Undertow

by Alessandra Torre

  The door swings open and a nurse scurries in, clipboard in hand. “You’re awake!” she says with a beam. She picks up a remote and presses it into my palm. “This is painkiller. Just press this button if the discomfort gets too strong. I’m adding a bit into your IV, so I wouldn’t be surprised if you fall back asleep pretty soon.”

  I nod, and place the remote on my stomach, my gaze finding Paul’s. He gives me a worried smile and turns to the nurse. “How do her vitals look?”

  “Good. We’re moving in the right direction, and we’ll monitor her closely tonight.” She pats my arm, and I attempt a smile, the pain already less.

  “How long was I out?” Each word hurts, the expelled air scraping out of my raw throat.

  She glances at my chart. “About twelve hours.”

  Twelve hours. Cities burn to the ground in less time than that. I wait for her to leave and watch as Paul carefully sits on the edge of my bed. The door clicks behind her, and I wet my lips.

  “What happened with Stewart?” I have to know.

  “He had work to do.” He glances at my face. “He’ll probably be back tomorrow.”

  Probably. I can see the pain in his eyes, and it suddenly strikes me that I’ve never seen him this way. He’s worried.

  He moves aside the blanket, exposing my hand, and squeezes it. Helplessness consumes me. I need to get out of this bed. I want to comfort him, to push that darkness from his eyes. I want to find Stewart, to make him look me in my eyes and ask him what he is thinking. I kick my feet out and a fissure of pain rockets through my skull. I gasp, spots dotting across my vision, and carefully settle back against the pillow.

  “What’s wrong? Do you need the nurse?” He leans over me, his grip tight on my hand, and I manage to shake my head.

  I envision Stewart, his head turning to me, our gazes meeting. “Tell me what you are thinking!” I would shout. But I’d be disappointed in the answer. I close my eyes and my vision of him spins, his mouth moving, quoting figures and emails, contracts and legal mumbo jumbo that I don’t understand. He lifts his phone to his ear and I watch as his hands fly over the keys.

  “Madd, are you okay?”

  I wet my tongue. “Fine.” I find the remote with my free hand and jab at the button. “Tired.”

  He presses a kiss to my cheek and falls silent. I pinch my eyes shut against the tears.

  I wake once to voices, arguing softly. Paul and a nurse. The second time I wake, the room is dark, the faded outline of Paul in a recliner, a white blanket stretched over his large frame, the size too small to cover his feet. I let my eyes adjust to the room, the pain present enough for me to reach for the remote, press the button on its front.

  I am grateful for the silence. For the ability to think without being observed.

  I’ve lived in this fairytale for so long, it is hard to imagine an alternative. But this feels like the time. The time to pick a path and move forward. I look at the man asleep next to me. It is no surprise that he’s here, that he won the battle against the nurse to sleep beside me. He’s always been here for me. He’s my rock, no matter what kind of crazy quasi-relationship we’ve had for the last two years.

  I let out a painful breath and think of Stewart. Also, not a surprise that he is absent. Our entire relationship has been squeezed in between stretches of absence. His passion for work is one of the things I love about him, but it has always been a competing piece—the fourth person in this triangle. And I’ve always known where I stood in that order—behind that passion, peering over its shoulder and waving my hands for attention.

  At this juncture, the decision should be easy. Paul is right here, just waiting for a shot at my entire heart. He’s been waiting for it ever since that day under the pier. I was just too distracted by Stewart, too emotionally tied to him, to see Paul in the role he should have been in.

  It should be easy, but it’s not. The decision hurts, yet I know that it’s the right one.

  I reach out for him, then clear my throat, coughing slightly, and Paul instantly moves, his hand swinging out and hitting the wall. He trips over the foot of the recliner and stands, his body tense, listening in the darkness. I softly say his name, and he comes forward, gently reaching out until his hands find my bed.

  “Are you okay, Madd? Do you need the nurse?”

  “I’m fine,” I whisper. “I just… Paul. I just wanted to say that I love you.”

