Page 45 of Defending What is Mine

Chapter Twenty-Three

Sam:Present—Late January

I plop down in my seat on the couch and set a bowl of fresh popped caramel corn in my lap. Vanessa snuggles back into my side, smiles as she grabs a handful for herself, then returns her attention to the TV, happily preoccupied with her favorite movie. Meanwhile, I’m locked in a battle of wills between my head and my common sense. No matter what I try to distract myself with, I can’t stop thinking about my phone.

Maybe a message came in while I was in the kitchen. What if Jack finally reached out and, if I don’t look now, I’ll miss my chance to talk to him because I was busy with stupid popcorn?I want to peek so badly my hand is literally twitching with anticipation, desperate to know if the blackout is finally over.

This shouldn’t be such a big deal. I am, after all, a mature adult. One who is fully capable of deciding when—and how often—it’s appropriate to pick up a phone. Except for the tiny little fact that I’ve already looked about, um, if I’m honest…probably two-hundred times today. Maybe two-hundred and fifty. So yeah, I’m beginning to worry this may be edging toward an unhealthy obsession.

I’ll just check this one last time and then that’ll be it. You know, for the night. I could just casually reach over and pick it up—no big deal at all. Pick it up and swipe that little screen back to life, then check to see if my life can finally begin to thaw. No biggie.

Ugh. How many times have I had this argument with myself in the last week? Yeah, probably a sign of addiction. But what else am I supposed to do? I’m constantly, obsessively, carrying my phone around, checking it over and over, hopeful for some kind—at this point, any kind—of communication from Jack. Something my brain realizes isn’t coming but my heart isn’t ready to accept.

All in all, I know Hank and Mol are doing the best they can. They’re stuck in limbo every bit as much as I am. Hell, Jack is Hank’s own flesh and blood for goodness sake and he swears he doesn’t know anything more than what I’ve already heard.

Still, when he came over for dinner the other night, he barely made eye contact the entire evening. If he were anyone else, I’d swear he felt guilty for holding something back. I know it’s crazy. I know it. Even if he was keeping a secret about Jack, Mollie wouldn’t. She couldn’t. Not after everything we’ve been through. I decide I’m just tired to the point of paranoia. All told, I’ve had maybe eight hours of real, honest sleep in the last five days and can barely even think about eating without feeling nauseated. Definitely not in the best condition to start making judgement calls about other people’s mannerisms.

I lean over and give Vanessa a squeeze. I know I’ve got to keep it together. If not for me, for my girl, but this is hard. So. Damn. Hard. It’s been eight days since Marie called home to inform everyone he’d woken up. Eight days and still nothing.

Is that normal? Is it completely selfish of me to expect him to be up and moving and writing emails already? Is it totally arrogant to think my name should be so high on his list? I don’t know what he’s been through. I couldn’t even begin to imagine. Does thinking like this make me the worst person ever? So selfish. Sitting here, having a pity party for myself, while he’s struggling for his life.

Still, I hate feeling helpless and don’t know how much more not knowing I can take. My finger hovers over my phone. I desperately want to reach out to someone. But who? And for what? The Wildes are genuinely good people. If they had anything to share, I would know it already. Of that, I have no doubt.

My fear is that my desire to reach out is as much about sharing the hurt and worry consuming me as it is about checking on Jack.

I know it and I’m beginning to hate myself for it.

* * *

I stare at my alarm clock, watching the minutes slowly tick by, moving ever closer to the moment when it will spring to life. I’m sure I slept. At least a little. I must’ve. But I’m nowhere close to feeling rested. Doesn’t really matter at this point, I suppose. Five minutes from now, I’ll be up starting another day.

Day nine since Jack woke from his coma—but then who’s counting, right?

I force myself out from under my soft, cozy, ohh-soo-warm comforter so I can start a pot of coffee brewing. Strong coffee, if I want any shot at making it through.

Day nine!? Please God, let this finally be the day for news. Good news, please—if you’re taking requests.

Coffee in hand, I fight a yawn as I flip on the morning news and try to force myself awake a little more before attempting to drag the princess from her slumber. Thankfully, our mornings are down to such a routine it doesn’t take much to navigate through it once she’s up and moving. After Vanessa climbs on the bus and pulls away, that’s a different story. That’s when I’m left alone with my thoughts and reality hits. Usually hard.

I glimpse myself in the curtain-drawn picture window as I push my cleaning cart down the walk to the next hotel room. Two light knocks at the door before pronouncing, “Housekeeping.” A thing I’ve done so many times, if I’m not paying attention, I catch myself doing to Mollie or Nessa at home. It’s a long drive to Sterling for a menial job that offers no benefits and barely-better-than-crap pay, but I’ve been here since high school and the owners really seem to like me. Which is probably why they’ve always been so unbelievably flexible about my schedule. A pretty big deal for a struggling single parent with no discernable job skills.

I practically sleepwalk through my routine: strip the bed, apply clean sheets, make the bed, vacuum the floor, clean the bathroom. All the while wondering whether my time trapped in limbo will ever end. Wondering if I’ve spent the last six months deluding myself with daydreams of a relationship and a future with a man who, up till now, has been perfect. Wondering what more I could’ve/should’ve done to make clear that my heart beats because of him.

And, somewhere deep in the back of my mind, wondering if it’s lack of sleep feeding this feeling that there’s something the Wildes aren’t telling me.

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