Her eyes try to lift, the right is still swollen, but she manages to open in a slit.
"Beau?" my name is barely audible, but it still makes my smile huge and my eyes glassy.
"Yeah, baby. Do you need a drink?" I grab the cup of mostly ice chips that the nurses kept replenishing, expecting her to wake any minute. They let me know that she can have a little ice and water when she wakes.
She nods. I bring the plastic spoon to her dry lips. She winces as she wraps her mouth around it.
Her head drops back as she collects some ice in her mouth and sucks lightly on it. She is exhausted from holding it forward for a mere second. It speaks to how much she has been through.
I hit the call button. It takes a minute before I get a response.
"Yes?"
"Samantha is awake.”
“We’ll be right in.”
The static cuts off.
Her eyes fall shut and she sighs, "How'd —" she wets her lips “—I make it?” Her question pierces my heart, before I can assure her, or explain how we were lucky.
The door swoops open and two women walk in with big smiles and soft voices. They test her vitals for what seems like ages.
Sam is able to wake up as they collect her blood and check the various monitors attached to her. Her voice comes back gradually, as the nurses prompt her with questions about her condition.
They ask the day and she falters, "I don't know. I think…” she trails off, a frown on her face. “I think two weeks, maybe less?”
I wish I was able to keep quiet, but the noise I make has her turning to look at me.
"It’s nothing, Sweets," I dismiss, but of course it doesn't work.
"Beau, what?"
"Sammy don't worry about this right now. Let's just work on getting you better." She turns her eyes from me to the nurses. They’ve been quiet during our exchange.
"What's the date?" she croaks. I grab the cup of ice and place it to her lips. She opens her mouth without complaint but doesn't take her eyes from the nurse.
"November nineteenth," one answers.
The shock is clear on Sammy’s face as her eyes dart back to mine, "But…” she struggles. “That long?" She looks at me with questions I don't have the answers to. She shakes her head disbelievingly, “I gave up…” she looks down. “I stopped counting.”
I place my hand over her cheek gently, "You're here now Sammy."
Her eyes glaze over, and she whispers, "What if I'm not? Will I wake up, there?" Her good hand squeezes my hand that's still touching her face.
It takes every fiber in my being not to fall apart. I want to comfort her with words of reassurance, but my throat is too tight to speak.
I clench my jaw and lean forward to kiss her split lip.
I whisper, "Baby, I promise you will never be in that room again. I promise you are here. I’m right here.”
Her shoulders shake.
“You’re going to be okay.” She cries, as I fumble for better words to comfort her.
“I missed you," she whispers quietly as the door closes quietly behind me. I didn't even realize the nurses left. “I didn’t think…” her voice is still rough, her cracked lips struggling to hold words. “I didn’t think I would see you.”
I can’t speak, so I gather her into my arms. She doesn't make one sound of complaint as my fingers brush against her battered body. She buries her head into my chest and neck and heaves.
I grit my teeth and rock her, half sitting on the bed beside her.
I hold her until her sobs quiet and her body relaxes. I let her go, resting her head back on the pillow.
Her eyes closed, she's close to sleep.
"I love you."
I pull back to look at her.
"I love you too. I love you so much, Samantha. I'm so sorry I let him take you, so sorry." I continue to look down at her, with tears forming in my eyes.
Her brows furrow as she struggles to open them, "Not your fault." She shakes her head. Her head snuggles into the pillow, close to sleep she murmurs, “He is a monster, how my mother or I didn't see it before…” the thought hangs there, without finishing. I think she has gone to sleep, but her good arm cups my cheek. “He’s the only one responsible,” she whispers, eyes closed as she drifts.
I can't let go of my guilt, especially as she struggled against sleep to reassure me, completely exhausted. I should be doing that.
She falls asleep with her hand clutching my shirt.
The doctor enters around five the next morning. I'm cuddled up next to her in the bed. One of the nurses came in last night to help arrange us more comfortably, after failing to get her hand to release from my shirt. Her head is resting on my chest and our feet are intertwined with her casted arm lying across my stomach.
She doesn't even twitch when the door shuts. I wake easily after spending nearly the entire night watching her. My eyes move to track the man easing into the chair next to the bed.
He gives me a small smile and speaks softly, "I hear our patient woke up last night and is doing remarkably well."
I clear my throat, "Yes, she woke up around ten, I think."
Sammy stirs from my voice. She nods her head a bit, readjusting and sighs. My hand runs over her hair. I remember I need to wash it. There isn't anything I can do about the physical reminders on her flesh, but at least I can make sure her hair will be clean of reminders.
"I think we can let her sleep a little longer, but I want to have a look at her before the morning ends." He nods kindly at her curled up on my chest.
"Alright," I answer, knowing he's right to want to check her out.
As soon as the door closes, she cranes her head back to look up at me.
"I didn't feel like getting poked," she says, her voice still weak. I know they are giving us liberties because they've heard about her circumstances.
