The Dandelion

by Michelle Leighton

  I’m stunned into silence.

  I killed my daughter.

  The quiet that follows is as deep as an ocean and twice as dark.

  CHAPTER 23

  ABI

  The Truth

  The echo of my words still rings through the room, through the stillness, through me.

  Sam’s voice is a whisper. Careful. Hesitant. Disbelieving. “What?”

  My chest is heaving and adrenaline born of anger is coursing through my veins, making my hands shake and my vision throb.

  “I killed my daughter.” I spit the words at him, bitterness coating my tongue. “I found out my husband was cheating on me with my best friend, Greta, and I was leaving him. I was carrying my little girl down the steps and he was following me. Arguing. I wasn’t watching my step and I fell. I fell down the steps and landed on Sasha. On my child. I took her life. Me. Her mother. The one person who was supposed to protect her from everything. But I couldn’t even protect her from myself. I did that to her. I ended her life. That’s why I need to suffer. Do you see? Now do you see? Now do you understand?”

  “Jesus,” he murmurs, his expression openly astonished. Then he makes the connection to what happened at his house. “That’s why… The stairs.”

  We stare at each other for several seconds, Sam dumbstruck, me furious. My confession hangs over our heads like a thick, heavy blanket of tragedy. The weight of it is so oppressive it begins to smother the flames of my rage.

  “I killed my little girl. My baby. I…I killed her,” I whisper, repeating my truth, reliving my horror. Each syllable is a scalpel slicing through me, cutting through my skin, laying it open to reveal the anguish that lies beneath it. “My child is gone. And it’s my fault.”

  My pulse pounds. I’ve held those words inside me for two years. I’ve kept them locked away. Never spoken them. Never escaped them. They’ve clung to me, and I to them, like thorns, each digging more deeply into the other until my blood is their blood, and theirs is mine. Every day, they dig a little deeper, widening the hole, festering in the wound.

  From burning lungs, my breath comes out in one long, jagged sob and I collapse to one side, burying my face in the sheets. I wrap my fist in them, pushing the fabric into my mouth, holding it over my nose, praying that if I stop breathing, the pain will stop, too.

  Somehow, a scream, a siren of pure torment bubbles up and out, seeping from around my knuckles. With it, every muscle in my body clenches, straining against my skin, pleading to escape the unbearable misery churning within me. If the pain of truth could break someone apart from the inside, I would be a Jackson Pollack painting—nothing more than splatters of blood and sorrow and self-loathing on a pristine white canvas.

  Seconds, minutes, an eternity later, I’m pulled gently into waiting arms. I’m wrapped in sympathy I don’t deserve, yet I can’t turn away from it. For two years, nothing has been able to ease the pain. Nothing and no one. But part of me wants to stop feeling the hurt. Part of me wants to keep trying to mute it, keep trying to heal it, keep trying to find comfort from it, even though I know I warrant nothing less than this excruciating grief and unimaginable physical torture.

  One heartbeat passes. Two. Three.

  Then a damn breaks and loss pours out in loud, broken, uncontrollable sobs. My fingers claw at Sam’s shirt, his throat, and his strong and sturdy shoulders like maybe somehow he can keep me from drowning in the flood. But he can’t. Not even Sam can help me.

  Nothing and no one ever does.

  The only thing to penetrate the fog of my despair is a steadily increasing burn in my foot and leg.

  But I welcome it.

  I welcome the burn.

  It’s what I feel on the inside all the time—the scorch of unrelenting sadness, the sizzle of unremitting regret. It is my mate, my bedfellow, and my fiery cross to bear.

  “I killed my baby. I killed herrrr,” I half sob-half moan, sagging against Sam’s warmth because I can’t hold myself up any longer.

  Flames rise up within me, licking through my body, blazing through my mind, searing through my soul. I hear a howl, something injured and animalistic, something far away and terrifying, and then there is nothing. The blessed relief of blackness swallows me whole.

  And I let it.

  In fact, I dive into it.

  It’s the only place I can find peace.

