hard to tell.
His jaw ticked, expression shifted, and voice dropped.
His lips moved, soundless. Please.
The doctor hesitated, gestured toward a row of metal chairs across from me. “I need to speak with you first.”
Daddy sat with Mama. Fear streaked their faces.
“He’s okay? He’ll live?” Mama’s hands twisted, pleading.
The doctor exhaled. “We had our work cut out for us. He lost a lot of blood. The wounds were severe, but we stitched him up. He’ll recover in a few weeks. His arm broke above the wrist—bandaged now. We’ll cast it tomorrow.”
His gaze shifted. Sharpened. Locked onto Daddy. “You’re saying the boy climbed onto your roof and fell?” His voice thinned—suspicion laced each word.
Mama nodded.
“Did you see him up there? Does he climb often?”
She shook her head. “No.”
The doctor frowned. His eyebrows rose fast. “Well, why was he up there?” His voice turned cold. “Don’t you watch your kids?”
He bore down on Daddy. On Mama. “How did he even get on your roof?” The sharp bark in his voice cracked through my haze.
Grief shattered. My spine stiffened. Something was wrong. Bad wrong. Had Billy said something? Rambled in pain? Had had he mentioned the ladder?
Daddy sat frozen—hands hanging from his knees. His shoulders flexed, fists twitching. Eyes locked ahead. Jaw clenched hard. He didn’t blink.
Finaly, the doctor said it. Neglect. Child Protection Services. Police.
Daddy twisted in his chair, muscles writhing like a rope pulled taut, ready to snap.
“Where’s my boy?” His voice roared through the hall, rattling the air. “I demand to see him now.”
The thunder was back—fast, fierce. For once, I loved that power in him.
How dare the doctor think Billy’s fall was Mama’s fault? Or Daddy’s? It was mine.
I forgot to watch him. I left the shed door open. The confession tore at my ribs, thrashing to escape. But I couldn’t say it. Never. Ever.
Daddy’s fury burned hot—but dimmed. The doctor led them away, down the corridor toward Billy’s room.
I followed. Silent. Watching. Alert for more mentions of police. Child Protection.
Nothing.
It hadn’t sunk in yet. Their minds locked on Billy—on saving him. In their eyes, they weren’t neglectful—they were steadfast. Two parents forging order from chaos. Raising two wild children who needed a reckoning.
A Thrashing.
The doctor stepped out of Billy’s room and nearly ran me down.
He looked at me—kind eyes, unreadable. “Hello. Were you following us?”
I stiffened, distrust crawling up my spine.
“I need you to stay back for now. He needs rest.” His softness grated against the warning.
I squared up, met his stare. “Why’d you say that stuff to Mama?”
“You mean why she wasn’t watching her own child?”
My fists curled. “She does. Mama watches him all the time. So do I. Billy’s wild—he fights, screams—but we love him. We watch him. We try.”
I wanted to tell him. My fault. My mistake. But the words stuck like burrs in my throat.
The doctor sighed. “Someone failed today. Your brother nearly lost his arm. Might’ve lost his life.”
I gasped. “He ain’t gonna die?”
The world tilted upright. My grin split wide, cheeks sore with relief. “Have you told Mama and Daddy?”
“I did. He’ll pull through. Might even go home tomorrow.”
Without thinking, I lunged—hugged him hard, fierce, dizzy with joy. He chuckled, stepping away. “I’m glad you’re happy.”
I turned.
Uncle Harry stood behind me, laughing. But he went dead serious. “All that matters is Billy’s gonna make it,” he said, voice flat and steady. “A broken arm heals fast in a kid. But if your brother doesn’t settle down—and I mean fast—your family may be split up. Your parents are under scrutiny.”
His words hit like a slap.
“Technically, it’s child endangerment when unsupervised kids climb roofs or mess with anything dangerous.” He rubbed his forehead. “I know Billy sneaks the ladder out of the shed—scales the roof when no one’s watching. But your dad or your brothers should’ve locked it down. Should’ve known better.”
His words rolled through me—sharp, sour, impossible to ignore.
But he hadn’t finished.
“The guys at the firehall said other kids were up there too. Little girls. Another boy Billy’s age, trailing after him .”
He sighed. “The whole thing gives me chills. Firehall crew said the same. Why doesn’t Alton lock that ladder in his shed?”
Heat rose in my cheeks. Harry reeked of old beer and rolled cigarettes. He wanted to teach child safety.
Wanted to criticize Daddy. Wanted to criticize Billy. That smug smile crawled across his lips. I wanted to rip it off.
