“Fuck yeah, you did,” Grady says. “He was already bleeding when we got here. Sam added to it with the butt of his shotgun.”
“Wish I’d been able to see that,” I tell them. “I’m so tired.”
“I know, sweetheart, but try to stay awake,” Grady says. “Keep talking to us while we clean you up.”
“Will you take a picture? I want to see what I did,” I say dizzily.
“You got it,” Jerry says with a small chuckle.
It stings, whatever they use to clean me up. Speaking is hard, but I’m good at hissing and flinching.
“She can’t see me like this.”
“She’s worried about you,” Grady says.
“You tell her I’m okay, but don’t…I don’t want to scare her again.”
Grady wipes over my eye with soft gauze. I blink and blink until I can see him. Water runs down his cheeks. Tears. I lift a hand to wipe them away, but it’s covered with bloody grime. I let it fall.
“It’s okay. I fought back. I kept my promise to her that we’d be okay.”
His head falls to my lap, his body shaking with his own sobs as mine dry up.
It’s hours and hours later. Or, maybe not. The next day, perhaps? Or has it been just minutes? Time is still moving wrong. Between a mild concussion, major depression, and enormous worry; I’ve lost all track.
I’m not alone. Grady has been babysitting. Asking what I need, how to help. Talk to me, Lou.
But what’s there to say?
“It’s my turn,” Maggie says from the door. “Go get some rest.”
“I’m fine here,” Grady says.
“Paige needs you,” I tell him. I’vebeentelling him. “Go home.”
He grumbles and complains, but not too much. I’m right, he knows it. One man, two places. The child needs him most.
“I’d like to shower,” I say when he leaves.
“You’ll need some help,” Maggie says. “Okay?”
“It’s fine,” I say. The whole world has seen me stripped bare. Metaphorically, anyway.
She helps me off the couch where I’ve been lying, staring out my one good eye at the dying sky. Or is it my eye that’s dying? My body creaks like an old house as the morose settles back into my bones. I’d shooed it away. Pierre brought it back. Suddenly, I miss that too large hoodie I hid in, those first few days. Cowering like the coward I was.
Maggie runs the water until it’s warm, while I fumble with the button on my shorts. Bandaged fingers don’t work as well. They’re not broken, this time. At least, I don’t think they are. I wiggle them to be sure.
Nope. Not broken. Just bloody and gashed.
After she’s helped me get my shorts off, she pulls my shirt over my head.
“Oh, Lou,” she says sadly.
“I’ll heal,” I say, scanning my body. Road rash covers my calves, my knees, and arms. Bruises carpet my side from breast to hip.
“Yes, my dear. You will.” She sounds less convinced than I do.
The water bites like hundreds of tiny snakes. Still too sleepy to stand, I sit in the tub and let Maggie wash me.
