Idle Bloom

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.

“Why?” she whispers.

Why what? Why the touch? Why am I married? Why did I not tell her earlier? Why is life so unfair? It doesn’t matter. The answer is the same for it all.

“I don’t know.”

Her hand fists under mine, her body begins to shake, and then she sucks in a shaky breath. I did this to her. Turning, I pull her into my arms as she breaks down. Her hands fist the front of my shirt.

“I don’t want to love you anymore,” she cries.

“I know.” I kiss the top of her head and let her lose her emotions to me. They cut deep and I welcome the pain. It’s a reminder that what we had was real, our love was real, life with Vivian was real.

I’m not sure when she stops crying or when we fall asleep in each other’s arms. I’m awake again and she’s next to me, her head resting against my chest. If there’s truly a God, then I have to pray that he allowed my heart to whisper all my unspoken emotions. I’m not sure what it really means to bare my soul, but for this woman … I’d give my last breath.

“Oli?” Her voice is barely a whisper. I rest my cheek on her head.

“Hmm?”

“Tell me about Caroline.”

God, the pain is crippling. “We met in college. Married right after graduation and then moved to Portland. Her family is there and that’s where she grew up.”

“Why is she depressed and suicidal?”

The lump in my throat expands to an unbearable size as I feel my pulse begin to race.

“Oli?”

I try to swallow past it. “Our … um…” I try to clear my throat and fight back the emotions that have been haunting me for so long “…our baby died.”

Vivian gasps and looks up at me with her hand covering her mouth. I divert my eyes to the ceiling and blink back the tears. I don’t want to lose it … not now … not in front of her.

“Oh my God!”

I nod and keep looking up, blinking at a furious speed, fighting the fucking tears.

“Oliver, oh my God!” Her hands slide up and cradle my face. The undeserving touch is nearly as painful as the words I could barely speak.

“Flower? Are you here? Oliver?” Alex calls from downstairs.

I sit up and hobble into the bathroom shutting the door behind me. Leaning back against the door, I run my hands through my hair. “Fuck!” I hate this. Memories like this never disappear, but I wish they would. Sometimes I think I need a damn lobotomy. I’d gladly give up the good memories to get rid of the bad. I splash some cold water on my face and go back into the bedroom.

“Hey.” Alex greets me with a wary face, then looks at Vivian sitting on my bed. “What’s going on?”

Vivian glances at me with a sad smile then looks at Alex. “I just came to get my stuff. I didn’t know he was here. My bags are downstairs.”

Alex nods. “You shouldn’t be walking this far yet.”

Vivian scrunches her nose. “I know, it was stupid. I should have waited for you.”

“Yes, you should have. I’ll carry your bags home, and then I’ll come help you back across the street.”

“I’ll get her.”

“Your feet—” Vivian starts to protest.

“They’re fine.” I scoop her off the bed.

“Okay then…” Alex shrugs and walks toward the stairs “…I’ll get the bags.”

I feel her intense gaze on me the entire walk to their place, but I don’t meet them. “Upstairs or down?”

“Leave her down,” Alex answers before Vivian has a chance to respond.

I set her on the couch, but she keeps a hold of my neck until I look at her. “Oli—”

“Remember that look of pity?” I whisper, reaching up to move her hands from my neck.

She nods.

“I don’t want it either.”

She nods again.

“I’ll be around if you need anything. I’m not working again until next week.”

“She won’t.” Alex stands by the door holding it open, no doubt waiting to slam it on me as soon as I step out.

Slam!

Just as I thought.

Vivian looked miserable today crawling around on her hands and knees. It was probably a real dick move not to help her sooner, but at the time I questioned which was going to be more painful—seeing me or her dealing with her physical injuries. I think it was a tie.

I imagine her smoking pot or inhaling pain pills to ease the misery. Jack is my best friend when it’s time to numb the pain. He has been for the past three years. Vivian took over for Jack for a while, but she’s not at arm’s reach any longer. I know she’s just across the street, but when the loneliness sets in she might as well be on another planet.

My phone chimes and I should be asleep since it’s approaching midnight, but I’m not. Instead, I’m still on my deck, drowning in a sea of misery and Jack. Apparently I’m not the only one who can’t sleep.

Vivian: Can’t sleep. Thinking about earlier, not pity just … thoughts.

Me: Can’t sleep either. Not sure what else to say.

Vivian: Sorry I trashed your place.

Me: That’s pity. You weren’t sorry before we talked earlier.

