Page 142 of Mangled Memory
“Okay then.”
I turn and lead us to the end of the hall, through our bedroom and into the bathroom, flipping the switches on in the shower. “What are the rules with your wound?”
“No soaking, and I need to apply some prescription stuff to it twice a day.”
“I didn’t know.” She looks panicked. “I’ll go get it.” She’s halfway back to the door when I snag her hand.
“They applied some at the hospital. We’ll get the rest in the morning.” I lift my watch. “Make that a couple of hours. Please come scrub off this hellacious day with me so we can sleep.”
She strips silently, leaving everything in the middle of the bathroom floor as I do the same. I step under the spray and extend a hand. To my relief, she joins me and immediately stands under one of the showerheads letting the water pour down her body.
Her tears are hidden under the streams until I can take it no longer and pull her into me. “I was so scared,” I admit.
“Me too.”
“Princess, I was scared of losing you. When I heard you were gone—” I swallow past the lump of sand wedged in my throat. “I knew I wouldn’t be able to live without you. The last six months have been hard, no doubt. But me without you is a life that’s notworth living. I need you, Ayla. Memory or no. Fighting or not. I’m tied to you. My happiness and mywhyfor living is in our love. I can’t do it without you.”
Her arms wrap tightly around me. “I didn’t know about Mom and Dad and I’m sorry. Except that I got you.”
“You’ve got me. Flaws and all.”
She rubs her fingers over the healed scar on my shoulder. “You’ve saved me twice.”
I’m no hide-and-seek champion. The thought hits me in the gut. When it was me, I ducked for cover. When it was about my wife, it was easy to jump into the fray. Or dive into it.
“And I’d do it again, but how about we skip the flying projectiles and cliff faces for a while? My danger meter is maxed out.”
She looks up into my face. “Okay, but how do we even know it’s over?”
Well, fuck me. I don’t know how to answer that honestly. Is it over? “I don’t know, but we’ll figure it out. Just not tonight. Tonight, we rest.”
We clean up and fall into bed naked and damp, snuggled into one another, holding on to the most important things in our lives—each other.
40
give me iced tea
Ayla
I wake long before the sun. That’s not true. I barely sleep. I’m exhausted, well and truly drained, but when I close my eyes, I see my trembling hands holding the heavy black gun to Dad’s head. It wasn’t like the one in the safe room. This one had a long thin pointy end that was rubbing back and forth in his hairline with each rise and fall of my panicked breaths. My terror was palpable.
My hands shook like Mom’s surely will as she ages. My hair kept falling into my eyes and sticking to my face. And Dad’s hateful eyes stared as if I offended him with my tears.
It’s the hate there that I can’t reconcile with the man I know. That’s not true. The man Iknowis exactly that. The man I thought I knew was fierce, even if he was domineering. He was the disciplinarian with unrealistic expectations. But he wasn’t cruel. At least to me.
When the sun rises, I’ll be done with him. I’ll give myself the rest of the pre-dawn morning to grieve losing the man who should’ve been my protector, who could’ve been my champion. The man who wanted fearful minions more than respect and love from his children.
I grieve my mother’s health, knowing she will lose even more autonomy because of her dependence on him. Knowing, too, that she’ll lose a depth of relationship with her grandchildrenbecause of her choice and her need for my dad. I told her, not knowing how true it was, that I wouldn’t allow my kids around a man like him.
That’s cemented for me now. My children will never be in their home. They’ll never have him at a birthday party or have their grandfather at their school for donuts or whatever shit they cook up now.
We’re going to be the family that celebrates with uncles and, God-willing, aunts and cousins. We’ll have big to-dos and surround our children with all the love they can handle. At the same time, we’ll find a way to encourage them, uplift them. They can be astronauts or artists, scientists or sculptors. They can be real estate moguls or mogul skiers.
I have no clue how to parent, but I know how not to. Today reiterated that.
Christian groans in his sleep from my side, and I roll into him, carefully avoiding being near his wound. There’s a bruise on his face that looks more egregious than yesterday.
His dive in front of me wasn’t graceful, but it was effective. It also bought him this bruise and some others at his ribs and on his elbow.
