The Leftovers of a Life

by Anna Oney

  To try and defuse his current mentality, Tom tucked the covers around her, and said, "Whatever you do, don't breathe in. I'm ripe."

  What the hell? he thought. 'I'm ripe'? What in the hell was that?

  But the stupidity of what he'd said didn't seem the least bit bizarre to Emma. It excited her. Before Tom knew it, Emma had slung the covers from her body and tackled him to the floor. The impact shattered the solar light over the linoleum and sent a shooting pain through Tom's lower back. Straddling him, Emma prevented Tom from making the slightest move. It was so unlike her; he didn't know what to expect. Every time he made an effort to move her, she would slap away his hands.

  In a fit of sudden, drunken rage, Emma lifted her arms, causing the man beneath her to assume she was going to strike. Shielding his face, Tom peeked through the gap between his arms. The impenetrable barriers keeping Emma from acting out seemed to have been knocked down by good whiskey. Removing her hair tie, Emma shook loose her hair. For a brief moment, Tom was transfixed by her wild curls, but the sight of her nipples pebbling beneath the nearly see-through fabric swayed his attention elsewhere. Her cheeks were flushed, and her green eyes burned through Tom's desire and impatient heart.

  "Emma, wait," he pleaded, trying to prevent something from happening that he knew both of them would regret. "I . . . I don't think now is the best time."

  In response, she lowered her chest upon his. Crawling up his body, Emma grazed her perfect nose along his before gliding her lips to his ear.

  Taking a whiff off his hair, she whispered, "Don't worry, you smell good to me."

  Tom could feel his erection resting impatiently against Emma's inner thigh. Filled with wanting, his heart longed to touch her. The beating drum of unchecked desire pounded hard against his chest as Emma brushed her lips across his neck, then below his neckline.

  "Wait, Emma." He gasped. "You're drunk."

  Emma brought her hands to his belt buckle. The realization that he was aroused by her seemed to coax her into hastily unbuckling his belt.

  "Tom . . . I . . . ummm," Emma slurred. "I . . . love . . ." Her eyes faltered and crossed, and she passed out on top of his chest.

  Nothing but guilt would put Tom to sleep that night.

  Drool trickled from her loudly snoring mouth. Struggling from the ground Emma had tackled him to, Tom wrapped his arms around her. For a brief moment, he had her all to himself. Even though she was only able to express her true feelings while heavily under the influence, it brought him happiness all the same.

  Carefully, he lifted her from the floor and placed her gently back in bed. Before passing out on the opposite end of the bed, Tom ran his finger along Emma's jawline, for once able to enjoy how peaceful and beautiful she truly was.

  Chapter 21:

  Emma

  Emma was woken by the savage morning sun piercing through the curtains. Only a pounding headache and the stench of her own breath forced her to give in to the beginning of a new day. Plagued by forgotten memories of the night before, she realized someone was weighing down the other side of her bed. Reaching out to stretch, Emma's hand was forcefully untangled from another's.

  It slowly hit her: I'm not alone.

  Rolling onto her side, Emma saw Tom's peaceful, tranquil face, the sight of which propelled her from her comfy bed and down to the hard floor.

  "What the hell?!" she exclaimed, discovering she'd sat in a pile of broken glass.

  The jagged shards cut into her thigh and upper right arm. It hurts. It hurts so bad, Emma thought. Oh, the pain!

  As Emma shifted on the floor, the glass dug deeper into her flesh. The noises from her sudden shuffling caused the man in her bed to stir.

  Crawling to Emma's side of the bed, Tom looked down at her, and said, "Whatcha doing?"

  "I fell," she said, keeping her arms elevated. "Where'd all this damn glass come from?"

  "You don't remember?"

  "No, nothing from last night rings a bell."

  "Hold on, hold on. Don't move." Climbing from the bed, he asked, "What'd you go and throw yourself in a pile of glass for?"

  "Don't ask me that question. Don't. You. Dare."

  He helped Emma to her feet, and pulled her toward him. The tip of her nose grazed his well-sculpted pecs as he kept her balanced. She stood, won over, as he picked shards of glass from her backside.

