Brawler (39 page)

I
’ve been in and out for hours. Fellow nurses and staff members have stopped in since I came to. Apparently word got out on what’s happened to me, and they’ve each come to check on me. Many voices I recognized, many I did not. The only thing keeping me from screaming is my husband, who keeps me anchored by holding my hand. He told each and every one of them thank you, and never once lost his temper. I know this was tough for him, because he was gripping my hand while he did it. When I first came to, it was to him staring at my now-empty belly. The loss I felt upon waking was immediate, I knew my baby was … gone. I felt the emptiness so deep that the grief from it swallowed me whole. My ability to even process a thought again comes from my husband’s strength. Listening to him talk to me allows me to find comfort. He’s blaming himself. He always does. However, I really wish he wouldn’t.

I remember every second of my captivity. I remember the women, the basement, the beatings and finally … the gunshot. I want to tell him the fault lies with me. He taught me better. I should have gauged my surroundings before running to him, but I was so relieved to see him, I didn’t process anything else but getting into the safety of his arms. But by doing so I left myself, and him, open to a threat. My husband’s words not only broke my heart, but rebuilt it, too.

When he ran his hands just above my belly the loss was lessened a bit by the love I felt coming from him. He thinks I will see him differently, want him less. He fears I won’t love him anymore. Once I get the courage to open my eyes, I will tell him I love him more now than I ever have. That we’ll get through this together, and that maybe one day we can try again for another baby. I know another will never replace our loss, but I also know our hearts are big enough to make room for more children. How many women get the chance to have a love of this size? For a time I had a child I loved more than anything. I’ll love that child for the rest of my life.

It’s myself I’ll have to forgive someday for my own actions in losing our baby. Our son. Hearing Jonas tell me in a broken voice we had a son undid me. It’s this quiet moment, while he finally was able to get some rest, that I get why Venessa retreats the way she does. Sometimes the world is just too overwhelming, too cruel, just too everything. Listening to him breathe, I remember him saying he’ll try harder, his promise to make me happy again, to smile again, and to be worthy of me. My husband just doesn’t get it. But he will, I promise myself. He’s simply
my
everything. I will be happy because of
him
, my smiles are just for
him.
He doesn’t have to change or try harder. My god, he’s perfect just as
he is
.

Taking a deep breath and ignoring the ache in my stomach, the soreness of my back, and the dryness of my throat I reach up and bury my fingers in his thick hair. I’m missing my husband bad. Playing with his hair, I notice him tense up, and hear his breathing change. I do my best to massage his scalp, letting him know I’m here, I’m okay, and I’m ready when he is. After several agonizing minutes he looks up, and he is so fucking beautiful I do the only thing I can do. I smile for him.

“Princess,” he whispers.

“Captain,” I whisper back.

“Do you hurt?”

“A little,” I answer honestly. “But I’m okay, Jonas.”

“I’ll get the nurse.”

“No,” I tell him. “Not yet. I don’t want to sleep. I want to talk to you. I missed you.”

“Fuck,” he whispers, taking my hand.

“Tell me everything, Jonas,” I whisper back. “I can take it.”

Looking miserable and lost, I pat the small area next to me and invite him to crawl in next to me. He does so without question. He’s careful not to move me too much, but the pain means little to me. Not having him near me is what hurts. The second he finds his spot, he buries his face in my neck and cries uncontrollably while trying to fill me in. I comfort him the best I can, sometimes crying and sometimes praying. I realize, as we both lay there, not sure of what happens next, we could do one of two things: we could mourn, cry, and count our blessings, and one day move on. Or we could rage, blame, and lose ourselves to bitterness and the unfairness of life, maybe even losing each other in the process.

I choose love.

Once the worst has passed for my husband, I decide to tell him a story. It has little to do with our current circumstances, but it matters just the same. Needing to comfort him I do just that, I tell him a story. My husband stays quiet while I speak. In the short time I’ve known him, he’d become a great listener. I explain in great detail my love for science, for learning, and for him. Toward the end I explain how all of the events leading up to my meeting him were small compared to what we’re facing together right now. I tell him as much as it hurts, together we will heal each other, and one day we will be lucky enough to try again.

Then, in an effort to start the healing process, I asked him a question. “What do you think he would have looked like?”

“He would have been beautiful like his mother, tall and sculpted like his father, with his mother’s brain and his father’s sense of humor.”

“Are you saying I don’t have a sense of humor?”

“You know I think you do,” he says. “It’s just not as developed as mine.”

“I think the fact that we had planned to name him Michael Jackson proves we not only have a wicked sense of humor, but that we also are extremely creative,” I tell him, smiling.

“We’re something, all right,” he says quietly. “Michael Jackson.”

“Michael Jackson,” I repeat. “We’ll love him forever, Jonas.”

“You don’t blame me?” he asks, staring at my belly.

