Never Let You Go (a modern fairytale) (33 page)

“She’s tough,” he said, his lips tilting up a bit in admiration for his strong girl. “She’s . . .” He thought of her lying in that bed upstairs, battered and confused, and his heart clenched. He blinked several times, turning away from Sabrina.

They each took a tray, choosing their lunches, Holden careful to remember Maya’s candy.

“How can I help?” she asked, once they’d both been seated.

Gauging her sincerity, Holden found her expression open and concerned. A wave of relief washed over him.

“Help her go to college. She wants it. Means a lot to her that you suggested it.”

Sabrina nodded emphatically, opening a packet of salad dressing. “Consider it done. Roy and I have connections. We’ll help her however we can.”

“Thank you,” he whispered, wondering what it was like to be so financially secure that someone could mention college and you could wave a magic wand and make a dream come true.

Sabrina swiped at her eyes, but Holden admired her because she was keeping it together and offering to help Gris, despite the shocking news he’d just shared.

“I didn’t even know she took it seriously when I suggested it.”

“She did,” he said, taking a bite of his sandwich. “It would help if she had somewhere to, uh, to go.”

“Somewhere to go?”

Holden nodded, swallowing his sandwich over the lump in his throat. “Somewhere else . . . where he w-wouldn’t . . . where the memories . . .”

“Oh! Oh, of course!” Sabrina nodded. “Of course she shouldn’t go back there where he . . . No. Of course. I hadn’t thought about it, but you’re right.”

“Maybe you could help her find another place.”

“Yes. Yes,” said Sabrina resolutely, sipping her Diet Coke. “In fact, I have a perfect solution. We have a basement apartment in our townhouse that Roy intends for his mother to move into one day. It’s all fixed up and lovely, but for now it’s empty. Perhaps she’d stay with us for a little while.”

“That’d be good,” said Holden, his chest feeling tight with gratitude. She had friends. She had people who’d look after her. He felt relieved.

“Holden? Will you stay? You could . . . move in with her. It might be good for her.”

He took another bite of his sandwich, but misery made it taste like paper. He shrugged. “It’s not that simple.”

“No? No, I guess it isn’t. It never is.”

“My ex-girlfriend’s p-pregnant.”

“Ah,” said Sabrina, looking down at her salad. “And you’re doing the right thing by staying with her?”

“Something like that,” he muttered, closing up. He’d talk about Gris as much as he had to in order to ensure her comfort and safety, but his life was not open for conversation.

“Maybe someday . . .?”

Holden looked up at her, closing their conversation with his eyes. “Maybe.”

***

“Let’s try this again,” said the doctor’s voice, still distorted, but not quite as bad as before.

Before? Yes, before. He’d spoken with her once before. The doctor. How did she know him?

“Griselda? It’s Doctor Leonard. Can you open your eyes for me?”

She tried, but her eyes didn’t want to open, and it frightened her almost as much as the garbled, underwater way everyone was speaking.

“Holden?” she whimpered.

“I’m here, angel.” His voice was almost clear, low, rumbling right beside her ear. Her heart leaped, and her fingers trembled, grappling under the sheets, seeking his. Suddenly his fingers, strong and familiar, entwined with hers, and she sighed in relief.

She tried harder to open her eyes. One refused to cooperate, but by blinking over and over again, she was finally able to open the other one. It took a minute to focus, but when she did, Holden’s face was before her.

“Holden,” she said, leaning her neck toward him.

He moved closer, his lips close to her throat, one hand still tangled with hers and the other landing behind her neck gently to still her progress. “I’m here.”

“Keep . . . your . . . fingers . . .”

She lost her train of thought, suddenly lost.
What’s the rest? What am I trying to say? Why can’t I . . .

“Over the letters.”

“Over the . . . letters,” she repeated slowly, her panic receding. “Yes.”

“Does that mean something?” asked the doctor, who was standing behind Holden, facing Griselda.

“Yeah. From a long time ago.”

“I jump . . .” she said, not sure where the words were coming from. They felt jumbled and out of control, like they were floating out of her mouth without permission, from some other version of her life.

“You jump,” he said softly, his warm hand stroking the back of her neck.

Yes. I jump, you jump. Yes. That’s right.

Holden knows.
He understands.

It was a relief.

“Where am I?” she asked, blinking her eyes and looking up at the doctor. And there was Maya beside him. And Mrs. McClellan. Wait. Mrs. McClellan was in West Virginia?

