Page 105 of Seizing Control: Part Two

Twins.

As in two children.

I had no idea Cherub was carrying twins.

Because I am a fucking failure...

“We need to get you cleaned up.”

The censure that has coated every word Mumma has spoken to me since I arrived back home a week ago, emaciated and half-dead, needing Hunter’s help to walk is gone. She’s pale. Tired. Pushed to breaking point by life and me. Her too-stubborn son. With worry and fear etched in her face, my mother’s aged a decade in the past two hours.

I know how she feels.

Life keeps on delivering uppercuts without allowing any of us time to heal from them.

“Let me take that from you,” Dad’s tone is gruff when he holds his hand out to me. I look down to find his focus locked on the clear plastic bag filled with my duchess’ belongings that I’m clutching to my bloodstained chest, not my phone. “You’re covered in blood, son.”

A lump wedges in my throat as I take in the damp scrubs I’m wearing. The top is plastered to my torso while the pants have handprints on them. On the floor next to me is me is another clear plastic bag. This one contains the clothing my wife bled over as I held her through the first stage of her ordeal. From the garden, through the house to my Rover, during the crazy drive to the hospital with Toker at the wheel, and inside the ED. For only God knows how many minutes, my duchess remained comatose and bleeding.

She’s missed the birth of all three of her children.

The worse part is this was her sole opportunity to witness the miracle of life up-close.

I made the decision that stripped her of the chance to try again.

And I’d do it again without hesitation.

My hands are tacky when I relinquish the bag and my phone to my father. Once I’m no longer have them to occupy my fingers, a sense of urgency overtakes me, the need to remove the signs of my wife’s dance with death from my body sends me spiralling as I rip the blue shirt down the middle and tear it from my chest. I trip over the pants when they get caught on my paper-covered boots. Sent stumbling, the only reason I avoid face-planting on the linoleum floor is Dad’s strong grip on my shoulders.

“Sit down.”

His concern is my undoing.

I fold like a deckchair.

My arse hits the floor. I huddle into a ball, wrapping my arms around my calves with my thighs pulled hard to my chest. Mumma stoops low in front of me, her fingers making quick work of my laces before she pulls my boots off. Like she used to whenever I vomited over myself as a kid, she taps my knee, then tugs my scrubs off with efficient movements once I’ve straightened my limb, one leg at a time.

Clad in only my boxers, I watch my mother stuff the bloody clothes into an empty rubbish bag. On her other side is a satchel. It’s stuffed full, a magic rucksack filled with a change of clothes. Item by item, Mumma extracts a new outfit for me. After accepting my cut from her, my father runs his hand over the unbandaged side of my head, then he pats my shoulder.

Dad disappears into the attached bathroom.

Water starts running.

“Lukewarm only. Damp paper towel. No soap. You don’t wanna make it congeal,” Mumma advises him. She directs her attention back to me. “You have to get up, Carter. Be strong. Face the mistakes yer made and start settin’ things right.”

“I can’t.”

“Pfft.” Her empathy evaporates, her palm connecting with my cheek a second later. Numb to the core, I don’t even react to the sting radiating through my face. “I raised yer to be a better man than this—so ye either start doin’ what needs ta be done or ye get gone.” Her noisy exhale is filled with frustration and heartbreak. “I’ve already lost one son, I won’t sit idly by while I lose another.”

It’s a low blow.

To remind me of my dead brother.

The one the baby forced into my life is named after.

Still, it’s no less than what I deserve.

“Aye, quit the pity party,” Mumma snaps. Her eyes flash as she glares at me. The scar across her cheek deepens when her expression grows stern. “Yer sins are no greater than anyone else’s. Yer losses ain’t superior neither. The quicker ye get that through yer head, tha better.”

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