  As I drift away, I hear a voice whisper to me, “Sleep, Abi. Sleep.”

  So I do.

  ********

  I come to wakefulness like someone lost at sea trying to make her way to shore—slowly and with great effort. It’s as though I’m swimming against a current with a mind wrapped in cobwebs and muscles submerged in molasses. Even the simple act of raising my eyelids seems a struggle.

  The room is barely light with the early hour, but I recognize it. It’s the bedroom at the cabin. My bedroom, so that’s good. No one—namely Sam—has shipped me off to a hospital or a loony bin.

  Yet.

  I swallow and my throat is unbearably dry, so I cough to clear it. Within seconds, the mattress to my right sinks. With the drapes pulled, the room isn’t overly bright, but even if it was pitch black, I wouldn’t have to ask or wonder who it is that’s with me. Even if I couldn’t smell his clean scent, I’d know it was Sam. I feel a calmness that I can only ever remember feeling when I was with him, like all is right with the world and I’m just where I’m supposed to be.

  Only all is not right with the world. The calm of Sam’s presence is just a Band-Aid. Temporary. Fleeting. A transient state between harsh cuts and stabs from reality.

  “Here, take a sip of water,” he urges, his large hand coming around to the back of my head to help lift me toward a glass that he’s pressing to my lips.

  Gratefully, I drink. I must be dehydrated, because the tepid water feels like heaven on my parched tongue.

  “Thank you.” My voice is a croak as I pull away from the glass. Gently, Sam lets my head back down onto the pillow and I see the silhouette of his hand move as he sets the drink on the bedside table. “What are you doing here, Sam? You should be at home.”

  His priority is his wife. And his child.

  “I have been. Once I saw you were sleeping pretty peacefully, I went home.” I’m relieved at his words. I don’t think I could handle the guilt of him choosing me over his family. But I should’ve known he wouldn’t do that. That’s not who Sam is. He wouldn’t do that to his sick wife or his helpless child. It’s part of what I love about him. “I’ve just gotten back. I tried to be quiet coming in. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

  “You didn’t have to come back.”

  “I wanted to.”

  “You shouldn’t be here.”

  “I want to be,” he defends simply, and for some reason I believe him. It makes me feel awful and wonderful at the same time. The dichotomy leaves me confused about my feelings, and that just makes my head hurt, so I push it aside. I make myself stop thinking about it.

  Only, without thinking about Sam and Sara and Noelle, it makes way for me to think about something else.

  My confession.

  I groan, turning my head to the side, wishing I could disappear into the thick folds of the comforter bunched up around me.

  “What is it? Are you hurting?” Concern adds an edge to his voice. I can feel him leaning over me. I can imagine his expression.

  I mumble. “No. I just…”

  As much as I try, I can’t keep the distress out of my voice. Sam, perceptive as he is, picks up on it. With no warning, he slides his hands under me and drags me into his arms again, always quick to comfort. He is a doctor in the truest sense of the word. Sam Forrester is a bringer of comfort, a provider of healing. It’s who he is, all the way down to his bones.

  But he shouldn’t be comforting me. Not me. Of all people, not me.

  “What are you doing?” Halfheartedly, I strain against him. As much as I don’t deserve it, it feels so, so good to be in his arms. He like a missing p
iece of me. He fills the hole that losing him left, the hole that no other man has been able to fill. He makes me feel almost complete.

  Almost.

  For just a minute.

  But I’ll never be complete. Not entirely. No one and nothing will ever be able to restore me to wholeness. My child is gone and a piece of me died with her. There is no getting that back. I don’t deserve to have it back anyway.

  “I’m holding you because I know you don’t want to talk, but I don’t want you to start thinking either. You think too much.”

  “So what’s your plan then? More yoga music? Or are you going to sing to me?”

  In the low light, I can see one corner of his mouth tilt up into a lopsided smile that sends a warm shiver down my spine. “That’s not exactly what I had in mind.”

  My mouth gets even drier if that’s possible. “So what did you have in mind?”