“You’re in the hospital, angel,” Holden said. “In M-Maryland. You got hurt.”

“Yeah,” she said, wishing she could take a good, deep breath. “I’m hurting.”

“I know,” he said, his soothing fingers still rubbing against her skin, the sweet smell of his neck better than any scent on earth.

“I love you,” she whispered, closing her eyes.

“I love you too.”

“Stay,” she said, feeling so very, very tired. “He’s not . . . coming back tonight.”

“Nope,” he said, still holding her loosely. “He’s n-never coming back. We’re safe.”

“Safe,” she murmured, surrendering to darkness.

***

Holden waited until she felt limp in his arms, then he settled her gently against the pillow and looked up at the doctor with worry.

“She’s skipping around, right?” asked Doctor Leonard. “Skipping around in her memories?”

“Yeah. D-different parts of our childhood. Mixing up the past and present.”

“Completely normal,” said the doctor, making a note on his clipboard. “Encouraging, even.”

Encouraging?

“She d-doesn’t know where we are,” said Holden, his panic rising. “She d-doesn’t remember the last few days.”

“She will,” said the doctor. “Eventually. Could be later today, could take a while. We won’t know until she wakes up again. She needs a little more rest and a little more time.”

Time.
Something Holden didn’t have much of.

“You’re good for her,” said the doctor, looking up and offering a slight smile before continuing his notes. “You’re lessening her frustration by being here. I wouldn’t have known what she was talking about.”

“I’ll stay as long as you need me,” he said, looking back at Griselda, who was fast asleep.

“I’m moving her upstairs tomorrow morning. I’m clearing her to leave the ICU.”

“Can I stay with her tonight?”

Doctor Leonard looked down at him, over his glasses. “As long as she’s still here? Sure. Go ahead. I can ask for a cot.”

Holden shook his head. He didn’t want to be that far away from her. “No. Thanks. I’m good right here.”

It took some convincing, but Maya finally went home at four o’clock, promising she would return the next day, after work. Holden had a huge amount of respect and affection for Maya—she’d essentially stayed with Griselda from Sunday morning until today, going home only to shower and sleep for a few hours at a time and using several of her personal days to get out of work. She was an amazing friend to his girl, and Holden would be forever indebted to her.

Sabrina McClellan had turned out to be an incredible friend too. She had left after Doctor Leonard’s consultation, to check on her daughter, Prudence, promising to stop back in the evening for an hour so Holden could grab some dinner and Griselda wouldn’t be left alone. When he thought of leaving Griselda the day after tomorrow, he was relieved to think of Sabrina looking after her, taking her in, encouraging her to go to college. His life would still be shit, but at least he’d know that Gris was safe and supported. Maybe it would make leaving her more bearable.

Gazing at her bruised, sleeping face, though, he knew nothing would make it more bearable. Living without her simply felt like slowly dying.

He clutched his hands together and bent his head, silently begging the God of Leviticus to have mercy on him, to help him be a good father, to help him let Griselda go. And as Holden prayed, he saw himself—the path of his life—more clearly than he ever had before: a boy who’d been abandoned, then kidnapped, then abandoned again. A teen who’d been seemingly apathetic, while trapped and angry. A man who was fueled by hate and loss.

When Griselda walked back into his life, he found the will to live—to
really
live, to let go of the apathy and anger and make something of himself. And yet, without her, just over the course of four days, all that good energy had disappeared. It was almost as though Griselda was his life force, and without her, life was unlivable.

That was true, he realized, but he didn’t like it. He loved Gris, and he wanted her in his life, but he didn’t want to be dependent on her. He didn’t want to steal that energy from her. It wasn’t fair.

In a very real way, it was like his heart had stopped beating that day on the Shenandoah when she “died,” and it had been jump-started back to life two weeks ago, when they found each other again. She left for Maryland, and his heart died again without her. But suddenly he didn’t want it to keep dying whenever she left the room. He wanted to love her and be with her, but he wanted his heart to be strong enough to beat on its own. He wanted to be strong enough to love her and live for her even when she wasn’t standing in front of him. He needed to find that strength.

He wanted to give a shit about his life because that’s the only way it was going to get better. He wanted to be strong enough on his own to offer her something good: love, yes, but also true stability, safety, and a real future—not because she fed a visceral part of him that had been badly damaged in his youth, but because he’d figured out how to repair it and offer it to her.