“Fine by me, but I need to get up if that's okay." She groans, making me wish bodily functions were nonexistent. "I have to pee, Sweets. I don't think your nurse will be happy if I wet the bed," I tease to lighten the mood.
I kiss the top of her head and untangle myself from her, heading to the bathroom to clean up and use the facilities.
I make a call to my mom, knowing she is probably one step away from bursting in, especially after Brian informed me that she was on her way with dad. I tell her to give me a few hours before she shows up.
“I can help,” she interrupts.
“She doesn't need to be overwhelmed, she just woke up.” I lie easily. I need time to break it to Sammy that my mom has already taken on the role of mother hen and that she has her eyes set on Sam for her baby chick.
I hang up with my mom and fill a large pinkish tub up with warm water and soap. She watches me walk out holding the bucket and a few towels over my arm.
"What are you doing?"
"I was just going to rinse your hair." She grabs ahold of the hair over her shoulder and pulls it forward to inspect it.
"I'm all gross, huh?" she muses.
"No, there's nothing gross about you!" I say a little harshly. "I just don't like seeing what was done to your hair. If you want to wait until you're ready to shower, that's fine. I just wanted to help," I finish, trying to keep my voice even.
"No please, you're right. I don't mind if you help me." She looks up at me, “If you don’t mind?”
"I wouldn't have offered, if I didn't want to."
Chapter 31
Sammy's recovery is slow. Her body takes days to regain some of the strength that was sapped from her by the dehydration and lack of food alone.
Once she's strong enough to move about with more ease, she has to deal with the pain from her injuries. She doesn't complain or whine, as she stumbles. Rather, she gets a determined look on her face and struggles through each day.
We leave the hospital after a week of progress. She's not ready for long distance travel, so I rent a house not too far from the hospital for follow-up appointments.
“Today we�
�re going to see the surgeon,” I remind her as I spoon coffee grounds into the filter. Sammy looks down at her hand still wrapped up.
“I remember,” she sighs. She’s tired of me mothering her. I’m being a little over the top, but I can’t seem to stop myself. The other day she ran me out of the bathroom as she tried to bathe alone, and last night she stabbed my hand with a fork after I tried cutting up her food for her. It’s good to see her sass return in these moments, as she gives me a mock growl and calls me a jackass.
“When can we go home? When can we go back to New York?” I turn, abandoning the coffee I was about to make and look at her.
Her hair is in the same braid my mother put in for her yesterday, a few tendrils hanging around her face. Most of the bruising has faded to a yellowish stain, painting parts of her face, her temples, her left cheekbone, and the corner of her chin. Her eyes are a little bloodshot as she stares out, not really looking at anything. She hasn’t been sleeping well as she’s slowly coming off pain the medication.
“We can talk to the doctor about that today.”
“I’m ready,” She mutters in a hushed tone. “I don’t want to be here anymore.”
I cross the room in two strides, dropping down on my hunches, looking right into her eyes.
“Samantha,” I breathe, running my fingers over her cheek. “We’ll get through this. You are amazingly strong.” She leans her head down, and it falls to my shoulder.
“I don’t feel strong.” I squeeze her in return.
“You might not feel like it right now, but I promise you, you are. You have been through so much, too much.” I lean back placing my finger under her chin, lifting her face to mine. “You survived Sammy. You’re still surviving. Every day you get up, you do everything the doctors are asking for, and then some. You’re strong. If you for one minute think you’re not, lean on me for a little while.” I kiss her temple, tucking a lock past her ear, “I am here.”
Her eyes soften, and her lips part.
I can’t stop myself from leaning forward and sealing our lips.
She accepts my kiss, turning her head to deepen it.
I kiss her until the coffee machine beats for attention.
We leave the surgeon’s office with permission to head back to New York within the next week. Sam is particularly pleased. Her physical therapist catches us as we leave the hospital.
“I have already faxed your orders to a local office,” she says, and waves us goodbye with a quick, “Take care.”
I’m worried about how she’s handling the emotional aspect of her ordeal. I open the door to the passenger side door for her, my brow furrowed in thought. The drive home is silent as she looks out the window, at the passing landscape.
I've slept beside her every night since that night in the hospital. Every night she either wakes herself up crying, or I end up waking her to tell her she's just dreaming. Her nightmares are all too real. She never acknowledges her episodes during the day. The few times I've tried to bring it up, she acts like she doesn't remember.
I turn up the drive to our rental. I plan on trying to convince her to see a therapist. I know she doesn't have much faith in them. Rita took her to a few when she was younger, but I think we both need help dealing with her abduction.
I park the car as she quickly heads back in to have a scheduled phone call with her store employees. She’s spoke to them a little, but today they all came in to the store to call her together.
As I walk into the house, I hear her speaking to them. Jess, Jude and George are all on the phone. She sees me and waves, but then walks outside to have more privacy to talk with her friends. I can tell she is trying to hold it together. I watch from the window. She bites her lip and paces back and forth during the call. She laughs and smiles, but there are also tears in her eyes.
When she hangs up and comes inside, she cries quietly on the sofa for a few minutes.
