Page 68 of Mended Hearts

“I’m okay,” I say through sniffles, peeling myself away from her. Lynsie cautiously lifts my face, tilting it to the side, and winces at the sight. I’m sure I’m a sight for sore eyes.

“Is that a handprint?” She seethes.

“Yeah, he slapped me.”

“What the hell, Echo?” A mixture of emotions crosses her face as she releases her hold on me.

“I’m okay,” I say again, hoping she believes me. Hoping I believe myself.

“Why do you always do that?” She holds my gaze. “You don’t always have to be so tough. It’s okay to not be okay.”

“I just can’t find it within myself to have a pity party when people have been through far more traumatic things.”

Lynsie looks down and fidgets with her nails before releasing a sigh. “Trauma is trauma. No one event is greater than the other. You’re allowed to feel whatever you feel. Don’t try to confine it.”

I nod, acknowledging her words. I hear what she’s saying, but I’m not convinced it applies to me.

We make our way into the dimly lit living room, and I drop onto the new sectional as exhaustion settles in.

“I’m going to get a wet rag.” Lynsie offers a weak smile. I must look like absolute shit. I hear a drawer in the kitchen slide open and shut. I’m about to yell that I don’t know where the wash rags are when she comes walking back with a wet one in her hand. She sits beside me, asking, “Do you mind?” before carefully wiping off my face. The gesture is so gentle and loving I almost break down again. “There. All better,” she says as she finishes up.

Lynsie asks if I want to talk about it. I don’twantto talk about it, but I’m willing to. I let my head fall back against the soft cushion and close my eyes, taking my mind back to how it all started. Then go back even further.

“Well, like I said, he was getting better. After I went back home the last time I was here, I told him to get help, or I was walking. He agreed and has been attending therapy ever since. He even weaned himself from the pills and quit drinking. Things were good. Well.” I pause. “Good enough.”

“What do you mean by that?” The couch shifts and I open my eyes, seeing Lynsie angle her body in my direction before bending her legs criss-cross applesauce. I do the same, facing her, and she grabs my hands, holding them between us.

“Things were good in the sense that Brian was doing better. But I wasn’t happy. I was content. Which I realize is what I’ve been most of my life.”

“Do you think the two of you only worked so well because he was gone for a majority of the marriage?” She asks the question I’ve asked myself many times.

I finally answer it.

“Yes.” I let out a shaky breath. “I do think that’s why we’ve managed to stay married. I do love him as a friend and for what he did for me, but that’s the extent of the emotional attachment.”

“Then you were essentially just trying to get him back on his feet before figuring out what to do?”

I nod. “I couldn’t leave him when he needed me the most. And I also didn’t want to get into a situation where I was running back and forth between him and Dustin. Just because I’ve felt lost ever since Dustin reappeared, I didn’t want to drag either of them into it. So I shut that part off to deal with the situation at hand. I told myself I’d get Brian better and then figure out where to go from there.”

“But something happened?” Lynsie swirls circles on the tops of my hands, keeping me calm.

I close my eyes, visualizing how mad Brian was. A shiver runs down my spine as I begin telling Lynsie what led to this point.

“Brian,” I hollered. “Are you ready? We need to leave.” I was so excited to finally not be sitting at one of Dylan’s games alone. Everyone else had their significant other, yet I was always solo. In the span we’d been married, I could count on one hand how many games he’d attended. Little did I know we wouldn’t be making it to the game after all.

He didn’t reply, so I headed down the hallway toward our room to see what the holdup was. Out of the corner of my eye, something caught my attention as I passed Dylan’s room. I slowly backed up, peeking through the opening. Brian had found my box.

“What are you doing?” I pushed the door open and charged toward him. I grabbed the old jersey and softball he tossed on the bed and attempted to yank the letters out of his hands.

“What is this…some kind of a shrine?” He let out a maniacal laugh and I became transfixed with his deep brown eyes. There was darkness to them I had not seen before.

“Memories,” I muttered. I could see him yelling but couldn’t hear what was being said. It felt as if my subconscious was separating itself from my body. Then, without warning, someone cranked up the volume and it all became too loud.

“That shit in your hands is memories. These letters from y’all playing pen pal are not memories.”

“Then what are they?” I asked, feeling fight and flight, deciding which needed to suit up.

“After everything I’ve done for you.” He took a step toward me. “I took you and that bastard son of yours in.” Another step. “I, not this guy”—he waved the letters in his hands—“have been the one raising him and you wouldn’t even give him my last name.”

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