Page 74 of In You
But the grown Caleb is stuck between a rock and a hard place here with my heart disintegrating in my chest. Because I realize, I can't save her.
I can't even save myself.
27
I Want You To Meet Someone
Tamryn
ForthreedaysstraightI keep my eyes on Caleb.
I barely leave his side except to hole up in the office for my therapy sessions with Sarah. I don't talk about my mother, even though we're coming up on Thanksgiving and that's all I want to do. But even the barest mention of mothers in general sets him off right now.
I'm so sad for him. It's the most heartbreaking thing I've ever witnessed another person go through.
I can't even imagine.
He's been near a shell of himself, walking around the house scrubbing everything in sight. The smell of bleach is almost overpowering to the point it stings my sinuses, but I don't dare complain because I'm finding this is how he deals with what's bothering him. He scrubs the whole house down with bleach. Even his body.
One time I caught him pouring a little in a glass of water to drink it. And I knocked it out of his hand, making him promise to never attempt that ever again. He said it wasn't enough to poison him, just enough to clean him from the inside out.
I went through that same hour and got rid of all the cleaning chemicals in the house. We'll buy some more when he's past this near manic episode.
He disappears into the basement a lot, and when he comes back up I can tell his eyes are tinged red, and I know he's been crying from way more than the strong chemicals. I've had to crack the windows despite the cold air outside because I don't want the dogs to suffer.
I've been a little overbearing, finding excuses to always be where he is, and insisting on slathering moisturizer on him to help keep his skin from drying out.
In the afternoons we sit on the couch and I lay my head in his lap while we watch a movie. Typical romcoms. And we streama lotof comedy specials. Every now and then he'll laugh, but itonly feels half real. I look up at him when he's not watching, or, when I think he's not paying attention, watching him half-heartedly train Ringo with dog treats, or be sweet with Tink.
I asked him how he got her, because a miniature poodle and a bloodhound are two very different dogs and I just want to understand. And he tells me that he inherited Tink from his half-sister Flora when she died a year and a half ago of breast cancer. She was seventeen years older than him, and his "shero."
She adopted him after "it" happened.
I ache so badly to share with him my mom died young too of a massive heart attack, but I don't dare. We're already walking around on eggshells enough as it is, and I don't want to set him off. He's so careful around me, despite how hard we'd fucked just three days ago, like he's worried he'll set me off too. Though, he doesn't have to worry about that. I think I'm okay. The longer I stay here in this house, the fear of him hurting me abates more and more, and I find myself settling into a calm routine. He's given me liberty over the dogs, and I groom them incessantly.
One thing I've noticed and admire about him since I've been here is his honor. My mind flickers to him telling me about what he does for a living, and that helps settle my fear over thinking he was just senselessly killing.
"You remind me a lot of batman," I'd told him, and he gave me a crazy look, just shaking his head.
The thumping of footsteps on the stairs has my gaze moving from the chicken frying at the stove, to the basement door.
"You alright?" I call quietly as Caleb comes up out of the basement for the third time today. My heart pounds at the sight of him. I'm so fucked over this man that I don't think my poor spirit will have a chance in hell of healing if our situation doesn't work out.
"Yeah, I'm good. Thanks," he says, averting his eyes from me. "Smells good in here. How'd you know I love fried chicken?"
He walks to the liquor cabinet and unlocks it. He told me right before we went on our day long fucking spree that he had to put a lock on the cabinet holding the alcohol and dog food because Ringo's so smart he found out how to get into it and been eating the dog food.
Bloodhounds are food motivated, and from the way he stares at me with those big old sad puppy eyes, begging at every meal, I see.
"Everyone loves fried chicken," I say in a light tone, poking the fried chicken with the fork I'd been using to turn it. "I figured maybe we could have something a little different tonight." I turn, giving him a small smile as he hands me a small glass of non-alcoholic wine, and then settles his hips against the sink holding his glass of whiskey.
"How's the therapy sessions going?" he asks, looking at me curiously.
I flip the chicken, poking the fork deep into a thigh and seeing there's blood running out still. I make a face. "Uh, it's going good, I think. Sarah's helping me a lot, but it wears me out, you know. Especially the EMDR. She's thinking about referring me to a hypnotherapist, but I don't know how I feel about that." I huff a breath and then look up at him. "Can I share something with you?
He nods, taking a sip of his whiskey. "Sure you can, you know that."As long as it's not anything to do with moms.
I hear the silent words between us as loud as if he'd screamed it. He can talk about his sister, and even the tiny bit he remembers about his father, but moms are off limits.