“No,” I tell him. “If anyone, I blame myself. Now wait …” I say, stopping him from cutting me off with a protest. “We both need to work through this, Jonas, but in the end I think we both know who was to blame, and you were the one who delivered his punishment. Ben did this, not us. It’s going to take time, Captain, but we’ll get through this.”

“You’ll still be my wife?”

“I will always be your wife,” I tell him, grabbing his face. “I missed you, Jonas. I knew you would come for me.” Leaning in, I press my lips to his and let my tears run down from my face onto his. He kisses me back and lets his tears fall, too. We stay like that for hours, and I decide, in that moment, when it’s our time to leave this earth that we are lucky enough to leave this way, too.

Together.

M
y wife is sound asleep.

A couple of hours ago the pain took over and she had no choice but to take her doc’s advice and accept pain management. During her rest an interesting thing happens. Remember that dumbfuck doc that had a thing for her? Yeah, well, he stopped in to check on her. What’s funny is I didn’t kill him. I shook his hand, thanked him for taking care of
my wife
- had to throw that in there - when she needed it, and promised to tell her he stopped by when she woke up. Whether or not I do that is still up in the air, but I’m making an effort to grow up. I’m a fucking work in progress.

Rogan walks in with Venessa. They both hug me, ask me how we’re doing, and not wanting to wake her, Venessa sits next to her bed and plays with her hair while Rogan takes me to the side to talk to me. I don’t know what it is, but I knew it ain’t good. Judging by his face, I decide whatever it is, I need to handle it for her sake and mine. I cannot flip the fuck out.

“Give it to me straight,” I tell him.

“Ben came through surgery, partner,” he says. “Saw it with my own eyes. He’s on life support, but if he can get through the next forty-eight hours, he stands a good chance at recovery.”

Closing my eyes and shaking my head, I let that knowledge sink in. So I didn’t even get the pleasure of killing the bastard. What are the fucking chances of someone surviving six shots at close range? Jesus, how do I tell my wife? Taking a deep breath, I decide that right now, I can’t. He ain’t leaving anytime soon, so when the time is right, I’ll tell her.

“I failed her,” I tell him, looking over her sleeping. “When it counted, I couldn’t even get killing that motherfucker right. She deserves his head placed at her feet. How the fuck am I supposed to tell her I fucked this up, too?”

“Pray that he don’t last forty-eight hours,” he says, looking over at Macy and Venessa.

When Rogan gets her attention they both offer me words of encouragement, hugs, and a promise to visit tomorrow. Walking back over to my wife, I take her hand in mine and vow to her silently that if that piece of shit lasts forty-eight hours, I’ll kill him myself.

The nurse chooses then to come in and check her vitals. She sings Macy’s praises on how well she’s recovering. She tells me how lucky we are that we found each other, and that she’s going to grab a cart and come back to take her catheter out. The fuck is a catheter?

Waiting it out, I see her color is improving. Her body responds well to the blood she was given, but she still sleeps. The nurse said she needs to sleep as much as possible. They gave her something in her IV to let her sleep through removing the catheter, which turns out was a tube between her legs that ran to her bladder allowing her to piss. Jesus, don’t ever fucking put me down for one of those.

After the orderly brings me a shit excuse for a dinner, I sprawl out on the plastic couch and fall asleep to the beeping of the machines that are helping my wife heal.

Tomorrow, I promise myself. Tomorrow I’ll tell her.

I
was sleeping pretty soundly until I felt Venessa playing with my hair. I’d know her touch anywhere. Though I kept my eyes closed, I was tuned in to my surroundings. Having her close felt good. Hearing Rogan’s voice felt good, too. Though hearing my husband’s voice was always the best, until I heard the news Rogan had to share with him.

My husband thinks he failed me again. The anguish in his voice makes it difficult to fake sleep, but I do. He isn’t ready to tell me, and I understand why. Knowing him, he probably views it as an unfinished task he owes me. He still doesn’t understand he doesn’t owe me anything. Listening to them discuss Ben has me thinking about him briefly. The years I spent in his company thinking I knew him but never really knowing him at all. Considering him a friend, when in reality he was my greatest enemy.

For him, I was a means to an end.

That final night in the basement will never leave me. Number three came down after Ben failed to get what he wanted and he was on a mission. But before he could land a blow I attacked him with a fucking hammer. Resolute to put him behind me and end his reign of terror, my first strike had to count. So I hit him in the left temple. When he went down I continued to swing, I couldn’t stop swinging. Oddly enough, I don’t remember much blood, but my eyes weren’t accustomed to the light, either. The women were part cheering, part screaming, but I was too focused on him to make sense of it all.

Then, like a true prince, my husband appeared, and my only thought was … get to him. In doing so, I left myself open for Ben. In my madness I had forgotten all about him. My last memory of him was being upstairs. So when Jonas reached for me and his eyes widened, I turned to see what had him spooked, and before I could blink or protect my middle, Ben fired one round, straight into my belly. Straight into my son.