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CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Simmi
“Come on, slow poke.” I tease Mike as he hops along, cane in his right hand. His left hand, which is neatly covered in the wound pressure glove, is tucked away from the world in his left pocket.
“I’m coming. I’m coming.” He grunts but doesn’t raise his head.
He hasn’t looked anyone in the eye since his return. Mom blames herself, but she’s telling anyone who will listen it’s because he blames us for sending him over. Typical drama queen. But I know the truth. He just can’t face the sympathy and stares from people, even us, when we see the red welts of melted skin, which run down the left side of his face, arms and leg.
“If Mom and Dad have already left, how are we getting home?”
He glances up before maneuvering his neck in a way that hides his scars from me. He has refused a pressure mask for the scars on his face.
“I hired a car that’s big enough for these long beauties,” I said, waving toward his long, strong legs. Even the one which sustained injury still boasts strength.
We waddle over to the Ford SUV I rented for the trip home.
“Geez loueeez,” he said as I help him into the front seat, then prop him up with pillows.
I smile and see a glimmer of the man I once knew before I gently shut the door and trot around the back. I hop in the driver’s side; I reach across and grab his seat belt when a strong hand grips my wrist.
“Ouch.” I try pull away.
“I’m not an invalid. I can do my own seat belt.”
He growls, then shoves me away.
The sliver of hope I’d held a moment before crumbles.
I start the car and open the car’s GPS. We drive through the city in silence.
“I’m sorry.” He grunts.
That’s all he does lately. Explodes, then grunts his apology. I get it. I do. He’s hurt inside as much as outside, if not more.
“I’m not the enemy,” I say, mustering all my courage.
“I know.” He flicks on the radio.
After an hour of traffic lights and winding confusing roads, we hit the highway.
“You sure you’ll make the long drive? We can stop halfway,” I say, then purse my mouth shut.
The air in the car electrifies. I glance at my brother. His face is expressionless, but I can tell he’s mentally fighting back his demons.
“She’ll be right,” he replies, pain straining his words.
We drive on in silence, but for the blabbering on the radio. Another hour passes before Mike shifts and puts a hand on my arm. “Who was he?”
His voice is soft. The same voice of the brother who left over a year ago.
“Who?” I ask, my thoughts elsewhere.
“Cummon, sis,” he chides.
“No one special. You know me.”
“Not what Pop says.”