  If they were actors cast in a cheesy romantic movie, this would be the part where all the girls in the theater did their signature ooohs and ahhhs. Emma would never admit it, but as Tom picked glass from her rear, she enjoyed every minute. Plucking away the remaining pieces from her pajama bottoms, he kept his free arm wrapped firmly around her waist. Tom's hands felt coarse and callused, which Emma believed was evidence of a true hardworking man.

  Once finished, Tom guided her to the edge of the bed and motioned for her to sit. Kneeling before her, he assessed the damage and confirmed that most of the marks were nothing but simple scratches.

  When Tom turned his attention to the pieces of glass protruding from Emma's flesh, he stated, "Brace yourself," and quickly snatched them from her skin.

  "Good night above!" she exclaimed, sending a shooting pain through her head. "Ouch!"

  The shards left a gash about half an inch long. As blood began spilling from her wounds, Tom looked perturbed.

  "Oh, I guess I should've waited till I had stitching supplies on hand."

  "You think so?"

  "Stay here. I mean it."

  Soon after his departure, Emma exhaled heavily, causing the funk radiating from her mouth to collide with her nostrils. Remembering she had some of her trusted wintergreen mouthwash left, Emma wandered from the spot where Tom had commanded her to stay put. Limping from her bedroom and past the closet, Emma waddled cautiously toward the bathroom. As she went, she could feel blood trickling down her arm. The sensation of the copper-smelling liquid coaxed her to quicken her pace.

  After reaching the bathroom, Emma poured the convenient green liquid into her mouth. After sloshing it around, she spat the bubbly substance in the sink, and stashed the evidence behind the useless toilet.

  By the time Emma made it back to her room, the trail of blood had reached her elbow. Sitting, she used the bottom of her shirt to wipe it up. Emma's room resembled that of a murder scene torn from the pages of a forensic file. With the the shards of glass scattered across the floor, and her bloody shirt, Emma knew she would have to clean up before the girls returned.

  Tom barged through the door, startling her. Setting the stitching supplies and bottle of peroxide beside her, Tom said, "I smell mint." He took a couple of quick whiffs. "Don't you smell it?"

  "No."

  "Oh well." He shrugged. "You ready?"

  It hurt. It hurt like hell. Emma tried remaining cool, calm, and collected, but soon her tough façade began wearing thin. Tom seemed to notice, and often paused during the stitching process to make sure she was okay, but all she could do was nod.

  Finished with her arm, it was time for her thigh. Inspecting the gash, Tom met Emma's suffering gaze, needle in hand.

  "Look, I know you're not as tough as you pretend to be. If you need to cry, cry. Just get it out."

  "I don't like to cry."

  "Try thinking of something else," he suggested. "What about that picture there?" He motioned toward Emma's wall, which was littered with pictures from her trip to Ireland.

  "Oh, that?"

  "Yes, that," he said, piercing her skin. "That's a mighty big castle."

  "That . . . that one"—she winced—"that's the Blarney Castle. Kissed the stone and everything. It was s'posed to give me the gift of gab . . . but I didn't feel any different."

  Tom took hold of her thigh, rendering Emma motionless, and asked, "Who'd you go with?" He blew on her wound.

  "Buncha ladies I didn't know," she replied, transfixed on his hands gripping her leg.

  "It'd be easier if . . . " Tom lowered the needle. "Would you like me to help you take your pants off? O
r would you rather me cut the material above the wound?"

  Taken aback, Emma leaned forward, and replied, "I'm sorry . . . Say what?"

  "Pants off?" He chuckled. "Or cut the material?"

  "Ohhh, so you did just say that. They're ruined anyway. Rip away," she awkwardly stated. "Rip away, sir."

  Seeming to feel as though they were in dire need of a subject change, he asked, "You like history?"

  "Yes. In fact, I'm more interested in the dead than the living. Scary, huh?"

  "I s'pose it's much like the way you like spending more time with animals than you do with people?" He laughed, then went on. "History surrounds this place. Always has. Just take a look at all them arrowheads and pottery your dad found out there. Shoot, take a look at your own discovery."

  "It's just I've been around that sort of history my whole life. I wanted more," she said. "Is it that obvious I don't like people?"