  I didn’t mean for my question to sound so suggestive. It just came out that way. I didn’t mean it and I wasn’t prepared for it. And, judging by the way Sam quietly sucks in a breath, I’m guessing he wasn’t prepared for it either.

  One-one thousand.

  Two-one thousand.

  Three-one thousand.

  I count the heartbeats as something rises and comes to vibrant life between us. The timing is horrible. The shame is palpable. But the feeling…it’s undeniable.

  It’s primal and familiar and irresistible.

  It’s like a woman’s favorite kind of chocolate, waved under her nose. Just that one tiny whiff is all it takes to evoke the memory of how it tastes, the pleasure it brings. This moment between Sam and me…it’s everything I used to love and all that I never stopped loving. It’s the fire that burned between us and the embers that couldn’t be extinguished.

  It’s terrifying and seductive and consuming.

  It’s wrong.

  It’s right.

  And it’s everything in between.

  His voice is a gruff growl. “Not that. At least, I wasn’t thinking about that until now.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…”

  “I know you didn’t. I didn’t either. We never used to intend. It just was. It was always this way between us.”

  Even as he speaks, heat builds between us. I know neither of us has any intention of doing anything about it. For a million reasons, now is not the time. But getting a taste of that fire… Getting a whiff of that sweet, sweet chocolate… I remember how it was.

  Now my body is burning in a different way, only this burn I resist. I don’t give into it.

  “I guess it’s true that some things never change.”

  Sam cups my cheek in his hand, brushing the pad of his thumb over my bottom lip. “I’ll make love to you again one day, Abi Simmons. It’ll be something neither of us ever forgets. I’ll make damn sure of that.”

  Fingers of anticipation run from the base of my neck to the base of my spine and, for just a second, I arch into him. It’s instinctive, nothing I can even control, but the moment I’m aware of it, I shrink away.

  Air hisses through his teeth and his fingers slide into the hair at my nape. “Damn, maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.”

  Slowly, unwilling to create too much friction for fear it will send one or both of us over an edge that will end in catastrophe, I move off his lap and set my feet on the floor. Wisely, Sam lets me go.

  Carefully, I test the state of my foot by rubbing the sole over the slick, cool hardwoods. I feel a sharp tingle, but no pain. If I’d done this last night, I’d have screamed in agony. Such is the way with a flare. I’ve learned the ins and outs of them. It didn’t take long to figure out what not to do.

  I come gradually to a standing position, exhaling loudly when my leg supports me with only a little wobble in my knee.

  Sam reaches out to run a hand down my calf, his fingers gently squeezing as he goes. I can tell it’s meant to be a clinical kind of touch, undoubtedly an assessment, but I jerk anyway. “Does that hurt?”

  I answer truthfully. “No.”

  I don’t elaborate and he doesn’t ask me to, probably because he realizes his mistake in touching me right now when I’m fighting this fire for him.

  “Do you exercise it regularly?”

  “Yes. Range of motion at least a dozen times a day for the foot and the leg.”

  I see Sam nod and rise to stand beside me. He’s close. And tall. And big. And imposing.

  And handsome.

  And sexy.

  And forbidden.

  And…Sam. My Sam.

  “I think you’d better go, Sam.” I say it with as much sternness as I can muster, while I can still muster it.

  “Abi, you’re—”

  “I’m feeling much better. I promise. You’ve checked on me. I’m fine. Now you need to go. Really.”

  He opens his mouth to say something. I know because I’m staring at his lips in the dark. I can make them out just enough to remember exactly what they feel like on various parts of my body. And the memory is almost more than I can bear at the moment.

  As if realizing that this is going nowhere good, he snaps his teeth shut with a click and merely nods. He takes one step around me, which inadvertently brings his shoulder into contact with my front, his arm grazing my breast, his hand brushing my belly.

  Both of us gasp.

  Neither of us moves.

  “Call if you need me. Promise?”

  I nod, not trusting myself to speak.

  “I’ll be back later.” Not a request, a pledge, and I feel it all the way down to my already-tingling toes.

