CHAPTER 9 LYNN TATUM

9

Lynn Tatum

"THE SOAP'S IN MY eyes, Mama!"

Gracie's fingers were covered in suds, and she was drilling both her palms into her red eyes.

"Well, stop doing that!" Lynn slapped her hands away and yanked the handheld from the wall. "Here, let me rinse them—"

She twisted the diverter on the faucet and water sprayed out—too late, she realized she was holding it in the wrong direction. Icy water soaked her, hit the wall and vanity, and grazed the toilet before Lynn managed to turn it on her daughter.

Gracie yelped and jerked away. "It's too cold, Mama!"

Through all this, Oscar hadn't stopped screaming. He'd started back in Gracie's bedroom and only grew worse as Lynn dragged the two of them into the bathroom and filled the tub with random toys, bubble bath, and water. He kicked, flailed, and managed to scratch her three times before she got him in. The worst one was across her cheek—his nail sliced her right open.

"Mama, too cold! Too cold!"

Lynn cursed and twisted the dial a little too fast. She yanked it back in the opposite direction, but not before scalding water and steam shot out.

Gracie pulled to the side and cracked her head against the tile. She went quiet, her mouth rolled into a slow-motion silent oh . Then the crying came—a bawling sob that picked up with each hitched breath.

"If you'd just sit still—"

Lynn thumbed off the handheld and reached for Gracie.

Gracie smacked her away, splashed her with soapy water stained pink from the paint.

Lynn grabbed both her daughter's wrists and held them above her head. When she tried to pull free, Lynn squeezed.

"Mama, you're hurting me! Stop!"

Lynn didn't, though. She squeezed harder. She looked Gracie dead in the eyes and squeezed—she squeezed like a goddamn vise. She squeezed those tiny wrists as hard as she could, and it wasn't until Gracie's face twisted from pain to fear that she finally let up and released her. And damn, did that feel good. That brief satisfaction was quickly followed by guilt and shame, but those only lasted for a second, because her pills had finally (yes, finally!) kicked in, and they did what they were supposed to do—they swatted those feelings down and coated them with a nice thick blanket of numb.

Lynn looked around the bathroom, half expecting to find Josh standing in the doorway all high-and-mighty, ready to accuse her (not for the first time) of being a shitty mother. Captain Righteous. Mr. If-I-Wanna-Get-My-Juice-from-the-Sexpot-Neighbor-I-Can. No Josh, though. No nobody.

When she turned back to Gracie, her daughter had inched to the far side of the tub and gone quiet, and was rubbing her wrists. A look passed between them, one that clearly said, I'll do it again if you give me more shit , followed by Gracie's narrow-eyed I know you will , but neither said a word. Let her run to her father later; Lynn didn't care. She was done caring. Maybe next time he'd think twice before running off and leaving her with both kids and work. It only happened because he wasn't pulling his weight with his bullshit accounting business. She'd make that very clear if it came up. And hell, she wanted it to come up. She was ready for this fight. It had been a long time in the making.

Gracie might have received the message loud and clear, but her brother had not. Oscar was not only still crying, but he was busy throwing his toys from the bath one at a time. At least half were already on the floor, and soapy pink water trailed down the bathroom walls where many of them had struck. Even the ceiling was wet. As if to show her how he did it, Oscar scooped up a rubber tugboat and heaved it underhanded, straight up. It bounced off the exhaust fan, released a spray of filthy water, and landed near the door with a thud. When he picked up a toy golf ball and craned his small arm back to heft it toward the mirror, Lynn smacked it away. She hit his arm so hard, it twisted back and made this sick popping noise at his shoulder a moment before the golf ball struck the tile wall behind him and vanished in the water.

That quieted him, but only for a second. Shocked, stunned, whatever—his little mind seemed to process what just happened on some kind of delay, came to some sort of conclusion, then followed up with Oscar's go-to—he started screaming again, dialed the cry up to eleven, and let loose as only five-year-olds can. He dropped the plastic robot he'd been about to throw and grabbed at his injured arm.

Lynn waited for some sense of guilt to wash over her, but it didn't come. The pills were in overdrive now, and things like guilt, anxiety, fear, depression—those things were off the table. Until the pills wore off, those things would be stored away in the closet, and that felt good. That felt really good.

Cry all you want , she thought. Both of you.

Water started to cascade over the side of the tub, and Lynn realized Gracie had stuffed the overflow drain with a washcloth and turned the faucet back on. Maybe she did it to distract Lynn from Oscar, or maybe she did it because she was a little fucking monster—Lynn didn't care. Rather than turn it off, she reached over and twisted the knob to full. She also turned off the cold water and opened the hot valve completely. When Gracie started to stand, Lynn glared at her. "Don't you dare get up. You sit right there."

Down the hall, Lynn's computer dinged. Some other message box. Probably one telling her she was slacking, she should be on the phone. Missing out on all kinds of earnings. Fuck them. Fuck all of them.

Water pooled around her, soaked the rug, rolled across the floor toward the door.

Oscar's shoulder had swollen up to an angry knob nearly twice its normal size. Dislocated? Maybe. She reached for him, stroked his hair. Held his head still. Gave him a gentle push. "It's okay, baby. Mama's gonna make everything all better."