  "You're not hard to read. Everything you feel registers on your face. Like now, for instance," he said. He motioned toward Emma's flushed cheeks. "You're nervous."

  "Yeah, duh. You've got a needle in your hand."

  "No, that's not it," he said, tearing the fabric above her thigh. "You're nervous because I'm touching you."

  "You really think highly of yourself, don't you?"

  "Little bit."

  Soon Emma's right leg was bare, and before she could tear up, he was finished. Taking the washrag from his belt, Tom then dabbed softly at her wounds.

  "What about me?" he asked. "How do I make you feel?"

  "No way in particular."

  "How am I supposed to take that?"

  "I'd have to say it's not negative."

  "Coming from you, I'll take that as a compliment."

  "Did . . . did anything happen?"

  "No, nothing happened."

  As Tom said the words, Emma sensed he was disappointed, like he was wishing for something he felt would never come true. For both of their sakes, Emma dropped the subject.

  She broke the silence, and said, "Man, I'm never drinking again. I've got the worst headache."

  Tom didn't say a word. Instead, he took the damp washrag and rubbed the cool material over Emma's aching forehead. Every move he made seemed sensual. Made uncomfortable by the severity of her own hungry and lustful thoughts, Emma reached to grasp the rag, but he promptly shoved away her hand. As he did, it brought a distant but not completely forgotten dream to her mind.

  Noticing the bewildered look on Emma's face, he whispered, "You remember anything now?"

  Chapter 22:

  Emma

  The date of Emma's and Stella's departure was fast approaching. In their past couple of training sessions, Emma had found it necessary to push herself harder than Tom had liked to push himself. In the past he'd been used to shouting at her to speed up or hit harder, but not anymore.

  As they jogged down their trails, all Emma had to do was look at his face. One glance was enough to tell her Tom was concerned. The truth was, Emma couldn't find the time to worry herself with what he was thinking. All of her attention had to be focused on finding a way to say goodbye to the girls, and embarking on this journey on her own.

  Though Emma's departure wasn't a secret to them, the date was. Months ago, she had sat down, and told them, "Once I know, you'll know." She'd selfishly left it at that. The estimated seven days she planned to be gone didn't seem very long, but to three girls who'd lost everyone close to them, it seemed a lifetime. For the first time, Emma would be out of arm's reach. They would have to hear her say the word goodbye—a word Emma had prayed never to have to say.

  Emma and Tom ran until they arrived at the old four-wheeler crossing. The metal used to build the bridge was rusted and old, but it remained strong. Instead of sitting on the bridge, they sat at the edge of the creek and removed their shoes and socks before plunging their aching feet into the cool water.

  As Tom sloshed his feet through the water, he finally broke the silence.

  "How's ol' Doolie doing these days?" Before Emma could answer, he splashed her lightly in the face, and added, "He doing good?"

  "He isn't 'ol' Doolie.' He's just 'Doolie.'"

  "Okay, then. How's Doolie doing?"

  "All I really know is Mrs. Maples is a godsend, and Cooper's not too bad himself. You should be proud."

  "Of course I'm proud," he said. "But that's not what I asked you." He paused, bringing his hand to her chin. Leading Emma's gaze to meet his, Tom asked, "How's he doing, Emma?"

  It saddened Emma to talk about her father. Although he was making progress, she knew Doolie would never be the same. Watching him barely able to leave his bedroom without assistance brought overwhelming pain that hovered directly over her heart. He was stubborn, of course, in response to Mrs. Maples's methods, but reluctantly did as he was told. Oddly enough, Cooper's presence seemed to help Mrs. Maples plead her case. Doolie would only do what the doctor told him after the boy ordered him to do it a second time.

  "He's doing all right, I guess. It's just hard for me to talk about him. Daddy's always been the strong one," Emma said, gliding her fingers through the water. "It's hard to see him struggling. He's everything to me, and I . . . I can't help him."

  Finding herself overwhelmed by a sudden wave of uncontrollable emotion, Emma plunged herself into the creek before Tom had the chance to see her cry. Beneath the water, she clamped her eyes shut and screamed, wishing the tears would wash away with the current.

