Page 2 of When He Saved Me
Carmen, however, had never quite been able to cut herself off from it. She simultaneously scoffed at the excesses of that lifestyle, shunning all they stood for, while still seeking acceptance from the very people she showed disdain for.
The property in front of me was huge. The driveway was lined with cars, and I could hear the pump of bass coming from the house, so I assumed the party was still in full swing. If Carmen was in there, it’d be nearly impossible to find her. Remembering the sound of her panicked voice on the phone, I pulled out my phone and sent her a text.
I’m here. Where are you?
CiCi
Don’t come in. I’ll come to you
Are you sure? Are you ok? I can come in and get you…
CiCi
Just wait there. I’ll explain when I get in the car
Ok
As I waited for her to reach my side, I contemplated what might have prompted her to call me at such a late hour and why she didn’t want me to come inside. And what about Amy? They’d come here together, so where was she now?
In the dark, I made out her form coming toward me in the shadows. She was still wearing her pin-up girl Halloween costume, but as she got closer, I could see her smudged mascara and messy long dark hair. She began to run as soon as she spotted me, throwing herself into my arms, shaking with silent sobs.
I pulled her around to the other side of the Jeep, away from the view of the house, and held her as sobs wracked her body. Once her tears began to subside, I walked her around to the passenger door and helped her into my Jeep.
After several minutes of driving, I broke the silence. “What happened?”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” she responded, her voice uncharacteristically soft.
“Carmen…I need to know what happened. I need to know you’re okay.”
“I’m okay.”
I stopped at a red light and turned to look at her. I couldn’t see her face because she’d turned away from me to look out the window. “Are you really?”
Her only response was a one-shouldered shrug.
“What happened? Where’s Amy?”
She shrugged her shoulders again, turning her attention to a snag in her fishnets. She picked at it repeatedly, and I watched as she slowly made a hole that got wider and wider.
The stoplight turned green, but I didn’t move to drive. At three a.m., there wasn’t another soul on the road anyway. “Honey, where’s Amy?” I asked more gently. I had a bad feeling Amy was at the root of this situation.
“She cheated on me,” she whispered as a tear slid down her cheek. “I went out to the kitchen to get another round of drinks for us, and when I came back, she was sitting in some guy’s lap with her tongue down his throat.”
I felt my blood pressure rise. I wanted to kick Amy’s ass. I reached out and laid my hand over hers, attempting to offer some comfort. My free hand clenched around the steering wheel, my knuckles white with rage. Despite my anger, I kept my tone gentle as I said, “I’m so sorry, honey. You deserve so much better.”
Carmen tried to speak, but the words failed to come. She cleared her throat and tried again, her voice a little stronger this time. “Why? Why can’t I see this shit coming?” With her free hand, she swiped at her tear-streaked cheeks. Before I could respond, she continued, “You know what, don’t answer that. Can I come home with you? I don’t want to be alone tonight.”
“Of course.” I didn’t trust myself to say more, so I turned and resumed our drive, holding her hand the rest of the way.
* * *
I awoke wrappedin a sweaty pile of sheets with Carmen curled into my side. Her face was relaxed in sleep, a contrast to her usual animated features or, even worse, the panicked state she was in last night. I didn’t want to wake her, but she was a human furnace, and I feared I might combust. Carefully, I extricated myself from her grasp and made my way to the bathroom, pulling on a pair of sweats as I went. Morning needs taken care of, I moved to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee.
Knowing Carmen, she’d probably sleep for several more hours, so I pulled out my notebook and began to write. I lost track of time as I immersed myself in the formation of words and phrases. Sentences and paragraphs.
Writing was where I felt my truest sense of self. There was something so satisfying in selecting the perfect combination of words to elicit a feeling from the reader. I lived to capture a thought or emotion on the page in the most perfect way, weaving letters into words and sentences, bending them to my will until they captured my thoughts perfectly. Verbally, I could express myself relatively well, but on the page, I could delve much deeper and speak far more eloquently.
I wrote poetry and short stories, mostly. Some of my poetry became the lyrics to my music, but mostly they were just musings and observations of the life that seemed to pass me by.
