Page 96 of Finding Home with You

As I walk into my house something about it triggers this overwhelming sense of exhaustion. My body suddenly feels heavy, like carrying myself to my bedroom is far more effort than I can give.

I collapse on the couch, my eyelids drooping slowly just as I hear the front door slam close, and Ryan falls down on the couch next to me.

He’s lying against the side of my body, his hand absentmindedly stroking my leg and I can’t help but wonder what he’s thinking because my thoughts are a scattered mess as I try to process what just happened.

“Are you okay?” Ryan asks quietly, because the silence between us is far too unusual. There’s a strangeness that floats between us, like neither one of us wants to admit we’re relieved that Anthony’s dead. That what we both saw didn’t fuck us up completely.

“I think so,” I respond a heartbeat later with Ryan letting out what sounds like a sigh of relief. “You?”

“I will be.” And as his words leave his mouth, he takes my hand, pulling me up from the couch and toward the bathroom.

Ryan stops me before we enter the bathroom and begins to remove my clothes, tossing everything into a pile on the floor and then adding his own clothes. He covers my cast with the plastic sleeve they gave me at the hospital, and then he disappears for a moment, placing our clothes into the washing machine. But as he does, I call out, “Please throw them away,” my words nearly catching in my throat, because the picture that forms in my brain nearly makes me throw up all over again.

I know there will never come a time in my life where I will forget what I was wearing the day Anthony was killed. I will never be able to put on that sweater or those jeans, my socks, anything and not remember the blood splatter, the brain matter that covered them. Even though most of my clothes were spared because of my coat, they will always remain tainted by what happened.

It’s when I step into the bathroom that it all hits me. I slip past the mirror, everything going unnoticed as I start the shower. But it’s while I’m waiting for the water to heat up that I make the fatal mistake of looking into the mirror.

My face is still dotted with a few small droplets of blood, and my hair, a mess of tangled curls, is caked with dried blood and what I can only assume are parts of Anthony’s brain. The hospital made an attempt to clean me up, but without a shower small reminders remain. Something people could possibly overlook on a quick glance, but I know my father didn’t miss it.

Without checking the water temperature, I step into the shower and begin scrubbing at my face and hair, even though I know no amount of soap will rid me of this nightmare.

The water is hot and it scalds my skin, but I don’t stop even as my skin turns bright red and begins to itch.

When Ryan steps in, he jumps back out nearly immediately. “Shit, Erin,” he says, his teeth clenched. “The water is way too hot.” He then reaches in and adjusts the temperature making my body shudder when the shock of the temperature hits me.

With the temperature change comes the tears as I fall to the floor and begin to sob. My body heaving with each breath I take, shampoo running into my eyes, but don’t feel like I can move.

It’s Ryan that comes in and saves the day. Picking me up off the floor, he washes my hair as I cry against him. With each movement of his hands over my body, I feel safe and protected.

He’s with me no matter what.

I don’t know how long we stand in the shower, but when we finally emerge the water has run cold and I can barely stand on my own.

I pull on a t-shirt and underwear and climb into bed, and Ryan does the same, sliding in next to me. His arms wrap around my body, once again making me feel like I’m not totally damaged, that I’m not a fucked up mess.

“We need to see someone to help us both deal with what happened,” Ryan says, his voice low, but comforting. I nod silently against his chest knowing I should’ve been seeing someone years ago.

Sleep doesn’t come easy for either of us despite the extreme exhaustion. The tossing and turning of our bodies keeping us both awake long after we should’ve been asleep. And when I finally do fall asleep, I’m plagued with haunting nightmares.

The morning sun streams through the windows as we sit at the kitchen table, each of us a full mug of coffee in hand. I can tell Ryan’s night was filled with nightmares and terrible what if scenarios also.

He’s been a cop for as long as I have been a teacher, but his time spent in that career doesn’t ease the trauma that comes from watching someone die at the hand of a sniper’s rifle.

No one is prepared for something like that.

I don’t think either of us knows what to say as we sit with our eyes focused on the steam rising from our cups. Ryan’s the first to speak and what he says shocks me more than anything else over the last few days.

“I quit my job.”

“What?” I ask, my tone suddenly breathless.

Ryan looks up at me, his head cocked to one side, almost like he’s contemplating whether my shock revolves around the financial issue that may arise or if I think he’s making a rash decision.

“I can’t do it anymore, Erin,” he says, his voice a plea for support. “I can’t ever put myself in that situation again. I’m going to be a father.” His last line comes out choked and I watch the tears form in his eyes.

I’m crying before either one of us speaks again.

“I don’t want you to…” before I can finish my sentence Ryan interjects, stopping me with the assumption that he knows what I’m going to say.

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