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“Why did the mission fail?”
My face plunges toward the water with my eyes and mouth open. I don’t bother to count this time. It’s never been this bad before. All I see is Matthew’s face. I hope he knows how much I love him.
“Why did the mission fail?”
I am being pulled upward. Stuck halfway between life and death, I am choking. I am vomiting. I am choking on my vomit.
“One last time—why did you fail to complete the mission?”
I don’t know. I feel like I am screaming. I’m trying to scream. Maybe I am. And then I don’t remember anything anymore.
I was the last to go. By the time I finally left, my parents had been plotting to marry me off for two full years. At nineteen, I was well past where I should be in the process, and the candidates had thinned to nearly nonexistent. Which was how I wanted it. It was an embarrassment, my refusal of each sequential suitor. I didn’t want to be married.
Not that it was an option where I grew up. In our strict, religious household, which was set beneath the backdrop of a strict religious community, it was what you did. By the age of seventeen, you were matched up with a suitable candidate, and off you went to repeat the same life your parents had and their parents before them.
By the time I met him, I’d gone through six potential husbands. Any one of whom would have been fine, I suppose. Not that I could see that then. I hated them all. I hated the first one the most. The third, I could have loved. All the others, I never got the chance to know. By that time, I’d built a steel cage around my heart. I was going to find a way out, no matter what it took.
For any other girl in our community, it might have been easier. So few of them actually get a taste of the real world. But I was lucky. My parents owned a business. Not just any business—one of the few that had the privilege to work with those outside our church community. It was purchased in an auction, which my mother explained was where businesses go when no one wants them anymore. I realized then the same thing was happening to me.
Chapter Twelve
Elliot
Everything is about context, my father often says. Why does a glass of wine taste better in say, Paris, than it does sitting on your living room couch? In terms of wine, the French call this terroir. That is, the nature of the drink's environment affects its quality and flavor. But the same concept applies to “surroundings” and “feelings” too. The association of one thing with another. It's why crab cakes taste better on the beach. It's why popcorn tastes better in the cinema, even when it’s stale. It's why top-rated restaurants spend so much time and energy on the “experience” as well as the food. It's all about context.
He doesn’t mean to point this out in terms of my situation, of course, but I can take a hint.
Being attacked and laid up in the hospital is certainly an inefficient use of my time. But viewed with the right perspective—if I look at the context of the situation, of what it might provide—it puts everything in context. The hospital contacted my next of kin. They called Emily, and now it’s just a matter of time before she gets in touch.
My wife has never been able to refuse broken things; that’s how she ended up with that imbecile she’s dating. He played her, and she fell for it. People with good, kind hearts are easy prey for guys like him.
Unfortunately for him, he misunderstood a few things and took something that wasn’t his to take.
Payback is a dirty bitch. And he’s never met anyone like me.
The nurse peers at me over the kind of glasses people wear when they’re ugly and are trying to hide their face. She isn’t entirely unattractive, so don’t ask me why she’s made such a terrible choice in eyewear. A sign of the times, I guess. And yet, she’s looking at me like I’m the crazy one. “Are you sure?”
“One hundred percent.”
“All right,” she says breezily. “But if you change your mind, you know where the button is.”
“I had some visitors earlier.”
She checks my IV line, but she doesn’t respond.
“Are visitors required to sign in?”
“Normally, yes.”
“Can I take a look at the sign in sheet?”
Her brow furrows just slightly. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Just no more pain meds, okay?”
She busies herself with my vitals. “Noted.”
I offer a smile. My intention is to get out of here sooner rather than later, so I have to ration my obstinance. Being incompliant is the surest way to make them think my head injury is worse than it is. Not many people in my condition refuse something that will make them feel better. I have to be alert when I see my wife again. Officially see her, I mean. Plus, if my new friends come back, it’s imperative I’m on my toes. Something tells me this isn’t the kind of problem that goes away. And besides that, I’m not a Band-Aid kind of guy.
