by DeLuca, Gia
“Always,” I said.
Mia grabbed the necklaces and scooted closer to me, securing each one around my neck. “Better?”
I nodded.
“Get some rest, will ya?” She floated to the big windows, drawing the blinds one at a time and darkening the loft. She returned to my side, running her hand across my cheek the way a mother would comfort a child. “He’ll be back soon.”
***
I’d slept for hours, and I only knew that because when Jamison left it was broad daylight, and when I awoke to the sound of his voice it was pitch dark out. Disoriented, I leaned up in my bed. Across the room, Jamison and Mia whispered about me, softly discussing how the day went and what time she’d be there the next morning.
“I’m awake, you guys,” I said, startling them both as they whipped their heads toward me. Jamison rushed to my side as if he’d been counting down the hours all day.
“How’re you feeling?” he asked, clicking on the bedside lamp.
“I’m feeling fine, Doctor,” I teased. “Better, now that you’re here.”
“I’m leaving,” Mia called out from across the room. “I’ll be here first thing tomorrow morning.”
“You hungry?” Jamison asked. “I brought you some soup. Good stuff from Chowder House.”
My stomach rumbled. I hadn’t eaten since that horrid hospital breakfast I’d tried to choke down before being discharged that morning.
“I’m also having groceries delivered,” he said. “Your cupboards are bare, Mother Hubbard. I’m restocking them for you.”
“You don’t even know what I like,” I said.
“Doesn’t matter. You’ll eat what I tell you to.”
“I always knew you had a bossy streak in you,” I teased. “They say the quietest ones have the most dangerous minds.”
“Produce. Soups. Liquids,” he said. “You need nutrition, Sophie. You’re going to feel as good as new soon.”
“I hope so,” I said, reaching my finger out and trailing the buttons of the coat he’d yet to take off. I bit my lip, thinking about how good he had felt inside me. “I can’t wait to get my hands on you again.”
“The feeling’s mutual.” His hooded eyes flashed, catching the glint of the half-moon that dimly lit the night sky. He slipped his shoes off and took a seat on the edge of my bed. “I’m staying the night with you all week until you’re fully recovered.”
The corners of my mouth turned upwards. “A girl could get used to that sort of thing, you know.”
A knock on the door brought the grocery delivery Jamison had ordered, and I watched from the warmth of my bed as he stocked my refrigerator and cupboards with all sorts of healthy items. Through slitted, tired eyes I saw him close the fridge door and pause as he studied a handful of pictures held to the doors by magnets. My sisters.
“Who are these girls?” he asked from across the room. “They kind of look like you.”
He headed over to my bed, soup and spoon in hand and helped me sit up, fixing the pillows behind me with his free hand.
My lips parted to speak, but their names got caught in my throat.
“You have sisters?” he asked, taking a seat next to me and handing me the bowl.
I nodded. “I did.”
The weight of his stare paralyzed me.
“I suppose we really don’t know each other as well as we’d like to believe.” He cleared his throat, still studying my face as the soup bowl burned hot in my hand.
My grief was a scab I picked at; sometimes I let it heal and other times I ripped it fresh, as if I didn’t deserve to move on yet. Nori and Rossi’s lifeless bodies rested in the cold ground while I was out living. It wasn’t fair.
Little trembles took over my body from head to toe, and I clenched my jaw as if that would make the shaking less noticeable. I didn’t talk about The Incident. I didn’t talk about them. Those memories lived on in the deepest part of me, coursing through my veins like a disease with no cure.
Jamison grabbed the scorching soup bowl from my hand and placed it on the nightstand, inching closer. “You’re shaking. You cold?”
I shook my head.
Memories of them bubbled up to the surface, and when I looked into his understanding eyes, I wanted to tell him everything. I wanted to release a hundred sleepless nights and a thousand endless tears right into his sympathetic gaze. I wanted to tuck myself into a ball and curl up in his tender embrace.