  He pauses, stiffening. “I love you too, baby,” he says gruffly, kneeling beside my bed and holding my hand. “God, I love you so much.”

  “Forever and always,” I whisper.

  He surprises me by crawling into the bed, the narrow width barely able to accommodate us both. He moves cords and lines with heartbreaking tenderness, turning me carefully on my side and wrapping his arm around me. I relax, my lids heavy. At this moment in time, there is not a more perfect place I could imagine. Not another man on Earth who I want holding me.

  “Forever and always,” Paul whispers.

  I close my eyes and push back a stab of guilt.

  54

  DANA

  I wake two hours early, rolling out of bed with a purpose. It is the first day in almost a decade that I have my boys back. Thanks, in no small part, to Madison. The same Madison who I, in a brief moment of creativity, dart-boarded last week after too many margaritas. But that was before. Before she almost died, and Stewart called me, and I got to hug Paul and look into both of their eyes. Before I found out that she wasn’t running their hearts through a shredder for her personal enjoyment. I almost, just a teeny bit, feel some affection for the woman.

  I dress for work, putting on a red suit and black sling-backs, and pull my hair into a low bun. Leaving my contacts in their case, I stick with glasses and minimal makeup, jogging out the door at 5:45 AM with two bananas and an apple in my purse and a giant mug of coffee in my hand.

  Sixteen minutes later, I step through the hospital doors and smile brightly at the receptionist. Three minutes later, I’m escorted to her room.

  “She will still be asleep,” the silver-haired woman explained in a hushed voice. “But you can sit in there until she wakes up. Her notes say she was coherent and speaking late last night.”

  Late last night. That would have been after Stewart left, his phone already to his ear. Hopefully, Paul was here. By the look on his face, he had had no intentions of going anywhere. I gently press on the door and tiptoe inside.

  My heart swoons when I see them. A tall frame hugging her small body, both of them crammed into a narrow space that should be uncomfortable but looks perfect. His head is nestled in her hair, his arm across her body. Her eyes are closed, a small smile on her face, her feet tucked in between his legs. I hesitate in the doorway, then step backward, pulling the door gently closed.

  I make my way back to the receptionist area and veer right, following the path to the cafeteria, and pull my cell from my pocket as I walk. I dial Stewart.

  “Hey.”

  “Hey. I’m at the hospital. Just wanted to check and see if you were coming by.”

  He sighs, heavy into the phone. “I can’t now. I have…” There is the rustle of papers, and I hear him speaking to someone else. Then he is back. “Is she stable?”

  “Yes.” I can’t stop the smile from entering my voice. “The nurse said she had a good night. They haven’t woken her yet this morning.”

  He exhales loudly into the receiver. “That’s so great, Dana. That… God, I can’t describe how that makes me feel. Have you told Paul?”

  “He stayed the night.” I wait to see his reaction, and there’s a long stretch of silence before he speaks.

  “That’s good. I’m glad someone was there when she woke up. Do you know if she asked for me?”

  “I don’t know. But today, she’ll need to know the connection between you two. She won’t understand otherwise.”

  His voice is suddenly abrupt. “I know. Just handle it however you think best. Let her know, if she asks, that I
love her.”

  “You love her.” I wait a moment. “That’s it?”

  “That’s all I can do,” he says quietly. “She’ll understand. It’s one of the things I love about her.”

  He ends the call, and his statements echo in my head. I love her. One of the things I love about her. The silly grin, one I’d been wearing since I walked in and saw Paul cuddling with her, drops.

  I sit in an uneven chair and eat rubbery eggs, staring at the Los Angeles Times and trying to think. I woke up delusional, thinking this would all turn out easy. I’d envisioned a scenario where Stewart would walk away without looking back and leave Paul to his happiness. I didn’t factor in the fact that he still loves her, that emotions don’t have an off switch.

  God, I knew that better than anyone. I still pine for my ex-husband, who’s happy as a pig in shit with his new wife. Who was I to think that Stewart could, with one simple chitchat with me, wash his hands of any emotion?