  Before Emma chose to resurface, Tom jumped in, and circled his strong arms around her chest before pulling her from the depths of the murky water. At first, Emma couldn't hear anything due to the water stopping up her ears. All she could see was the large, blurry image of Tom leaning over her, shouting. Shaking her head, Emma forced the liquid out. She immediately regretted it, as she was finally able to hear the curse words spewing from his mouth.

  "Shit! Emma! Emma!" Tom shouted, shaking her. "Damn it, Emma!" he yelled, helping her sit up. "What the hell was that about?"

  Of course, Emma tried playing it cool, and smoothly replied, "Oh, that? I . . . I just wanted to go for a little dip, is all." She smiled before erupting into a tremendously off-putting coughing spell.

  Patting her back, Tom pulled Emma close, and wrapped his arm around her shoulders. The back of her head rested against Tom's chest as he moved the wet hair that blocked her view. Placing his thumb at the bottom of Emma's chin, Tom raised it up.

  "You all right?" he asked.

  "Yeah . . . yeah," she said softly. "I'm good, yeah." Good now, she thought.

  "We're still gonna spar when we get back to the house," he said. "This little episode of yours doesn't change a thing."

  Cutting her eyes at him, Emma replied in exasperation, "I know. I know."

  ***

  With Tom in the lead, she was thankful for the nice view. It took them thirty minutes to reach the barrier, and as they reached the steps of her home, all of the willpower she'd held about finishing the day's training with boxing had evaporated. She knew Tom would most likely object to her skipping another day, but asking for another day off was sitting on the tip of her tongue. Knowing he would reject her request, Emma began to beg for the day off when Jane, Lizzie, and Claire came walking through the front door. Emma knew the girls enjoyed watching her progress.

  The three of them sat on the couch, giving Tom a hearty wave. With his quirky smile, he waved back, while Emma imagined his hands lingering on her hips and his full lips only inches from her neck. She even found the sweat drizzling down the back of his heated neck appetizing.

  The way Tom treated those closest to Emma had coerced her into falling for him harder, making her decision to leave without confiding in him more difficult.

  As Emma's mind continued to roam, Tom finished conversing with the girls and fetched Emma's softball gloves before wrapping her knuckles. With absolute dread, Emma watched him don the mitts and position himself to take her blows, which were strengthening day by day.
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  All Emma could think was, Oh, boxing, how I wish you weren't a thing. Why can't we all just get along?

  Unfortunately, when Emma lacked the motivation to finish a task, it was plastered across her freckled face. Tom slowly but surely noticed Emma's don't-want-to attitude, and he stood up straight. Thrusting the mitts in the air, he shrugged his shoulders, seeming to demand an acceptable explanation.

  "I just . . . really, really don't want to do this today."

  "So, what? You asking for another day off?"

  Emma could sense the girls' eyes burning into the back of her skull. Letting them down was the last thing she wanted to do. But sometimes a day off was necessary.

  "Yes, that's exactly what I'm asking."

  Tom's response ("Hell no") was expected, but Emma's reaction was not. By the time she was finished, Tom lay flat on his back. Blood spurted from his nose. The situation worsened as Tom brought his hands to his face, not realizing he still wore the mitts. The impact of the leather pounding against his nose caused even more blood to gush out. Emma snatched the gloves from Tom's hands and watched in horror as the blood continued to seep down his shirt.

  Rolling off of him, Emma promptly assessed the damage.

  "Jane, fetch me a towel from the bathroom!" she shouted, holding the bottom of her oversize shirt up to his face. "Go!"

  Due to Emma's sudden, violent spout of rage, all three of the sisters' mouths were gaping open. Though seemingly startled by her request, Jane immediately fetched what Emma asked for. Handing Emma the towel, Jane looked at Tom, and asked, "Is he going to be okay?"

  "Sure he is, darling." Emma paused, doubting herself. "You three fetch Mrs. Maples."

  As the door slammed shut behind them, Tom shook his head. Horrified, Emma realized she had not only plugged his bleeding nose, but his mouth as well. She was suffocating him. She felt nothing but pure guilt. She was buried up to her nose in it. Removing the towel, she allowed Tom to breathe once more, and the look he gave suggested he felt betrayed.