My shoulders rise in a sob, but nothing comes out. I'm cried out.
I skip clothes and walk into the bedroom and climb in under the sheet. I need to sleep.
For days I need to sleep.
Maybe I'll wake up and realize this was only a nightmare. And when I wake up I'll never talk to Michael again. Ever.
Sleep comes for me quickly, my mind taking pity on my body and shutting everything off.
(Gus)
It's around midnight when I get home. Franco and I went to Joe's Bar to watch a local band play. They were good. We stuck to a booth in a dark corner in the back and no one recognized us. The whole night was mint.
Ma's sitting in the living room reading. "Hi, honey, did you have a good time?"
"Hey, Ma. Yeah, I did." The answer surprises me. I did.
She smiles. "Good. Do you want something to eat? There are leftovers in the fridge. I'll heat them up if you're hungry."
I yawn. "No thanks, Ma." I pat my belly. "Had three grilled cheese and a basket of fries at Joe's earlier. Tank's full."
She laughs. I love to hear her laugh. I'm hearing it more and more lately.
I walk over and lean over the back of the sofa and kiss the top of her head. "I'm going to bed. Night Ma. Love you."
She reaches up and pats my cheek with her hand. "I'm going to shower and go to bed, too. I love you, Gus. Good night."
As I'm walking toward the hallway she calls out, "Gus, can you check on Scout before you go to bed? She hasn't come out of her room all night. I knocked on the door around seven o'clock to see if she wanted to eat with me, but she didn't answer."
"She's probably sleeping, Ma, it's midnight. I don't want to wake her."
"Just make sure she's not sick or something," she replies.
I shrug, but do as she asked. I knock softly on the door. I really don't want to wake her, so it's a half-hearted effort. I know she didn't hear it unless she's awake and has her hearing aid in. I've learned her limits where hearing is concerned. No movement inside and no answer. I turn the doorknob slowly and push my way in. I feel like I'm breaking and entering, burglar-style, in our own home. With the door open and the moonlight spilling in, for an instant I see Bright Side standing there in a tank top and panties, just the way she looked on her last night here before she went to Grant. When I blink, the apparition is gone. Damn, I only had one beer tonight. I shouldn't be seeing things.
When I glance at the bed, I see her lying there, Bright Side, hooked up to IVs and oxygen. Fighting to make the most of her last days. I didn't sleep during her last weeks with us. I stayed up all night looking at her, not wanting to miss out on even a minute with her. I watched her, just in case she needed anything. I held her hand, just so I could feel her, so I knew she was still real. Still my girl. Goddamn, I don't want to be in this room with her memory. It feels heavy, claustrophobic.
Every thought evaporates into the air like a wisp of smoke when I catch sight of something—something that doesn't look right. I open the door wider and the light from the hall floods in. Stepping closer to the bed, I stop when I get confirmation and my stomach twists. There's a bruise on Impatient's cheek that spreads to the edge of her eye, and a cut runs down the middle of her cheekbone. The scarring stands out bold against the purple background. I let my eyes drift over the rest of her and the sick feeling amplifies when I see a solid bruise three inches wide circling each wrist.
"What the fuck?" I wasn't supposed to say that out loud. I was thinking it in my head. Over and over and over, but it wasn't supposed to pass between my lips.
She stirs and I cringe, because I don't want to wake her. But at the same time I want to find out what happened. Find out what I can do to help. And find out who the motherfucker is so I can hunt him down and kill him.
"Gustov?" Her voice is hoarse. It's always hoarse when she wakes up, but even more so now, like her throat's been brutalized.
I kneel on the floor next to her, so we're on the same eye level. I'm talking softly because I don't want to upset her, but loud enough that she'll hear me because I'm sure she doesn't have her hearing aid in. "What happened?"
Even in the dark, I see recognition flare in her eyes. She looks panicked. She's pulling the sheet up over her cheek and hiding her arms and hands underneath. I don't know if she's more self-conscious about the bruises or her scars. I've never seen her left arm bare before. The scars extend down from her shoulder almost to her wrist.
Spare Ribs was curled into her side, sleeping peacefully. She stands protectively and meows, probably sensing Impatient's stress. I shush the cat and pet her once before picking her up and setting her on the floor.
"Hey." I pull back the sheet so I can just see her eyes. They're shiny. "Hey," I repeat, it's quiet and coaxing. I need answers. I'm not sure I really want to hear them, but I need to help her. "What happened?"
She's staring at me now. The look on her face is determined. She doesn't want to talk. Slowly that fades and morphs into hurt and sadness as her forehead creases and the corners of her mouth turn down, tight with the effort of someone who's trying not to cry. And then the tears start, one or two before her strength crumbles and she's sobbing.
I don't know what else to do, so I sit on the edge of the bed next to her belly where the cat was tucked away. There's not much room. I start stroking her hair from the crown of her head down to her shoulder blades. Ma used to do this whenever I was upset as a kid, and it always worked. She's still crying, but I can feel her relaxing. When her eyes open, and the tears are no longer flowing, I don't know what to say to her so I run her soft hair through my fingers. Again. And again.