Page 102 of Poetry By Dead Men
Johnny stands, brushing off his pants. “I’m going to head back to the bus. Just wanted to check on you, Bethy.” He leans over my bed and presses a kiss to my cheek, something he used to do to annoy Bobby, and it makes my heart swell and shatter all at once.
“Get some rest, and make that one rest, too,” he says in my ear. “She won’t admit it, but she’s exhausted.”
Hannah finishes with my vitals and Johnny follows her out of the room, leaving Molly and me alone. I don’t miss the way her eyes linger on the doorway once he’s gone.
“Here. Help me scoot over,” I say, shuffling to the side of my bed toward the rail. Molly hops up, moving the pillow supporting my leg. I pat the bed beside me, and she climbs in, curling up against my side.
“You’re a terrible liar,” she says, but there’s no anger in her voice. “I can’t believe you were eavesdropping.”
“I would never do such a thing,” I say. “But if Ididhear, I might be wondering what you guys were talking about.”
Molly grabs my hand. “It was nothing. I’m just worried about you. And I can’t help but feel responsible.”
“What?” I try to twist toward her, sending a stab of pain through my thigh.
Molly’s lip trembles, and she takes a deep breath. “I hate Harrison. I’ve never liked him.”
“It’s not your fault. You told me—”
“I know I said you could do better. That you shouldn’t marry him. But I should have made you hear me.”
I shake my head. “I should have known on my own. I should have been stronger.”
Molly exhales deeply. “If you’re not going to let me blame myself, I’m not letting you, either. Harrison did this.” We sit in silence for a bit, themood heavy. I long for sleep, for the escape it gives me from my grief and terror.
“I can’t lose him, Molly,” I whisper, breaking the silence. “He can’t die.” Tears prick my eyes, my lungs struggling to fully expand.
“He’s your soulmate, Beth. I just have to believe that the universe isn’t so cruel it would take him away again so soon,” Molly says, pushing the button to recline the bed a little more, as if sensing my need for rest.
I say a silent prayer that she’s right and tag one on that she’ll find her own happiness, too. I think after everything we’ve gone through, we deserve a bit of peace.
“You’re wrong you know,” I say, my eyelids growing heavier, and I lean my head against Molly’s, letting them close. “Bobby is the love of my life. Butyouare my soulmate.”
NOW
September 2024: Charleston, SC
I want a little piece of paradise
To get lost in something new
I want a love the poets write about
And I want it to be with you
—An excerpt from "Poetry," written by Beth Winters, performed by Robert Beckett
I thought I was prepared to see Bobby. Hoped that by some miracle, I’d look at him and realize it was all a dream, or maybe that Molly and Crystal had been wrong. That he was just broken and bruised like me.
But nothing could have prepared me for what I see when they wheel me into Bobby’s room. He’s sedated, a tube down his throat and several IV poles with what feels like dozens of different medications and lines attached to them. At the head of the bed is an enormous machine with two thick tubes, each about the diameter of a quarter, and they’re full of blood.
"Ten minutes, Beth," Crystal says. "I could get in a lot of trouble for letting you in here," she says. Technically, it's not visiting hours, and as Bobby's in the ICU, and I'm not family, I'm not supposed to be in here.
But the accident was two days ago, and my surgeon finally gave me the okay to transfer to a wheelchair and leave my room. It had been hellgetting upright with my broken ribs and fixator. Even worse, when the physical therapist came to teach me how to transfer safely with a walker to my wheelchair. I'd needed a lot of help, and there were a lot of tears, but it didn't matter.
Nothing was going to stop me from seeing Bobby.
He looks like he's in pain, his forehead creased and his lips tipped into a frown, and I take several deep breaths to keep myself from breaking down. He's in there. And I won't make things harder for him by falling apart.