I wanted to tell him I wasn’t always so carefree and bubbly. I had demons just like everyone else.
“My brother died last year,” he said, his body perfectly still and unshaken as if he were talking about a mere acquaintance. “I hadn’t talked to him in a decade. I didn’t even know he died until months after the fact.”
The trembling began to subside as I reached out for his hand. “I’m so sorry.”
“He was sick,” Jamison continued, stoic. “I mean, we all knew it was only a matter of time.”
“How hold was he?”
“Twenty-four,” Jamison said. “Too young. He had cystic fibrosis. We never expected him to live past eighteen. Got married and everything. Just wish I could’ve been around to see it.”
“Why weren’t you?” Had my sisters still been around, I’d have never missed a single milestone in either of their lives. The three of us had our moments, and the two of them had an impenetrable bond, but they never made me feel like an outsider. Even amidst all our sisterly squabbles, one of the three of us assumed the role of diplomat until peace was fully restored.
“It’s complicated, Sophie.” Jamison sighed, raking a steady hand through his hair. “I don’t want to bore you with the details.”
“Nothing you say is boring.” I clung to his every word, trying to interpret the silence spaces in between. So much of what he said came from wordless gestures and captivated expressions.
“I don’t know about that.” Jamison smiled, hanging his head. “What about your sisters? What were their names?”
A sharp pain dashed across my chest, and I took a moment to catch my breath as my lungs searched for air. “N-Nori and Rossi.”
Saying their names felt sacrilegious, disrespectful to their memories and their short little lives. Jamison interlaced his fingers through mine. He wasn’t going anywhere. My gaze met his, seeking refuge from the storm brewing inside of me.
“They were nineteen when they died,” I said, lips trembling and body tense. “Two years ago.”
“They died together?” he asked, the question leaving his lips too easily. I supposed for him death was a topic of every day conversation in his line of work.
I nodded once. “Car accident.”
His face winced in sympathy. “Sorry to hear that.”
“Drunk driver,” I said, adding the kicker. “They were innocent victims.”
I hung my head, unable to meet his sympathetic stare any longer.
“I was supposed to pick them up from a party,” I said, the words a faint whisper from my shameful lips. “I’d been up studying all night. I fell asleep. I missed their call. They got in the car with a drunk friend. They were going eighty miles an hour in the wrong direction on the freeway. Hit another car head-on. Nobody lived.”
“Oh, God, Sophie,” Jamison said, inching closer to me before wrapping me up in his arms. “You know it’s not your fault, right? Please tell me you don’t blame yourself.”
Hot tears burned my eyes before cascading like a river down my cheeks. I buried my face in the solidity of his chest. “I do. I blame myself every single day, Jamison.”
He rubbed my back, pulling me deeper into his hold and squeezing me tight. “It wasn’t your fault.”
“If I would have,” I sobbed, “picked them up, then—”
“Stop.” The low vibration of his voice suspended my thoughts.
I pulled away from him slowly, and I felt him look at me in a whole new light. I was no longer free-spirited Sophie who floated through life on a breeze. The girl I’d shown
him, the girl I was trying so hard to be, was only a papier-mâché mask. The real me sat in front of him, red-eyed and raw, unable to put a smile on my face to save my life.
“I don’t know how to stop blaming myself.” I wiped away tears, unable to keep up with each one that slid down my cheek. I buried my face in the palms of my hands, ashamed.
Jamison tugged my hands away, forcing me to look him in the eyes.
“As a doctor,” he said, “I’m only ever able to offer emotional comfort from a distance. A helpful saying. Hopeful words. Nothing more. I can make a referral to a psychiatrist or a therapist, but that’s about it.”
That was exactly what Bledsoe had done when he saw my smile. Most doctors were so cut-and-dry and by the book that they couldn’t read between the lines. They couldn’t interpret things beyond common, everyday emotions.
“But as your,” Jamison paused and then continued, “boyfriend, I’m here for you. Emotionally. Physically. Anything you need. You understand?”