  I take a sip of coffee and watch the clock tick. I need to get to work. It’s tax time, with a deadline approaching that can’t be missed. But I don’t know my younger brother well enough to trust that he’ll handle this correctly. Hell, I don’t even know how to handle it correctly.

  It’s one giant ball of screwed up. Paul is ecstatic at the fact that she’s alive. Joyous at the fact that he might have her all to himself. Stewart is brooding in his office of solitude, still tossing out emotions like shedding skin, the fresh new skin just as love-affected as what is falling off. I’m being greedy, like an underfed vulture, swooping down, excited about the carnage and what it could mean for me.

  And the woman who it all centers around—she’s the biggest unknown. How does she feel? Who does she want? Stewart has stepped away, but what if she chases him? What is she chooses him? Paul… I can’t imagine what that would do to him.

  I push back from the table and carry my tray to the trash, accidentally dumping my fork in. I watch as the metal utensil slides down into a mountain of yuck. I debate reaching for it, then glance around casually. No one is looking and I stack the tray on top and heft my purse over my shoulder, heading back to her room.

  I turn a corner and almost run into Paul, his hair messy, a white V-neck paired with bright yellow board shorts. An apology tumbles out, then stops. A smile breaks over his face when he realizes that it’s me. God, I’ve missed his smile, that dimple in his cheek, his carefree eyes, the sparkle in them when he is happy.

  “Hey sis.” He wraps his arms around me, squashing my purse to my chest in one tight embrace. “Did you hear? She’s awake.” He releases me, stepping back. “She’s back—just like before. No damage.”

  I smile at him. “I heard. The nurse told me. I was just coming to you now.”

  “The nurse is cleaning her up now—but I know she’ll want to meet you. Can you stick around for a bit?”

  I hesitate, hating to dampen his smile. “You need to tell her about you and Stewart.”

  He scowls, and the look instantly takes me back in time. Him, six years old, mad over a broken toy. Him, eleven years old, pouting when I refused to let him surf in a storm. “Stewart’s gone. Why does it matter?”

  “Stewart will never be gone, Paul. He’s your brother. She needs to know that—needs to have all the facts so that she can understand the situation and make the right decision.”

  “Decision?” Panic flares in his eyes. “You told me yesterday Stewart was stepping back. Letting her go. She loves me.”

  “You can’t start a relationship with a secret. Let me talk to her. Explain everything. Allow her to come to grips with it.”

  He leaned against the wall and crosses his arms, his features tight. “I don’t want to lose her, D.”

  I nod. “I know.”

  “She’ll choose me.” He nods, and I can see him trying to convince himself of the fact. Glancing at me, he raised one brow. “Right?”

  I meet his uncertain gaze. “I don’t know her, Paul. But I know Stewart isn’t at a place in his life where he can fully commit to a relationship. And I’m sure she knows that.”

  His face darkened. “I don’t want her to choose me because she can’t have him. I want her to choose me because I’m who she wants. I want…” he ran his hands roughly through his hair. “Fuck. I want her to be happy.”

  I move closer and squeeze his arm. “Let me talk to her. The brother thing is going to be a lot for her to take. Go get some breakfast and give us some time.”

  He doesn’t move, staring straight ahead, and I leave him there, my heels clicking along the linoleum floor, my mind sorting through how to break this news to a stranger.

  55

  MADISON

  The nurse pats my arm with a smile, her brown eyes warm and friendly. “I’ll be back in an hour to check on you. Press the button if you feel any pain.”

  “When can I go home?” My throat is still on fire, and the words come out scratchy and raw.

  She wrinkles her brow. “It’ll be a few days, but the doctor can give you a better timeline than me.”

  “I feel fine now.” It’s a lie. My head’s killing me, I feel bouts of nausea, and every breath feels like I’m rubbing sandpaper down my throat, but I’m anxious to leave. I’ve only been conscious for an hour, and I’m already sick of this place. I want my bed, the sound of waves, and the smell of salt air. I want Paul’s arms around me, his kisses against my skin, a warm mug of his lemon tea.

