Marilyn handed me the small square box of plastic bandages. “You aren’t going back there at all if I have anything to say about it.”
I pulled the paper backing off a bandage, my mind running through the single suitcase I had managed to pack and throw into the trunk.
“Donald is still at the apartment,” I said. “Or he was when I left.”
“He won’t stand up to her, Claire,” Marilyn said, her voice dropping as Carolyn’s eyes began to flutter shut. “He never has.”
By twenty past eleven, Carolyn was asleep on the couch, the stuffed bunny tucked under her chin. I walked into Marilyn’s small kitchen and dialed Donald’s number.
He answered on the first ring, the background silent except for the low hum of our old refrigerator.
“Where are you?” I asked, keeping my voice low.
Donald cleared his throat. “I’m in the kitchen, Claire. Please tell me you’re coming back tonight. We can talk about this.”
“I’m at Marilyn’s,” I said, leaning against the counter. “Carolyn’s leg is cut up because your mother pushed her off the stool.”
