by Jewel E. Ann
I take the joint and toss it in the coffee mug on the floor next to her bed. There’s also a box of sugar cookies, a bag of chips, and a bowl of pistachios on the floor. She plops back on the bed and closes her eyes.
“You must be feeling pretty smug, Mr. Konrad.” She giggles. “You nailed it. I’m a pothead. Maggie was right … don’t knock it until you’ve tried it.”
“Let’s go.” I lift her off the bed, cradled in my arms.
“Put me down! I’m not going with you!” Her attempts to kick and flail are weak and pathetic.
I wasn’t planning on going the caveman route, but then again, I wasn’t planning on her being high either.
“Alex!” she yells as I carry her to the door.
Alex hops off the couch and comes at me.
“Back the hell off!” I glare at her.
She gasps as if no one has ever put her in her place before, then she does something I’m not expecting. She opens the front door and grins.
“Take care of her.”
I pause only for a moment then nod as I take a now passed-out Vivian to my place.
She needs a shower and her teeth brushed to rid the smell of marijuana from her body, but right now I don’t care. I lay her on the bed and remove all of our clothes. A single thread is too much separation when I have such an intense craving to feel the touch of her skin against mine. I wrap my body around hers and let myself drift off to sleep in peace, a peace that will evaporate in the morning. Tonight, however, I just need this … I need us.
*
Vivian
I’m rethinking the weed idea. Foggy head, pulsing brain, and it must be one hundred degrees in here. Here? Where am I? What time is it? Why can’t I move?
The heavy feeling on my chest lifts as I remove the arm draped over me. I’m naked and so is Oliver. Great. I know we didn’t have sex; that I would remember. Pervert!
Easing off the bed, being careful not to wake him, I look for my clothes. After getting dressed, I tiptoe downstairs. It’s four-thirty in the morning so I’m going to leave before the sun, and Oliver, rise. Apparently we need to talk, but not naked in his bed. I look for my shoes but don’t see them. Reaching for the doorknob, I notice a pile of mail on the entry table. What catches my eye is the return address on the corner of an envelope sticking out from the middle of the pile. It’s from a hospital in Portland. The fine print below the name reads: Mental Health and Chemical Dependency Care.
Walk away!
I can’t. My curiosity has morphed into a monstrous need to know about Oliver’s past. I rip open the envelope. The cover letter explains the enclosed information is an emergency contact update for a Caroline Konrad.
Mark the “No Changes” box, sign and date if all the information is still correct.
The next page has Oliver’s name, address, e-mail, phone number, and relationship to patient.
Husband.
Bile races up my throat leaving a wake of acidic burn, and my heart pounds with anger as my blood runs toxic. Somewhere in my heart or soul I have to be crushed beyond words, but right now my mind is a volcanic eruption of anger and unfathomable rage. I think I could kill him.
Taking the stairs two at a time, I’m in his room within seconds … and then it begins.
“You have a fucking WIFE!” I think he startles awake, but I can’t tell for sure because all I see is red. One picture frame, then another thrown in his direction. A bookend, a vase, his shoes, a clock, all shattering and banging against the wall, his headboard, and even him.
“Vivian!” He stumbles around trying to find his balance in the midst of the debris coming at him.
I yank one dresser drawer out and heave it in his direction, then the next, and yet another until clothes are scattered everywhere and he’s charging at me.
“No!” I yell, grabbing the back of the empty dresser and tipping it forward to block his approach. I run into the hall ripping framed art and pictures off the wall, leaving a wake of broken glass behind me. Down the stairs I run into the kitchen flinging open cupboard doors.
“Bastard!” I repeatedly throw glasses, plates, cans, and jars in his direction. “You’re a fucking liar! How could you?”
“Vivian! STOP!” The roar of his voice can’t compete with the hurricane of deafening emotions in my head.
Shot glasses. Whisky bottles. Coffee mugs.
Clank! Bang! Crash!