  “We still need to monitor you for a while. You’ve pulled out strong, but with the brain, nothing is certain.” She smiles to soften her words and grabs my chart, maneuvering around someone as she exits. I look up, expecting Paul, and am surprised by the tall woman who enters, dressed in a red suit, her outfit out of place in this world of white. She moves confidently into the room, her eyes on mine, and extends an arm, my own raising out of habit. As I shake her hand, I wonder who she is. An insurance rep? Hospital administrator? Her face is familiar, and I study it, trying to place where I have seen her.

  “I apologize for coming in so early, but I wanted to introduce myself. My name is Dana. I’m Paul’s sister.”

  I blink at her in surprise, my hand falling limply to the bed as she releases it. I struggle to play a frantic game of catch-up. Sister?

  I swallow painfully, my mind piecing together the little that Paul has shared about his past. “Sister? I thought that…”

  She grimaces, her expression pained. “You’re thinking of Jennifer. She passed away when Paul was a teenager.”

  “A car accident.”

  “Yes. I’m his older sister. I was at college when that happened. Paul probably hasn’t mentioned me—he cut all contact with the family when she died.”

  I nod, a faint recollection of a second sister entering my head. Paul has always been so dismissive in discussing his family, the still-raw pain of his sister’s death causing some degree of anger, his reason for the separation from his family not given. It’s the one area of his life we don’t discuss, the topic turning my cheerful love into a brooding, depressed man. Early in our relationship, I pushed the issue, thinking he needed to talk about it. But it put him in such a dark place that, ever since then, I’ve avoided the subject.

  “Is Paul aware that you’re here?” I ask carefully, trying to understand her presence.

  “Yes, I was here last night.” She smiles. “We’ve reconnected, something I am grateful to you for.” Her face pales, and she covers her mouth. “That sounds horrible—I didn’t mean—”

  I wave her off with a weak smile. “I understood what you meant. I’m glad that you are on good terms again. Family is important.”

  Her face stills, and she squares her shoulders. “Yes. And that is why I needed to speak to you.”

  I tense at the look on her face. Something is coming, from a stranger whose name Paul hasn’t even mentioned in the last two years. I suddenly wish I’d pressed him harder over the reason for their strife.

  She doesn’t mince words or cushion the sit
uation. “I am the oldest of three. Paul is my youngest brother. Stewart—your Stewart—is my other brother. Paul and Stewart are brothers, but have been estranged for almost a decade.”

  I study her eyes, noting that they are brown and not the brilliant blue of my boys. My brain, still sluggish, wonders where the brown came from, if it was the paternal or maternal gene that produced that color. Would my babies with Paul have icy blue or chocolate brown eyes? Her gaze sharpens and I realize she’s waiting for something. A reaction. I flip back through her words, piecing the sentences together, the structure unnecessarily complicated, the final words sharpening into focus, my brain comprehending the situation in one, delayed moment. Brothers.

  I control my features and struggle to choose the proper response, whatever it is that this woman wants me to say. I find none.

  I’m in love with brothers. My unwinnable situation is more fucked up than original perception led you to believe. I still love them just as much, my attraction almost more understandable now that the reasons for their similarities are known. I swallow, and try to speak, try to say something that this woman will respect.

  “What do you suggest I do?”

  It isn’t the reaction she expects and she flinches in surprise. “Me? I’m not involved in your relationships. I just wanted you to know the reason that Stewart—”

  “… is leaving me.” I finish the sentence for her. Lying back on the bed, I look up at the ceiling. It’s not a surprise. Circumstances dictated him to choose between a full-time relationship and a full-time commitment to work, and work won. It’s his obsession, his passion. I was his release, his outlet. I know he loves me. I never doubted that fact. And I was okay being second, because I had Paul. Paul, who has never placed anything before me. Paul, who would put down his surfboard in a moment if I asked him. And I briefly consider that Paul played a role in Stewart’s decision to walk away. Had I lost him purely to his work? Or had his family also been a factor?