I hissed through clenched teeth. “The doctor won’t sic anyone on them. He knows they’re good people. And what do you know about the shed door? Why even bring this up?”
Blast it—I wished my vomit had landed on him instead of Daddy.
“Well, little niece,” he said, stretching each word like a slow warning, “get ready for a surprise. I think Doc will report it. State law says he has to. And he’s on the clock.”
He paused.
“I’m concerned. About your family. Billy’s family.”
Air burned in my lungs.
“You should be ready,” he added, voice soft but cold. “Ready to explain to the authorities why you don’t need foster care.”
He shrugged. “Anyway, what about the shed door? I only said it needed a lock.”
No.
Harry wanted to say that to me. He enjoyed it. The mean streak—usually saved for Daddy—now twisted in my direction. He’d never turned ugly on me before.
And just like that, I lost trust in the one adult I thought I could count on. Uncle Harry.
Was Daddy right about him?
My insides coiled tight, a rattlesnake ready to strike. “I have to check on my brother,” I snapped, storming off.
Trembling, I feared what I would find.
I cracked Billy’s door open.
Mama clutched Billy’s good hand. Daddy’s fists clenched the bed rail, their eyes drilling into him.
Billy lay quiet. His voice rasped through hoarse whispers. He spotted me. A weak finger curled, beckoning.
I stepped in. Harry followed.
I caught a glimpse of Billy. And I crumpled.
Billy, small, fragile—the brother I’d rocked to sleep every night when he was tiny. I still read to him at bedtime.
Mama put me in charge of him when I was four. She handed me a comb, told me to keep his hair neat, his clothes clean. As he grew, I had to make sure he stayed spotless, especially before church.
One glance at him—still, pale, haloed in light—and my knees buckled. I folded, silent as grief.
A soft light pooled around him, forming a halo.
Music drifted—low, distant.
Where was it coming from? Not Billy’s room. It sounded like hymns played on a piano in the chapel.
I sure hoped it wasn’t angels singing, getting Billy ready to drift up to heaven.
That thought pulled a small smile. Angels wouldn’t be in the same room as Billy. Or me. Neither of us qualified for drifting upward. Quite the opposite.
That thought made me smile, too.
Tall racks loomed near his headboard, fitted with jars of fluid, and tubes dangling like lifelines.
One tower held a jar filled with dark red liquid. Blood.
A steady stream ran down the hospital tube—flowing straight into Billy’s arm, above Mama’s stroking fingers.
He had lost so much blood before we even got him in the car. How was he still breathing?
My head pounded.
Why does Billy pull these dangerous stunts?
It slammed into me—the memory of that door, wide open. My fault. My doing.
Why didn’t I close that door?
The smile curdled.
Harry appeared at the doorway, sniffed, cleared his throat. His smile was stiff, strained at the edges, but his eyes glistened with hollow apology.
I didn’t look.
Daddy did. “Out!” His voice cracked through the air, sharp and sudden. “Get out!”
The nurse burst in, her blue eyes snapping between faces. “What’s going on?”
Harry drew on that fake charm, the one that turned trouble into theater. “I came to check on my nephew,” he said, syrup-thick. “Seems I rubbed my brother wrong. No big deal—I’ll leave.” He flashed a grin, turned on his heel, strolling out like he hadn’t shattered the room’s calm.
The nurse narrowed her gaze and stepped toward Mama and Daddy.
“You need to leave now,” she said, gentle but firm as locked doors. “Billy needs quiet. And you need rest—it’s been almost twelve hours.”
Her arm wrapped around Mama’s shoulders, anchoring her, and curled around mine. She gestured for Daddy to follow.
We stepped out. Brother Cartwright stood waiting.
“My wife left a while ago,” he said to Mama, low and steady. “Needed to get the younger kids down. I stayed for news. How’s your boy?”
Mama’s breath caught. She brushed damp strands off her forehead with a shaking hand.
“He’s going to be okay,” she whispered. The relief barely held. New exhaustion had carved its way deep across her brow. “I’ll call Sally tomorrow. Let her know everything. We can’t thank you folks enough.”
Brother Cartwright gave a quiet nod. He clasped Mama’s hand, clasped Daddy’s—firm, but fleeting.
He nodded once at me, at Harry, with no change in his expression, and left without another word.
Outside, his oldest teenage son sat waiting in his sputtering jalopy, tapping the steering wheel with the edge of a grin as the engine revved—loud, proud, insistent.Write your text here...
***** Copyright 2026 Mary Baidenmann