Are you whole or broken?

He wasn’t whole. Regardless of what he wanted to believe, he’d never
been
whole, because his completion had always depended on her. But now he knew—he felt it like a fist around his heart, demanding satisfaction—he
wanted
to
be whole, all on his own . . .
for
her.

“Holden?”

He turned, in the dim light of the room, to see Sabrina walking in. She was more casual now, in black workout pants and a white T-shirt. She looked younger and more approachable, maybe. Not as fancy. Not as intimidating.

“Hey, Sabrina.”

She placed two packages of Twizzlers on a table. “For Maya.”

“Nice,” he said.

“How’s our girl?”

“Sleeping. Doctor checked in before his shift ended. Said she’ll sleep odd hours for a few days. He guessed she’ll be up for a few hours later tonight.”

“Then why don’t you get a few hours of sleep while I sit with her? Then you’ll be fresh when she wakes up.”

He shook his head. “I’m fine.”

“Well, you certainly need dinner.” She patted his shoulder, urging him to stand up and take a break from his vigil. “I’ll be right here next to her until you get back, okay?”

He stood up, giving her room to sit down. “Uh, yeah. Okay.”

He was hungry. And he needed to text Clinton and tell him he’d be here for tonight and probably tomorrow night too. As much as he hated it, he’d need to return to Gemma by Saturday, or the devil only knew what she might do.

“Thanks, Sabrina.”

She took a book from her leather handbag and shooed him toward the door. “Get some dinner. Or fresh air. Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”

With one last look at his sleeping beauty, he quietly left the room, pulling the door closed behind him.

***

She’s being moved from ICU
, he typed.
I need to stay tonight and tomorrow night. I’ll be back Saturday. Can you cover for me?

Holden pressed Send, then sat back in the cafeteria chair, hoping Clinton would manage Gemma. He’d just plowed through two burgers, fries, and an apple, and his wallet was looking a little thin. He had some money hidden in his apartment, and he was fairly certain Gemma wouldn’t find it, but he’d just spent the last of his fighting money from two weeks ago. He was down to fourteen dollars, and he still needed food tomorrow if he planned to stay another day. Thank God he’d gassed up the truck in Charles Town for the round-trip journey.

Looking around the quiet cafeteria, his gaze landed on the uniformed soldier he’d seen in the elevator that morning. Dressed in a short-sleeved khaki shirt and navy-blue dress pants with a red stripe down the side, he looked proper, but still badass. Maybe because of his shaved head. He handed the cashier some money and waited for his change, then took his tray and started across the cafeteria, looking for the right seat. That’s when Holden noticed his limp. It was pronounced and made the soldier move deliberately, as though every step had the potential to hurt. Looking around, his eyes slammed into Holden’s, and he nodded in recognition. Changing his original direction, he took a few steps closer and placed his tray on the table next to Holden’s.

“Evening,” he said, pulling out the chair facing Holden and carefully lowering himself.

“Hey, there,” said Holden. He tried not to stare but wondered how the man had injured himself.

“So . . . the person you’re visitin’,” the soldier said, putting his napkin in his lap. “He on this side of okay yet?”

“
She
,” said Holden. “Yeah. They’re moving her out of ICU tomorrow.”

“Well, oo-rah for that.”

Holden nodded, chuckling softly. “Yeah. Okay. Oo-rah for that.”

“She your woman? Mom? Sister?”

“She’s . . .” Holden looked down, clenching his jaw.

My heart. My life. My everything.

“Aha. I see.
Definitely
your woman.”

“Yeah,” said Holden. “My woman.”

“Well, I’m relieved she’s on the mend.” The soldier raised his coffee cup in salute, then took a sip. “Damn, but hospital coffee is the worst.”

“No argument here.”

“But this hospital? It’s the worst of the worst.”

“You work here?” asked Holden.

“No,” said the man. “Well, not really. I’m in Marines recruitment. But I come see the boys here. And at Saint George. And over at Walter Reed. Any of the ones I recruited, I sort of keep an eye on them once they’re Stateside again. Especially if . . .”

“I thought you might be in the Army.”

“Bite your tongue, son.” He squeezed a packet of ketchup on his hot dog. “I was a grunt over in the Gulf. Lost my leg. Now I recruit.”

“A grunt?”

“Infantry,” he said. He reached his brown paw of a hand across his table and shook Holden’s. “Franklin Wainwright Jones, lieutenant, U.S. Marine Corps.”

