Page 90 of The Lies Always Told

Time passes, and when she’s quiet, I finally turn the water off and pick her back up. I walk us both to the tub, turn on the hot water, and let the tub fill without letting go. If there’s one thing she takes from this, I hope it’s that I’m not going anywhere. The water comes out with force, filling the tub quickly. She doesn’t say anything, and for someone who likes to talk and share her thoughts, this is concerning, but she doesn’t push me away. She doesn’t kick, hit, or scream. She doesn’t beg me to walk away. She doesn’t ask me to leave her alone, so I’ll take it. “I’m not going anywhere,” I whisper against her hair, and the crying starts again.

This time, she pushes and kicks until I put her down, and then she runs to the toilet, falling to her knees and emptying her stomach in it. I move behind her and hold her beautiful damp hair away from her face, rubbing her back gently. “It’s okay. Let it all out.”

“Go away. I don’t want you to look at me this way,” she says before she throws up again.

“I’m not going anywhere, Nellie. I’m here. Let me be here.”

She throws up until she’s dry heaving, her hands hugging the toilet bowl. I help her up, and we both walk, hand in hand, until we make it to the tub. “I’m sorry,” she whispers.

“Don’t be. Let me take care of you,” I reply.

“I’m a mess. Please, just go.”

“Don’t ask me to go, please. I’d do anything you ask me to, but please, don’t ask me to go.” She raises her eyes to look at me for the first time since I got here. The sorrow, the sadness, and the emptiness behind them are more than I can tolerate. It breaks me, but I can’t let it consume me now. I need to be here for her.

The water in the tub is full and warm, so I turn off the tap and help her in. Once she’s sliding in quietly, I take my clothes off and slide in behind her, resting both our bodies on the edge of the tub. The warm water is the best contrast to how cold it was before. It helps her melt her body into mine. We are both sinking under the warmth as her tears silently fall.

I reach out and grab the liquid soap, squirting some on my hand. “Can this go in your hair?” Let me not mess this up by putting something on her hair that she would never use. Specific products and shit.

She nods, so I lather it through her hair, softly spreading it until her head is covered in suds. Such a simple and mundane task, but it seems grand today. She’s letting me. It feels like she might need it more than anything. I continue taking care of her, washing and touching, reminding her I’m here. I look at her, her eyes closed as she tilts her head back and lets me take care of her. Her tears are falling, but her breath is calming. Her body is melting. Her hand is grabbing my leg, holding me like I’m her lifeline.

I don’t say much—I just touch, wash, and caress until I feel her shoulders relax, and she lays her head back on me. Her cries stop, but she doesn’t losen her hold on me, not until moments later, when I massage her temple and rub small circles on her wrist scars.I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.

Her breaths sound heavy, and then they even out. She must be falling asleep again. I help her out of the tub and wrap her in a towel, carrying her to bed, letting her fall asleep in comfort.

“Don’t go,” she whispers when I try to get up from the bed, so I don’t.

“Never again,” I whisper back, kissing her forehead and pulling her flush to my body. I stay awake this time, not letting her out of my arms or my sight until I’m sure she’ll be okay.

1 Noon? Shit, I don’t even believe the time.

2 What?

3 Bullshit/Liar (Dominican style)

TWENTY-NINE

BE GOOD TO HER

Fire on Fire,Sam Smith

Gus

“Bendición, Mami. ?1”

“Dios te bendiga, mi hijo, ¿Cómo estás ??2” she replies. She’s always available whenever we call, no matter what time it is. It doesn’t surprise me that she answers on the second ring. It’s late. I already told Manny Nellie’s okay, and they’re all breathing easier, but I needed to talk to her.

“Bien se podría decir. Necesito un favor?3,” I continue in Spanish. We moved a lot growing up, lived in different. countries, in different towns, but she always made sure Spanish was spoken at home at all times.

“Dimelo, mi hijo. ¿Como te puedo ayudar??4”

“You know when we were younger and sick, you would make us Sancocho, and it immediately helped?” I’m not about to tell her I need to nurse my—my what? Girlfriend? My secret I’ve been keeping from them? The love of my life? The woman I know I won’t be able to ever live without? Or do I say her…her best friend’s daughter? I guess I realize now how fucked up this whole situation has gotten. If only I would’ve told her. If only we would’ve come clean. I could tell her. But I didn’t, and now is not the time.

“Yes…why?” she replies, her tone shifting from motherly to gossipy.

“Well, I would love to make it, but I don’t know how.” I never learned how to cook; none of us did, mostly because we always had our meals made for us growing up. In college, we had a meal planning service I just carried with me to adulthood. In the Dominican, we have Sonora, our house keeper, and she just made sure we were fed growing up and still when we go back. I highly doubt I’ll be able to find Sancocho out here in this small Georgia town, though.

“You, Augusto? You want to cook?”

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