Vivian: You’re right. I’m still pissed and I get a sadistic pleasure out of seeing your scarred face and gimpy walk.

Me: That’s better.

Vivian: Now I don’t know what to say so … goodnight.

Me: Goodnight, my love.

I erase it and retype the last part.

Me: Goodnight, Vivian.

This afternoon wasn’t a forgive and forget moment. I’m not stupid. My confession gave me a stay of execution, but I have a sick feeling the worst is yet to come. Once the magnitude of what has happened to us over the past week settles in, she’s going to see how fucked-up my life really is … how fucked-up I really am. And she’s going to be gone from my life forever.

Vivian

I am almost twenty-two years old and I mean it as in only twenty-two years old. Yet I am dealing with a relationship situation that seems like something from a motion picture drama or out of a fictional book. Seriously! I just found out the man I imagined living with forever is married and had a baby that died. That is a crap load of emotional baggage to deal with for anyone, let alone a twenty-two year old who, until recently, still had her V card and has never seen the inside of a college lecture hall or even been on an airplane.

I need to know more, but I’m not sure why. Morbid curiosity? Maybe. Will it change anything? Doubtful. I don’t know how it could.

“What was going on with you two when I showed up yesterday?” Alex hands me a cup of coffee.

I take a sip. “He told me something.”

“And …”

“And I’m not sure it’s my place to share it with you.”

“You cannot be serious. The guy just broke your heart. He lied to you … humiliated you, but you feel obligated to keep some secret for him?”

She’s right. As tragic as his past seems to have been, he could have … should have told me before our relationship got so serious. But I understand that it takes a serious connection to open up to someone about something so personal, so heartbreaking, so life-altering. I’ve been there. I get it.

I bite my lips together and nod. “His secret is on a whole different plane of awful and tragic than mine has ever been, so yes, I feel obligated to keep it, respect his trust.”

“Flower, you amaze me, but not necessarily in a good way. I think it takes a while after you lose your virginity to really find that seasoned tarnish that can only come from being screwed in more ways than one. You, my dear, have a ways to go.”

I laugh. “You should have majored in philosophy.”

“I’m just looking out for you. Nothing good can come from being with a married man, and he knows it too. That’s why he never told you. You’re young, Flower, you need to experience the world—lots of sex with lots of guys.”

“Says my monogamous friend. What makes you think I’m going from virgin to slut? Oliver was different, the exception. I can’t imagine being with anyone else.” I sigh. “I also can’t imagine being with him anymore either. Maybe I’ll go back to Virginville. It really wasn’t so bad there.”

“Liar.”

I grin then look down as it fades. “I love him.”

“Loved.”

“No, I love him still—always. The pain doesn’t take away the love.”

“And the love doesn’t take away the pain.”

I nod and wipe a stray tear. “I wish I would have met him first.”

“Before his wife?”

“Yeah.”

“That would have made you what? Fifteen? Sixteen? Can you say statutory rape?”

“You know what I mean. I thought I came with a lot of baggage, but Oliver’s a damn cargo ship compared to me.”

“That bad?”

I close my eyes and lean back. “That bad.”

Alex agreed to work for me until I can stand on my own two feet, literally. I’m supposed to go home for my birthday weekend tomorrow, but now I’m trying to figure out how to physically get there and what my explanation will be to my parents.

I hate that I can’t control the excitement I feel when my phone chimes with a text from Oliver. He hurt me, and my heart has that painful memory, but my body didn’t get the memo.

Oliver: How are you feeling today?

Me: Fabulous, LOL, you?

Oliver: Like someone tried to murder me in my own home.

Me: You probably deserved it.

Oliver: I did.

Me: Contemplating the trip home tomorrow. Would it be weird if I crawled at the train station?

Oliver: Not in Boston, but maybe in Hartford.

Me: Wondering what I’ll tell my parents?

Oliver: May I suggest the truth? Lies can be BAD news!

Me: Point taken :(

Oliver: Why don’t you take my car?

Me: I couldn’t. What if something happened to it?

Oliver: It’s insured … like everything in my house was.

Me: Low blow.

Oliver: Sorry. I think I’m the one that broke the only irreplaceable thing that day.

Me: ?

Oliver: Us.

I exit the message screen and toss my phone aside. Where the hell am I? I love him. I hate him. I want to have some self-respect, to stay angry at him, but he lost a child. He has some serious emotional issues and he’s still married. Do I sever all ties with him? Can we be friends or neighbors? Then there is the burning question—why is he divorcing his wife? She lost her baby. I’d probably go insane too. It doesn’t make sense.