I’m running out of ammunition, then I glance up and see the pots and pans hanging from the suspension rack. Climbing onto the island, I grab two at a time from their hooks and hurl them at Oliver. Sometimes I hear the crash of my miss, other times I hear a thwack and a few expletives when my aim is perfect. After the last pan has been launched, I see a bloodied Oliver lumbering toward me. I look behind but there’s no escape, so I leap with every last bit of energy I can muster and take him to the ground.
Thud!
Darkness.
*
Beep … beep … beep …
A flash of light and distant echoing bring me out of my sleep. I can’t remember where I fell asleep. Alex’s? Oliver’s? Maybe I smoked too much pot again. God, I really am turning into a pothead.
“Flower?”
“Ouch!” I squint trying to open my eyes, but the pain in my head feels like it’s paralyzing my whole body.
Alex flickers into focus. “What happened?”
“You … fell and other things.” She grimaces.
“Fell?”
“Well, sort of jumped or leaped … from Oliver’s counter. You have a concussion, and stitches in several places along with numerous cuts from the glass they had to remove from various parts of your body, especially your feet.”
The pain in my head and now everywhere else multiplies one hundredfold as the flood of memories rushes back. Oliver is married.
“The doctor said you can go home this morning. All of your injuries are minor. There’s just a lot of them, so you’re going to have trouble getting around for the next week or so. You must have been pretty pissed and running on pure rage to not realize you had so many shards of glass impaled in your feet.”
“He’s married.” My voice sounds like the words are ripping through my throat. The anger has taken a backseat to the emotional pain and … Oh. My. God. It hurts so bad. My vision clouds as the tears overflow down my face.
“Oh, Flower. I’m so sorry.” Alex holds my hand with a gentle touch and as I try to squeeze hers, I feel the pull of bandages against my skin.
What have I done to myself?
“For what it’s worth, he doesn’t look any better than you do, except he doesn’t have a concussion. He sat with you all night, against my better judgment, but I made him leave this morning before you woke. I think he and his family are in the waiting room.”
Another sob escapes and Alex blots my face with a tissue. “I don’t want to see them … any of them, ever again.”
“Do you want me to call your parents?”
“No! They … they wouldn’t understand. I haven’t told them about Oliver.”
“Okay, well, Sean will be back soon. I sent him to get you some clothes that weren’t covered in blood.”
“Good morning, Vivian.”
I sniffle and look up.
“I’m Dr. Bennett. I just talked with Dr. Konrad and he said you’re a close friend of their family so I came in early to get you checked out and hopefully back home soon so you can rest and heal.” He swipes his finger across his iPad then hands it to the nurse and starts examining me.
“We’re not friends.”
Dr. Bennett shines a bright light into my right eye. “No? Hmm, sorry I must have misunderstood.”
He blinds, pokes, and prods me then messes with his iPad again. “Well you’re going to be fine. If you need something for the pain, Tylenol or Advil should work.”
I nod. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure. Get some rest.”
Just as Dr. Bennett and the nurse exit the room, Sean comes
in with a bag. “Hey, Viv. I brought you some clothes. Oliver gave me the key to his place. He’s out in the waiting room and wants to see you.”
Alex helps me sit up to the side with my feet dangling off the bed. “Can you give him a message for me?”
“Sure,” Sean replies.
“Tell him to fuck off.”
Sean looks at Alex then back at me.
“You heard her … go.” Alex motions with her head.
“Can we have a moment?” All three of us look to the door where Oliver stands. He has a black eye, fat lip, and stitches on his chin.
Good!
“Never mind, Sean, I’ll tell him myself. Fuck off, Oliver!”
“Just five minutes. Please.” He steps inside the room.
Alex rests her hand on my knee. “Just give him his five and then I’ll take you home. Okay?”
I hesitate. I don’t want to see him, and I sure as hell don’t want to talk to him, but I want to go home so I nod once, staring down at my feet.
“We’ll be right outside.”