Holden tightened his grip. “Holden Croft.”

“You from Maryland, Croft?”

“No, sir. West Virginia, by way of D.C.”

Lieutenant Jones took another bite of his hot dog, chewing thoughtfully. “You’re in good shape. What do you do, son?”

“I work in a glass factory.”

“That’s not all, I’m guessing.”

“I fight. On the side.”

“Fight?”

“Fistfight.”

“For cash?”

Holden dropped his glance, feeling ashamed. “Yes sir.”

“Helps make ends meet?”

He met Lieutenant Jones’s steady, understanding gaze. “Yes, sir.”

“Ever thought about enlisting?”

“No, sir. I didn’t finish high school.”

“Have your GED?”

“Yes, sir.”

It had taken Holden endless nights of studying and three passes at the test, but he had eventually earned his GED last year.

“Good enough. First year? You’d make about eighteen thousand. That’s your base pay. Then there’s hostile pay, fire pay, housing and food allowances. Medical’s covered. Tax breaks. Biyearly or yearly wage increase. A career. You’d get special training too.”

Enlist? It had never crossed Holden’s mind, never even entered his radar. But, he had to admit, something about it appealed to him.

Lieutenant Jones chuckled as he lifted his hot dog. “There I go. You can take me out of the office, but I’m still recruiting.”

“Never thought about joining the service.”

The older man looked at Holden thoughtfully. “You’ve got the build. Maybe you should.”

“Can I ask you a few questions?”

“Have at it, son.”

“How long is boot camp, sir?”

“Recruit training is a twelve-week program.”

“And then?”

“Ten days of leave. Then School of Infantry training.”

“How long?”

“Sixty days.”

“So that’s five months right there.”

“That is correct, son.”

“Then what?”

“MOS. Military Occupational Specialty training. Infantry, communications, field artillery, avionics maintenance. Lots of choices. We figure out where you’d excel, and we put you there. Give you the tools you need. Three to six months is average. Could be a year or more, though, depending on your field.” He went into a little more detail about the various specialties, and Holden asked questions, drawn to the lifestyle the lieutenant was describing—the stability, the pay, the pride.

“And then?”

“PDS, son. Permanent Duty Station. Could be anywhere around the world. Could be Stateside.”

“So a year of training, and then, uh, PDS?”

“That’s right.”

“And I’d fight.”

“Hell, yes. Almost guaranteed. With the best-trained fighters in the world. Oo-rah!”

Holden took a deep breath, surprised to look up at the clock and realize they’d been chatting for almost an hour and the lieutenant’s dinner was long finished.

“What happens next? I mean, how do I—?”

“Slow up, son. You’ve got someone upstairs who needs your attention today.” He shifted in his seat and drew a business card out of his back pocket. He handed it to Holden. “Think it over. Talk to your woman. You’re interested? You come find me in Baltimore next week, and we’ll talk some more.”

Holden looked at the card before slipping it into his back pocket. “I’ll do that, sir.”

“You’re in real good shape, Croft. We could probably fast-track you to basic.”

“Meaning?”

“It’s June. You pass the entrance exam? I could probably get you to Parris Island by September. That ten days of liberty might even correspond with Thanksgiving, son.”

“Lot to think about.” Holden’s eyes slid to the clock again. “I’m sorry, sir. I have to go.”

“I understand.”

Holden stood up, offering his hand to the lieutenant. “This has been . . . I mean, thank you, sir. I appreciate your time.”

Lieutenant Jones stood up, taking Holden’s hand. “I hope to hear from you, Croft.”

“Thank you, sir,” he said, picking up his tray to clear it, then hustling back upstairs.

***

It wasn’t quite as hard to open her eyes this time. One of them still wouldn’t open, and it hurt like hell, but the other one had an easier time, and after a few blinks, Griselda focused on Mrs. McClellan’s face, reading a book in the chair beside her.

“Mrs. McClellan?” she rasped.

She put down her book and beamed. “Hey, Zelda.”

“Is, uh . . .?”

“Holden went to get dinner. He’ll be right back.”

She tried to take a deep breath, but her mind warned her it would hurt, and it did. She winced, whimpering from the sharp pain. “My chest.”

“I’m know, honey.” Mrs. McClellan nodded. “Punctured lung.”

Punctured lung. Punctured lung. That sounded so familiar. Jonah. And a punctured lung. “Jonah.”