His voice was stern, like a doctor giving strict life-or-death orders. I nodded in compliance.
“I refuse to allow you to go through this alone,” he said. “Have you thought of seeing a professional counselor or someone to help you talk things out?”
“I’ve seen someone a couple of times,” I said softly, not proud to admit it.
“Keep going,” he insisted. “Trust me. It’s not fun. But you need to go. You need to tell them what you just told me. What happened was not your fault, Sophie. You can’t go the rest of your life believing that.”
“I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”
Jamison drew in a long, frustrated breath. “Just promise me you’ll talk to someone.”
“I promise.”
His eyes burned into me, telling me he wasn’t messing around. Quiet, buttoned-up Jamison was swiftly becoming my protector. My advocate. My hero. In a weird sort of way, he held my life in the palms of his hands. And I’d gladly have let him keep me there forever.
“You got any other brothers?” I asked, attempting to change the subject. Talking about my sisters was always like running my fingers over the flame of a hot candle. Sometimes I couldn’t feel it at all, and other times my fingers ended up singed and stinging for days later. Mia was the only person I’d ever talked to about The Incident until he came along.
“I do,” Jamison said. “Jude. He’s the middle brother.”
“Jude,” I said, sucking in a revitalizing breath that cooled my burning insides. “I like that name. You talk to him much?”
Jamison pursed his lips and shook his head. “We don’t talk much anymore. He lives in California. Runs some internet business. That’s about all I know.”
“Mind if I ask what happened between you two?” I asked. “Sorry if I’m being nosy.” I needed a distraction. I needed to focus on someone else’s problems for a while.
“It’s fine,” Jamison said, pausing and lifting his shoulders. He appeared lost in thought for a minute. “Growing up, we weren’t allowed to play together much. I was seven years older than Jude and nine years older than Julian, my youngest brother. My mother was always afraid I’d play too rough with them, especially Julian since he was sick, so we were kept in separate wings of the house.”
“Wings?” I said, monotone. “Your house had wings?”
A humble smile spread across his face. “It did.”
“Geez,” I sighed. I’d grown up in a modest split-level, my ten-by-ten room right next to the equally-as-tiny room the twins shared. We thought we’d won the lottery when my parents finished the rec room in the basement, and we’d had countless slumber parties down there, if only to enjoy the excess space. “I bet that was nice.”
Jamison flattened his lips into a thin, pale line as if he were used to people envying his life. “Not really. Growing up, everyone thought we had it all. But they were wrong. If they only knew the half of it.”
Judging by the interaction I’d witnessed between Jamison and his father, I knew the face of a man with deep emotional scars. No amount of suits and ties and cufflinks and expensive haircuts and long, woolen coats could mask the wounds of a ruined childhood.
“I left Kansas when I was eighteen,” he said. “Never went back.” He huffed, amused for a second and then added, “I guess it’s been about fifteen years now.”
His childhood must’ve been pretty screwed up to make him never set foot back home for fifteen years.
“You think you’ll ever go back someday?” I pried.
“I’ve no reason to.” He shrugged, as if he made his mind up about that a long time ago.
“Your dad,” I said. “You two didn’t seem very close. How’d you get him to do my surgery?”
“He owed me.” Jamison left it at that, and spoke his words in such a way that I knew better than to pry into that any further.
“He’s not from Kansas, is he?”
“No,” he said, brows furrowed. “He and my mother were college sweethearts. Met at Dartmouth. He moved to Kansas after medical school to start up a practice there, in my mother’s hometown. I guess it was a little too stifling for him. He left us when I was about six. My mother married Arthur and had my brothers.”
“You’ve been on your own a long time,” I mused, drinking in the sad expression on his handsome face. “Longer than since you were eighteen, I presume.”
He raised his eyebrows. I had nailed it.
“Look at you, though,” I said. “All successful and stuff. The whole world is at your fingertips now.”