Oliver shuts the door behind them and comes closer to me. I see his brown Sanuk shoes and bare legs, but I don’t look up.
“Vivian—”
“I hate you,” I whisper.
“I know.”
“Four minutes left.”
He squats down resting his hands on either side of me so I’m forced to look at him. “I’m so very sor—”
“Three and a half minutes.” I grit through my teeth.
He sighs. “Caroline is legally still my wife. She’s suffering from … severe depression and she’s suicidal. I filed for divorce over a year ago, but given her mental state, a quick divorce is not an option. I love you. I want to be with you and I was going to tell you—”
I laugh. “You were going to tell me? When? Before you took my virginity? Before you let me fall in love with you? Before you asked me to move in with you? WHEN, OLIVER?” The emotional pain wars with the physical pain, and the anger I’m feeling is intensifying both. I’m exhausted. I feel empty, except for the tears. Damn the tears … the endless river of tears.
He rests his cheek on my bare leg and I feel the surrender of his touch against my skin. It’s a cruel reality when the touch that healed me becomes the flame that burns me.
“Time’s up,” I whisper then sniffle as I fight to breathe.
With a slow turn of his head, he brushes his stubbly face against my legs then presses his lips to my skin. I squeeze my eyes shut wringing out more tears, trying to hold my breath, but the emotions are too powerful. Instead, my body shudders as soft painful whimpers escape against my will.
“Bye, my love.”
I feel him leave, but I can’t open my eyes. I’m blinded by tears, blinded by emotions … I was blinded by love.
Chapter Twenty
Mending
There’s not a cell in my body that isn’t screaming with pain, of course none more than those of my heart. I’ve been home from the hospital two days and today is the first day Alex has left me to run some errands. The tender wounds on my feet have me hobbling like a toddler, and the pain is off the charts, although I don’t let on to anyone else. I don’t like that type of attention … never have.
Maggie has banned me from working for the next week, minimum, and money is going to get tight, but I haven’t told her or anyone else. I also need to get my stuff moved out of Oliver’s place, and although Alex and Sean have offered to do it for me, I’ve refused. Pride is a real bitch.
Oliver should be at work so I decide to go retrieve my stuff. It takes me fifteen minutes to make it from my door to his, counting rests on the stairs and both curbs. The last few steps to his front door bust open several cuts on my feet, so I drop to my knees. Now would be a good time to accept defeat, retreat, and ask for help. That’s what a normal person would do in this situation. I’ve never been normal.
My roller derby kneepads would come in handy right now, but they’re back in Hartford at my parents’ house. Still, my hands and knees have fewer cuts than my miserable feet, so I opt to crawl my way through this mission. After unlocking his door, I slide the key back in my pocket and crawl into his house. Thankfully, he’s cleaned up after my rampage so I don’t have to navigate through a war zone to gather my stuff.
“Ugh!” I moan as I crawl to the stairs. Resting my head on the bottom step, I take a few deep breaths before proceeding up the stairs like an injured dog. I collapse at the top, sucking in as much air as I can, sweat beading on my brow. I didn’t expect this to feel like a marathon, but it does.
An hour later, I have all my stuff shoved into three big bags, 2 of which are Oliver’s. My whole body throbs and I’m pretty sure blood is oozing from several of my deeper cuts. I scoot the bags down the hall, nudging them with my head then sending them over the edge of the top step, tumbling to the first floor. My hands hurt, my feet hurt, my knees hurt, and yet I need to navigate down the stairs. Maneuvering to my butt, I stick my feet out in front of me and slide down the stairs.
“Ouch! Shit! Oh! FUCK!”
THUD!
It’s time to waive the white flag. I can’t do this. My phone is at Alex’s, but maybe she’ll come looking for me when she gets home. I grab the wood banister and pull myself up to a sit on the bottom step. Releasing a big sigh, I open my eyes.
Oliver.
He’s sitting on his couch with his legs propped up on the coffee table and his arms crossed over his chest.
