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“At least open your gift.”
Mercedes is a clothes horse. She loves fashion. Loves high-end clothes. Has a million designer, specially made dresses, shoes, bags, jewelry, you name it. More than any woman can ever need. In another life, I think she’d be over the moon to receive the gift I have for her but this version of Mercedes? Nothing.
“Goddammit!” I rip the bow off the box and hurl the top across the room, tearing the tissue paper as I lift out her jacket, the pants. “At least look at it!” I yell, throwing her covers off and grabbing her arm, startling her. Finally. Finally fucking startling her enough to get a reaction. Any fucking reaction.
Her eyes fly open as I drag her up to sit, and she opens her mouth to scream when I realize what I’m doing and let her go. I turn from her, stalking away, hands pulling at my hair.
“What the fuck do I have to do to get you back?” I ask, no longer calm or quiet.
She’s watching me, and it takes all I have to remain where I am. To not go to her and shake her out of this catatonic state.
“This has to stop. You have to get out of bed every morning. You have to wash yourself. You have to brush your hair. Dress in clean clothes. You have to fucking eat.”
She blinks, then looks down at the clothes, the jacket half in the box. She touches it. “It’s nice. Thank you.”
I nod.
She gathers the blankets up and lies back down. “I’m tired now. I’ll try them on tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow. Tomorrow. Tomorrow. Fuck tomorrow!”
She doesn’t seem to care, though. She just closes her eyes again. Closes her goddamn eyes.
“Tomorrow, I’m calling Dr. Barnes. Hell, I should have called him a week ago.”
At that, I get a reaction. “No.”
“If we need to put you on medication to get you out of this, so be it.”
She shakes her head and pulls herself up to a seat. I see the effort it takes her, and I hear my grandfather’s voice in my head. My hands fist.
She’s manipulating you. Take control of her.
I know what he’d do. I know exactly how he’d take control.
I dig my fingernails into my palms. Let myself feel the pain of it as I recall her scars. Someone has already taken control of her in the past. I won’t repeat history.
“If you don’t want the doctor to come, then I need something from you. I need you to give me some sign that you don’t need him.”
She looks up at me. Meets my gaze and holds it, although the fire that used to burn in her black eyes isn’t there. Not even close.
“I need my Mercedes back. The Mercedes who fights. The one who doesn’t back down. The Mercedes who has given me a run for my money since she got here.”
She blinks. Rubs her face and just looks like she wants to sleep. Like all she wants in the whole world is sleep.
There’s a knock on the door, and Lois opens it to peer around. I’m sure she heard me lose my temper.
I drop my gaze to the carpet, take a deep breath in, and slowly exhale.
“Dinner’s ready, dear. And the boys are anxious to see you,” Lois says to Mercedes after a sad little glance at me.
Mercedes nods, looks at the boxes, the second one which contains her boots is still closed. For a moment, it’s like she’s not sure how to get out of the bed and moves to the other side to climb out. I notice she’s barefoot. And I’ve seen those yoga pants about a dozen times already.
Angry, I cut her off on her way to Lois.
She stops and looks up at me. One hand wraps around the footboard of the bed, and I’m not sure if it’s to steady herself or to not back away.
“You’re going to eat every bite of your dinner tonight. And you’re not going to throw it up. Do you hear me?” Because she’s done that the few times I’ve forced her to eat. “Lois made you your favorites. You’re not going to waste it.”
