Page 91 of Poetry By Dead Men
"I don’t know what I’m going to do," I admit.
Bobby wipes beneath my eyes, gentle and tender and so careful of the injured skin. "I can have movers at your house in an hour to get your things in New York. They can take them wherever you want." Relief that all I have to do is agree softens the edges of my pain. I don’t think I could bear going back to our brownstone and packing up my things, and it's comforting to know I won't have to.
"Thank you," I croak out.
"Anything for you, Beth.Anything. You know that."
I let him hold me as I fall apart, crying until the sun is high in the sky, and the bus gets so stiflingly hot Bobby’s forced to let me go to close the windows. He goes to the sink and pours me a glass of water, then sits on the couch next to me, gathering me in his arms and holding me like a child. Careful to avoid my sore spots, he rubs circles on my upper arm with his thumb, presses kisses to my hair and whispers that he loves me. That he’s sorry.
I let that love fill me up as I rest my head beneath his chin, my ear against his chest, where the steady thump of his heart beats a rhythm almost like a lullaby, calming my tears.
But I cry again when I realize that even injured and sore and heartbroken, I haven’t felt this safe in a long time.
"Knock knock," an unfamiliar voice calls from outside. “It’s Dr. Meadows.”
Bobby lifts my chin to meet my eyes. "I’d really like for him to check you out," he says as an older gentleman walks in. He’s at least seventy, but he has pink cheeks and bright eyes, and vaguely reminds me of Molly’s Grandpa Frank.
"I’m guessing this young lady with stitches in her head here is the one in need of my attention?" he raises an eyebrow.
"That would be me," I say, “But really, I’m fine. The paramedics already checked me out.”
"Well, I’m already here," Dr. Meadows says kindly. "And I’ll be charging Bobby whether I take a quick peek at you or not."
Bobby laughs. "He's right. I have him on retainer. Never know when a sore throat is going to pop up."
"Exactly." Dr. Meadows points at my eye. "That’s a nasty bruise there, dear, and I would feel better if I could just take aquickonce over."
Bobby squeezes my hand. "As would I. Please?"
“Alright." I nod, forcing a tight smile. It’s not as if I don’t understand where they’re coming from. “As long as it's quick."
Dr. Meadows claps his hands together. "Ah, I can agree to that. Let me grab my things."
"How about I start the shower for you while he’s checking you out?" Bobby says, his eyes focused on the dried bits of blood in my nails.
"That sounds great, actually," I say, scratching at my arm. Now that a shower has been mentioned, my skin feels itchy and tight.
Bobby pats me on the knee as he stands, his hand lingering as if it’s hard for him to let me go. "Take good care of her, Doc," Bobby orders, walking to the back of the bus to give us some privacy.
Dr. Meadows flashes a light in my eyes and inspects my lacerations before grabbing an icepack from the freezer and telling me to apply it to my eye on and off in ten-minute increments. "All things considered," he says, putting his stethoscope back in his bag, "you’re in good shape. I know the paramedics warned you about a concussion, but I think your eye there took the brunt of the damage. I wouldn’t be surprised if youroccipital bone has a nasty bruise." He taps his eye, showing me where he's talking about. "A bit of rest and a hot shower, and I think you’ll be just fine."
"Sold," I say, more than ready to wash off this horrible day.
"Beth," Dr. Meadows puts a hand on my arm, stopping me. "You got lucky today that all you have is some surface cuts and bruises. Next time, it could be a lot worse."
I hear the meaning behind his words, and it gives me chills.
He’s seen these kinds of injuries before.
Worse, it seems.
"Don’t worry. There won’t be a next time." I give him a sad smile, partly embarrassed and partly grateful for his concern. He seems satisfied with my answer, so I thank him and walk to the back of the bus.
Bobby jumps to his feet and hands me a towel when I enter, the room slightly foggy from the steam of the hot shower."Call if you need anything," he says before kissing my forehead and leaving me alone.
I take my time, washing my hair twice and gently cleansing the blood from my eyebrow, careful to avoid the stitches. I let the hot water run over my neck and shoulders, easing the tension that continues to cause my head to ache.
I don’t know if it’s minutes or hours, but I stay there until the water turns cold before wrapping myself in the fluffy, white towel and grabbing some fresh clothes. I avoid looking at myself until I’m dressed in soft leggings and an oversized sweatshirt and my hair is brushed.