  I nod again.

  I could argue.

  I should argue.

  But I don’t argue.

  I just wait for him to walk out, holding my breath until he’s gone so I can collapse back onto the bed.

  CHAPTER 24

  ABI

  Golden

  Sam has texted me half a dozen times, and I’ve assured him each time that I’m fine and there’s no need for him to come over. I knew he had to work, so I’ve used that to my advantage, encouraging him to take care of what needs doing.

  Truth be told, I’ve wanted him here since he left. Having him around, being held hostage by so many pleasurable feelings, both old and new, is quite addictive. My little cabin felt so empty after he left. So did I. That is why I’ve dissuaded him from coming back. I could get used to it. It feels too good. It’s more than I deserve, and so much less than Sam deserves.

  I came outside a couple of hours ago. I’m not sure I consciously chose an Adirondack that has a great view of his shoreline, but that’s the one I ended up in—the one with the very best view.

  My eyes have strayed to his yard a million times if they’ve strayed once. I know he’s at work, but I’ve watched that lush triangle of grass and that thin strip of beach for him anyway.

  The sun is already dipping down behind the trees when I see a surprising sight. A familiar little blonde head appears first. Noelle is running as fast as she can after something I can’t see, darting this way and that. I’m guessing she’s chasing a butterfly. Her eyes are wide and her lips are parted, and I wonder if she’s laughing or making some other noise of glee that I can’t hear.

  Then I see Sara. She’s dressed in what appears to be something like designer pajamas, replete with a matching robe. They’re not nice enough to be worn out in town, but they’re definitely nice enough to be worn out in one’s yard.

  A thousand questions flit through my mind, like how is she feeling today, what is she doing outside, and has she kept Noelle all day. The last bothers me the most.

  As if sensing my thoughts on her, I see her head turn slightly, more in my direction than in Noelle’s, and she raises an arm to wave. It’s not a robust wave by any means. It’s more that of an older person with a lot more miles on them. Of course, Sara’s got a million miles of a different kind on her.

  Regardless, I’m pleased to see the wave, pleased to see her, and happy that s
he’s having a good day. I wave back and she returns her attention to Noelle, who is now several feet away. Sara’s lips move and, half a second later, Noelle spins in my direction, too. The instant she sees me, she abandons whatever she was chasing to run closer to the lake’s edge and give me an enthusiastic little girl’s greeting. She waves with her whole body—arms flying, curls bouncing, feet dancing.

  I smile, waving to her as well. A soft warm glow begins to spread through my chest, sweet affection radiating into my bones. This family…they’ve captivated me.

  I watch Sara follow Noelle around the yard with an aching slowness that I can practically feel from over here. It doesn’t seem like she really feels well enough to be out chasing her daughter, but she’s doing it anyway.

  I get that.

  Any mother would.

  But I worry. What if Noelle ran off into the water? What if she fell and got hurt? What if she got stung or bitten and needed some kind of attention? Would Sara be able to respond in any of those situations?

  None of those scenarios are likely, but I can’t help that they flitter through my mind. It’s involuntary. A maternal response.

  Finally, the two disappear from sight, but not before each can give me another wave, which I happily return. I’ll admit I’m glad they’re going inside. I feel more at ease about Noelle’s safety.

  Not that being indoors necessarily equates to safety. I’m living proof of that because my daughter isn’t.

  Just a few short minutes later, I hear the slam of a door. I’m instantly on high alert. My pulse jumps, my muscles clench, and my nerves jangle. I glance back toward the cabin just in time to see Sam making his way down toward me. I smile. I can’t seem to help myself.

  His lips curve in the cocky grin that used to be such a trademark Sam thing. It fills me with both nostalgia and immense pleasure. He looks lighter, happier today than he’s looked since I’ve been here, and that knowledge sparks a cascade of queries that fall into my mind like dominos.

  He doesn’t stop until he’s at my chair, at which point he drops into a squat right in front of me, his knees on either side of mine. For a few seconds, I feel breathless. Breathless and a bit giddy.