“Hello,” he says in monotone voice.
“How long have you been here?”
“Awhile,” he replies.
“Longer than me?”
He nods.
“Did you see me come in?”
He nods and I flush with humiliation, if that’s even possible at this point.
“I … uh … was just getting my stuff.”
“I see that.” He still doesn’t move. “Would you like some help?”
“I’ve got it.”
He nods.
I can’t stop staring at him. He looks worse than he did after the spanking incident. Cuts and bruises scattered all over his face.
“You not working today?”
He shakes his head.
“Me neither.”
He nods.
I can’t believe how awkward this feels. He lied to me and I’m royally pissed at him, yet his reserved demeanor actually makes me feel sorry for him. How does he always make me feel like I’m the one who needs to apologize for something?
“Well … I’ll just be … going now.”
He nods.
Stop with all the nodding!
I’m the martyr like in one of those war movies, the ones where the soldier with a severed arm and shrapnel in his legs and torso manages to drag himself and three other men off the battlefield to the safety of a bunker. I stand and try to mask my grimace by looking down. I probably couldn’t carry all three bags in a healthy state, so why I think I can do it now when carrying my own body weight is excruciating in itself, is beyond me. I bend and grasp the strap to one bag and lift it to my shoulder. The weight of it tears at the cuts on my hand. I suck in a breath between clenched teeth.
“Sure you don’t want some help?”
“I … I’ve got … it.”
I grab the second bag and the pain has me seeing white. My eyes water from the exertion. Okay, I’m crying … but oh my God it hurts! I take a shaky step toward the third bag and a sob escapes. I cough, trying to mask the sounds of my agony.
The weight on my shoulder is lifted. I look up. Oliver has my bags. He sets them back on the ground then scoops me up in his arms while shaking his head. “You’re one stubborn woman.”
“What are you doing?” I try to wriggle out of his arms as he carries me upstairs.
“You’re getting blood on my floor.”
I wrap my arms around his neck and rest my cheek against his chest because honestly … I’m too exhausted to protest. I hear his own muffled grunts with each
step, and it just now occurs to me that he too probably has wounds on his feet.
He sets me on his bed without making eye contact and limps into the bathroom. I plop back and close my eyes, praying for the pain to subside. The bed dips as he sits on the edge and grabs my foot. In slow motion he unwraps the gauze bandaging. I hiss in a breath as he touches one of my cuts.
“It’s just a salve, it shouldn’t hurt.”
“Everything hurts,” I reply with a grimace while draping my arm over my face to hide my wimpy tears. I’m drowning in humiliation. Once again … why should I feel this way?
After treating and rewrapping both of my feet, he leans back next to me and rests his hands on his chest with his fingers interlaced. Being with him and yet not really with him is like dying a slow death. His presence in my life has felt as natural as the breath in my lungs. Losing him feels like losing the part of myself that has made me feel alive. What’s left when the part of yourself that feels everything is gone?
Oliver is not mine; he never really was. The circumstances don’t matter. There’s a woman at a hospital in Portland who bears his name. Caroline Konrad. Why are you there and what happened to you and Oliver?
*
Oliver
It’s unfathomable to think I don’t have the right to love someone. However, the morning I woke to the shrill scream of Vivian’s voice saying the one word I hadn’t been able to say, wife, I knew I didn’t deserve to love her. There’s just one problem. Loving her is not a choice. It’s automatic like the beat of my heart, the breath in my lungs, and the earth giving way to the sun every morning.
My emotions for Vivian cannot be defined by words which makes explaining my actions impossible. It’s absurd to think that the perfect touch or right look will say it for me, but I have to try. I rest my hand on the bed between us and our pinky fingers touch.
She doesn’t move.
I inch my fingers over the top of her hand until mine rests on hers.
She doesn’t move.
That’s it. One touch, albeit so small, feels like everything. She didn’t move her hand, she’s allowing my touch, my words, like she hears me.
