Take It - Part Two (3 page)

There are flowers when I come back into my room after having my hand x-rayed, and they were sitting beside my bed. A really nice bouquet, not overdone or cheesy. No card. My mom brought me flowers the morning after she got the call, with a lengthy note inside, half gushy sentiment and half motherly scolding.

Very few people even know, or care, that I'm here. It certainly didn't come from Mr. Jones or anyone else at BioSim. As far as they're concerned, I'm old garbage, ready to be drop-kicked into space. My heart thuds, thinking they might be from Harrison. There would be no excuse for what he did to me. There would be no coming back from that, but for some reason I still hope he cares for me. Maybe only to feel validated in my love for him.

As I stare at the flowers I try to hold onto one bit of good news: the injury to my hand is not as bad as everybody assumed. I broke one finger, and it's going to be badly bruised for some time. But there are no torn tendons or ligaments. Some of the swelling has gone down, and I've regained some finger dexterity.

This hospital stay isn't so bad, though I have no idea if I still have medical coverage through BioSim. I’m putting off finding out.

The hospital stay is giving me time for serious clinical self-analysis and an undisturbed shot at shaking myself out of this fog. God knows, when I get to Mom's house I won't have much alone time for deep introspection. If I know my mother, by the end of the first day she will have a kitchen table full of job openings clipped from the local paper and phone numbers scrawled across the clipboard next to her phone. It’s her idea of fixing things. She doesn’t understand I didn’t just lose my job; I ruined my career. I trashed my chances of working in my field ever again. I need to let that go and put my former life behind me. If I don’t tell her why, she’ll never stop trying to convince me something that drastic isn’t necessary.

My plans for a future with Harrison Burke crashed with my car. I don’t have the energy or ammunition to confront him. For all the world knows, I was part of a devious plot to thrust his flawed Ultimate Glucose Solution on an unsuspecting public. But there will be someone to come in behind me and spot the same things I did. The drug will not make it through rigorous testing. I may have bought Harrison more time, but I didn’t give him any approval, so if that was his end game, it failed. I'm not even addressing the fact I thought we had the start of something special. The damage to my heart is a different beast all together. One I don’t feel brave enough to let out of the cage and slay.

What frightens me more than anything about this scenario is if Harrison walked through my hospital room door right now, professed his love to me, and begged for forgiveness, I don’t know how I’d react. I feel so empty, but given the chance to refill myself, I might be stupid enough to actually allow him back into my life.

He doesn’t seem to be trying to do that, so I don’t have to worry about my reaction, because it doesn’t look like he cares enough to even try.

Staring at the bedside phone, I wonder if I should reach for it. My mom has gone home for the night. I only know two other numbers by heart. Tracey’s and Harrison’s. Straining toward it, I pull the whole thing to my body, and it tumbles off the stand and into my lap. Slowly I punch in Harrison’s cell phone number. It rings four times and goes to voicemail. It shouldn’t surprise me. No one picks up from a number they don’t know anymore.

After the long beep I sputter out an almost incoherent message. “Harrison, I’m not sure how I’m going to do this. How am I supposed to do this? I can’t do this.” My voice trembles as the sobs come, and I slam the phone down onto the receiver. There was no point to that call. I didn’t get to scream at him for what he’d done. I didn’t get to find out why. All I did was look like a feeble-minded idiot. If he’s trying to destroy me, I just showed him he had.

But if the phone rings right now . . . I’ll pick it up.

My mother places the same tray she used when I had the flu as a child across my lap. It’s a dingy brown metallic tray with legs that fold out on either side to keep it steady. On it wobbles a bowl of kids cereal and a plastic cup of orange juice, more pieces of childhood nostalgia. My mother’s sentimental streak is worrisome. When she tells a story, you would think she was recounting something she did last week when in fact it happened twenty years ago. Her brain is fixated on the best years of her life, back when her kids were small and before her husband revealed himself as a philandering cheater. As my eyes trace the angles of her tired face, I pray I don’t ever fall into the same trap. My time with Harrison was a powerful magic, and I hope my mind doesn’t continue to wander there dreamily for the rest of my life.

One of my biggest realizations is that everything I thought I was never really existed. I tried to project myself as a powerful, well put together, and accomplished woman. But I was weak. Not just with Harrison, but with every aspect of my life. I allowed myself to be sexually harassed by my boss and convinced myself it was my fault for being a woman in a man’s world. Harrison didn’t leave me with just a broken heart—he left me with a devastating reality check. A power business suit and long-term employment don’t mean shit if, at the end of the day, you don’t value yourself. How could I think I was a strong independent woman when I let myself get steamrolled every day at work?

My mother smooths my wild bed head down with her fragile hand, and I cringe inwardly. This time warp is making me feel smothered, and I’m wondering if I’ve made a grave mistake by agreeing to move in here.