I walk over and wrap her in my arms, placing a gentle kiss to her hair.
“Why are you crying Sweets?”
Her shoulders rise, “I…” she trails off. “I’m not really sure.” She sniffles and laughs.
My mother and father come over in the afternoon. It’s a regular habit they have forced on us this past week. Usually they stay for an hour or so, long enough for my mom to help Sammy with her hair some days or just sit and talk together. They’ve taken to each other really well, just like I’d imagined they would.
My dad gives us a little more space, but he’s supportive in his own ways.
The first time he got his first look at Samantha, he had me go to the pub up the street to have a few shots. I left her in the capable hands of my mother with some reluctance.
The tone of this afternoon together is different. I try to keep her spirits up with board games and books, but I find her staring off into the distance, my parents looking on with paired worried expressions.
My mother tells me as they leave that, “She just needs time.”
I can’t help but think returning to New York might help. The normalcy of her store, and her friends’ support will do her good.
I make plans.
The next day comes, and her mood stays the same. My parents decide to stop by early and have breakfast with us. My mom makes decadent waffles, topping them with fresh berries and cream. Sam nibbles, not engaging with the conversation as much as usual.
After breakfast, I ask her to join me on a short walk. She says yes, but I can tell she really would rather not.
Once we are outside I broach the subject I've been thinking about for a while.
"Sweets, I think it's time you talk to someone."
"How do you mean?" She asks innocently, but I can tell she already knows what I'm saying. Her eyes don’t meet mine as she tracks a truck going by the main road.
"I think it would be good,” I struggle a bit with my wording, not wanting to use words that may have her thinking she is at fault. “It would be helpful for you to talk about what happened. About what happened in the past and about what just happened."
Her lips roll as she pretends to contemplate what I've said.
"I really don't think it'll help, Beau. I tried that route when I was a kid. Nothing I said, or they said, made any of it better.”
We stop walking, and she looks up at me.
“Do you think there's something wrong with me?" She asks. This is exactly the kind of thinking I was hoping to avoid.
"Baby, there is nothing wrong with you that wouldn't be wrong with anyone that lived through the shit you've been through.” My hands are braced on her shoulders as my eyes lock on her, “I think you need to talk with someone to develop tools for coping with it.” I wrap my arms around her, “I don’t want to lose you, Sammy. I feel like you’re slipping through my fingers, and I can’t do anything to stop it.”
Her lips twist down in a frown.
“Beau,” she sighs like there’s more to say, but she can’t put it in words. She reaches up, her hand wraps around the back of my neck. I feel each finger as they slip through my hair.
I drop my forehead to hers and close my eyes.
I feel her push up on her toes to place a soft set of kisses on my lips.
“Beau, I’m not going anywhere. I love you, remember?”
It’s the first time she’s said those words, since that first night she woke up in the hospital.
I chuckle, “I remember. I thought it might have been the painkillers talking.”
She clicks her tongue at me.
“I’ll come with you,” I offer. “I won't leave you unless you want me to. I just want all the shit going on in your head to be released. You relive it every night, and I can't stand that he's still hurting you…” I beg. “Please."
She sighs, pulling away, but laces her fingers of her right hand with mine.
“If that's what you want, I'm making you come with me." She threatens like I didn’t offer to already. We start walking again, still close enough to the sprawling ranch. I
see my mom and dad spying on us through the windows.
I wrap my arms around her gently and kiss her forehead.
"Thank you, Samantha."
She hugs me back, and everything feels right for the first time in a while.
The FBI stops by the next day to talk to her, now that she is doing better. Two agents sit in our living room. I try not to glare as they ask her questions. I just got her to agree to talk to someone yesterday, and now she’s being forced to rehash it for their sake.
There isn't much she can offer, except the details of her abduction and the final days of her imprisonment.
I am surprised to find out that Darryl had left her alone in her cell for the most part.
Her recount of how he would slide food through the door, but never acknowledge her, makes me ache. She admits to thinking she was going crazy more than once.
Her eyes are on the floor, “Some of my wounds were self-inflicted. I tried to escape by scratching and clawing at the door.” Her shoulders curl in, and she’s shrinking into the sofa.
I want to rip my hair out, but I force myself to sit and listen. If she had to live it, I can be with her while she has to retell it.
Samantha goes on to say he pretty much admitted to killing her mom.
“Something about her making him hurt her too,” she shakes her head. “I was a bit out of it at the time, but…” she trails off, her head tilting to the side. “There was a camera, a red blinking light. I saw it. Did you find anything?” She gulps, finishing, “In the house?”
They confirm that they did find recordings. I look down, not wanting to let on that I knew about them too.
The days grow closer for us to leave Alabama behind.
“Why can’t we just go back to my studio?” Her voice curious, but she seems happy at the idea of us continuing to live together. Through all the questions from the FBI, no one told her that Darryl was in the apartment below hers. She doesn’t know about the small holes drilled in the corner of the floor.
Beautiful Deceit Page 28