“I don’t want to talk about this anymore.” He leaned in, placing his lips on mine, ending our conversation.
We were the same people, he and I.
JAMISON
I stepped out of Sophie’s shower and quietly toweled off before slipping into my suit for the day. The clock on the wall told me Mia had exactly eight minutes to arrive before I was officially running late for work. I refused to leave Sophie alone for two seconds. The hospital tended to release people too early, in my opinion, blaming pressure from insurance companies.
A light rap on the door spooked me, and I quickly popped the lock and pulled it open. Sophie stood, arms crossed and half asleep, staring at me through the dark hair that always seemed to make itself at home right in front of her pretty doe eyes.
“You shouldn’t be up right now,” I said.
“Can I brush my teeth?” she asked.
I stepped out, giving her privacy, and slipped into my loafers as the apartment door swung open.
“Morning,” Mia said, tugging her scarf from her neck and gripping a small coffee with her free hand. “She still in bed?”
“Nope.” I nodded toward the bathroom. “Say, Mia, when do you think your renovations will be done?”
She scrunched her nose. “Hopefully by next week. Why?”
“You planning to have an exhibit, or anything?”
“We’d talked about it, but nothing’s set in stone yet,” she said. “Hopefully soon.”
I stepped closer to her so I could lower my voice. “Mind if I plan one? I’d like to surprise Sophie. Invite a bunch of people I know. Maybe invite her parents?”
Mia’s tan face turned a shade of pale ash at the mention of Sophie’s parents, and I suddenly remembered the blank space on her emergency contact sheet.
“I was wondering if I could get their number from you?” I asked.
Mia twitched her lips, studying my face. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”
“You and I both know she needs them right now.” I pretended to know more than I did.
“You’re right,” Mia sighed. “I’ve been trying to tell her that for years. Anytime they reach out, she just pushes them away.”
“I’m inviting them,” I said, tugging my phone from my pocket and pulling up my calendar. “She needs all the support she can get right now. How does the first Friday of February work?”
“What are you guys talking about?” Sophie interrupted from th
e doorway of her bathroom. She gripped the frame to steady herself as her eyes searched our faces.
“I’m running late. I’ll see you tonight,” I told her, slipping out the door. Mia had just confirmed exactly what I’d suspected. Sophie had pushed her parents away because she blamed herself for her sisters’ deaths.
***
I slipped into my office between patients that afternoon and dialed the number Mia had texted me earlier that day. The upstate New York area code was a direct line to the home of Ken and Julie Salinger.
“Hello,” a gruff man’s voice answered in the middle of the fourth ring. I was shocked that anyone was home in the middle of the day on a Wednesday.
“Yes, is this Ken Salinger?” I asked.
“Who’s this?” He slurred his words together.
“This is Doc—” I caught myself. “This is Jamison. I’m a friend of Sophie’s.”
Silence met my response.
“You still there?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he said. The receiver muffled as if he were placing his hand over it as I heard a woman’s voice asking who he was talking to on the other end.
“Hello?” she said. From the sounds of it, she’d wrestled the phone out of his hand. “This is Sophie’s mother. Who is this? Is Sophie all right? Did something happen?” Her voice was ripe with the panic of a mother who’d gotten that call before.
“Sophie is fine,” I said, unable to elaborate beyond that. “I’m a friend of hers. I’m throwing her a surprise art gallery exhibition the first Friday in February. I’d love if you could be there.”
“Oh,” she said, her relief like air escaping a balloon. “I’m sorry. You had me worried. What is this about an exhibit?”
“Sophie is a painter,” I said. “You knew that, right?”
“Of course,” her mom said. “She’s a beautiful painter.”
“Would you like to come to her exhibit?” I asked once again, glancing up at the clock on the wall. I had exactly two minutes to get to my next appointment.
“Does she want us there? I don’t know if she wants us there,” her mother waffled. “Last time we tried to see her…”