“I’m sorry the television in your old room doesn’t have many channels. I’ve rigged up the rabbit ears so you can get the classic movie channel you loved to watch. That’s about the only option.” My mother clicks the remote and the old boxy television hums to life. After it works out its static and kinks, the screen pops up with an old movie I haven’t seen in over a decade. I used to be glued to my mother’s side watching every glamorous movie from the thirties and forties. I can’t remember why or when I stopped watching them, but the large fluttering eyes of the actress makes long for the comfort they used to bring.

With a spoon in my hand, the television tuned to an old movie, and my pillow thoroughly fluffed, my mother sneaks out of the room to head to work. “I’ll be back to check on you at lunchtime. I’ll make your favorite, that soup with the letters in it.”

With a quick wave she’s gone, and I take a heaping spoonful of the sugary cereal loaded with marshmallows. Looking around my old room I see everything is just how I left it, in all its heartthrob-poster glory. Sadly, my mother left our rooms like little shrines to the lives we lead as children.

As I finish my breakfast and awkwardly move the tray to the bedside table, I can still feel the ache in my hand and foot. I’ve never been without a plan. But what can I do? I’m too injured to job hunt. My mangled phone can be replaced easily, but I’m not sending my mom on that errand for me. Who knows what she’d come home with? If they made rotary cell phones in basic black, she’d pick it.

Everything has been moved out of my apartment. Half's here, half's in storage. Not surprisingly, my mother did a horrendous job of deciding which clothes to bring here. Anything that looked like I might have worn it in high school made the cut. She’d even dug a jumper out of her attic that she thought might still fit me. I’m trying to find the humor in all of it, but honestly it’s starting to feel a little like a horror movie where the crazy old lady keeps a girl hostage and tries to relive her past, dressing her in clothes she hasn't worn since she was ten. If my mother were a psycho, this would be her MO.

I draw in a deep breath and close my eyes, praying I can sleep. But images of Harrison flash behind my eyelids. Even if sleep overtakes me, he will be in my dreams, waiting to torture me. So I sit for a moment wondering what I really want. If I could have anything right now, besides a time machine or for Harrison to not be a bastard, what would it be?
A shower.

The one thing this old house does have is a water heater with a dial that snapped off years ago. The water is always blazing hot, nearly unbearable. I pull up the collar of my pajama shirt and realize I still smell like the hospital, like a broken person who can’t do anything for herself. I need to set my mind to something and accomplish it before I fall any deeper into the well of self-pity and loathing.

I shift sideways and ungracefully roll out of bed. I’m supposed to be on crutches, but my mother intentionally parked mine by the front door. It’s not exactly the same as slamming my legs with a sledgehammer, horror movie style, but she is trying to make me stay put. Hopping like a wobbling fool, I make my way to the bathroom and spin the shower knobs until steam is billowing up over the lacey shower curtain. The side of the tub is higher than I remember, probably because I have to get into it using only one foot. I wiggle out of my clothes and feel a small sense of victory. I look down and see the stitches, snarling their way up my ankle, and remember I’m not supposed to get them wet.
Damn.

I’m committed now. I’m getting in this shower. I’ll hang my bad foot out over the side of the tub if that’s what it takes. Putting my back toward the tub, I rest my butt on the edge and whip my good foot over the side. Now all I need to do is stand up and leave the bad foot right where it is. Easy.

I grab the shelf that holds the soap in one hand and the shower curtain in the other and gingerly try to lift myself up to a standing position. I’m nearly all the way up when both the shower curtain and the soap shelf come tumbling down on me. The porcelain shelf that broke free from the wall smacks me hard in the head right at my hairline and it only takes a second to see a dark pink trail of bloody water coming down. I’m deep in the tub now and can’t get enough leverage to push my body up. My foot hanging out the tub is making it impossible. Shaking and exhausted, I’m foggy from the smack to my head. Once again I’ve screwed up. This is becoming the mantra of my life. I can’t be trusted to make my own choices.

I lie there under the hot water and let it wash away my blood and sobbing tears. I have no idea how I’ll get out of this. When my mother gets home at lunch, she’ll chastise me for being such an idiot. If she knew how stupid her daughter really was, she’d lock me up for my own good. I look down at my naked and mangled body trapped in a bathtub and think she might not be wrong to do so.

Over the thundering noise of water pelting down on the plastic shower curtain, I hear something. I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting here. Maybe a half hour or so? It can’t be my mother yet. If it’s a rapist or murderer I might as well resign myself to my fate because I have absolutely no defense. Maybe he’ll just laugh at my pitiful situation and spare me.

