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But I won’t stop offering her a hand.
I won’t stop offering her a lifeline.
I won’t stop, period.
I sit on the edge of the bed, the closest I’ve come to her since I began visiting every day. She tenses even more. Her eyes are closed. I know she’s a box full of emotions. With her eyes closed, I have the luxury of studying her face, unhurried. The bruises are a motley explosion of haunting shades of blue, purple, and a yellowing edge on one, her black eye fading slightly. Tiny cuts cover her face, neck, and the skin leading to her bandaged shoulder. She’s so ethereal, even with so much injury.
I want to hold her. Wrap myself around her and wait her out. I want to be the shield for her.
I got there in time. She’s alive.
But was I somehow still too late?
“I love you,” I say with a reverent heart, closing my own eyes, my hand inches from hers. All the movement has to come from her. I can’t pull her to me. I can’t push myself on her, emotionally or otherwise.
She has to reach out for me.
Any other path isn’t authentic.
And doesn’t help her.
After a minute, I realize my breath has changed. A new pattern has emerged. I’m breathing with her. I open my eyes to confirm it.
Our chests are in sync.
And one single tear rolls down her cheek. It makes a prism, reflecting the blues and purples and browns and yellows of her cheekbone, her jawline, her neck, as it meanders from her emotional core down to the heat of her skin, buried in the folds of her body.
And still she breathes on.
It’s something.
It’s hope.
I’ll take it.
My damn phone buzzes. I ignore it.
I want to touch her. I want to reach for her hand. The connection is what I need. I think she needs it, too. Every night before bed my mind fills with live electricity, finally settling down abruptly, my subconscious delivering me into slumber like a light switch being flipped off.
I do not dream.
For that, I am grateful.
I will, though. Soon. I know how this goes.
The nightmares emerge when you’ve healed to the point where you can find a rope to pull yourself up just enough out of the abyss to begin to see a crack of light.
Paradox, right?
No one ever said reality was easy.
The short female doctor comes in, makes eye contact with me, then looks at the football field of chocolates on Lindsay’s bed with a raised eyebrow.
Her eyes flit from Lindsay’s face to mine. Her mouth sets with a grim determination.
“Can I have one, Lindsay?” she asks.
Lindsay nods.