Tuning my ears to the noise, I realize it’s a knock on the front door. Murderers don’t knock, do they? No one uses the front door on Mom's house besides door-to-door evangelists and solicitors. Everyone else comes in the side door. I hear the metallic knocker come down again on the wooden door, and I hold my breath. Why I’m trying to be silent I don’t know. I should be screaming for help but do I really want some stranger coming to my naked rescue? As the water begins to run cold I have to face reality. I could be stuck here for hours if I don’t speak up right now. The blow to my head is making me dizzy, the soap made everything slippery, and the blood is coming a little faster now. I have no choice but to call out.

“Help,” I say in a hoarse, pained voice, mustering all my energy to put more volume behind it. “Please help me!”

“Jenny?” I hear a voice call from outside. It’s a deep masculine voice. In the fog of my hazy mind I think it’s Harrison. He’s come for me. The lying bastard has finally tracked me down. My hate and affection for him is so intertwined I don't know how to react. I just know I need to get out of this shower. “Harrison, help me please. I’m in the shower. Help!”

I hear a loud thud followed by others until I hear wood splintering and the front door slamming into the wall behind it. I picture Harrison kicking it open to get to me, and I call out his name again so he can find me. “Harrison, I’m in here.”

“Jenny?” I hear as the bathroom door pushes open, and a man who is not Harrison steps through. Thinking it was Harrison coming, I did nothing to cover myself, but now as I try to identify this stranger, I frantically pull the shower curtain over myself.

“My God—what happened?” Pierce, the firefighter, asks as he rushes to turn the shower off. The reprieve from the thundering water pummeling me is a relief, but nothing else about this feels very good. “What are you doing in the shower? You aren’t supposed to be up on your own yet, I’m sure.” He looks around the bathroom and grabs a towel off the rack.

My body is quivering fiercely now. Blaming it on the frigid water that had been blasting down at me, I’m overwhelmed. I’m at a breaking point and not sure my mind can take anything else.

“You’re freezing. I need to get you out of there. Can you move at all?” Pierce asks, assessing me from head to toe. He appears to do so clinically, not an air of curiosity about my bare body, just the injuries.

“I can’t,” I croak out, my body suddenly wracked with heavy sobs. Maybe I can move; I don’t know. I just want to close my eyes and make the world disappear. I want the pain to end: the one in my heart and the one in my banged-up body. I give up. If I could fit down the drain I’d gladly follow the water down the dark pipe into the abyss.

“Don’t worry,” Pierce assures me, pulling the shower curtain off me and replacing it with a plush towel, staring away from me the entire time as if making an extra effort to disregard my vulnerability. “I’m going to lift you up, is that all right with you?”

I nod my head and wipe some of the blood trickling down my face out of my eyes. Pierce scoops me up, placing his hands around my shoulders and under my legs, lifting me as though he’s lifting a feather. I feel his biceps under my naked body, and I close my eyes, avoiding this moment.

“Stay awake, Jenny. Stay with me.” Pierce pokes his head into a few rooms before finding mine. As delicately as possible he places me on the bed and sits on the edge of it so he can get a better look at the cut on my head. “I’m going to call an ambulance,” Pierce says as he digs his phone out of his pocket.

“No,” I say catching his hand with an urgency that surprises him. “Please don’t. I don’t want to go back to the hospital. Please don’t make a big deal out of this. I just want my life back.” I know those words mean nothing to him. He doesn’t know me, or the mistakes I’ve made. The foolish way I’ve ruined my life. But I’m guessing it’s the tragic look in my eyes that makes him hesitate. My desire to lean forward and kiss him is completely irrational. But my naked body, covered only with the thin towel, is shivering not only from the cold but also from the desire to be held, touched, pleasured. I’ve been shown what it’s like to be teased and titillated in the perfect way. Every day, no every minute, I go without it is a withdrawal I can’t manage. I want a fix, and this man with all his muscles and kind eyes looks perfectly suited to give me what I need.

“Jenny, you need to get this cut closed up,” he insists. There isn’t an ounce of passion in his eyes. He’s all business right now. His only concern is my current condition.

“Can’t you do it? Please don’t make me go back to the hospital. I’m sorry I tried to take a shower. I just wanted to feel normal again.” I’m still holding his hand, and his face softens.

“You’ve been on my mind since the accident. There was something in your eyes that day. It’s why I came by to check on you today. You’ve just stuck with me. It’s normal for victims to feel this, Jenny. There is far more mental trauma after an accident than people realize. Yours was particularly violent. You need to recover both physically and mentally. Give yourself some time.” He squeezes my hand in a comforting way, and we both seem to pull away at once. Couldn’t I make a move on him right now? How could he say no to a soaking wet, desperately horny woman who throws herself at him? But something he said stops me in my tracks.

“Victim?” I say, mulling the word over. I hadn’t really thought of myself as a victim, but maybe he’s right.

“I’ll get my first aid kit out of my truck and glue that cut shut. It’s right at your hairline so you probably won’t even see it.” He leans so close to my head that his broad chest is right in my face. I used to love to nibble on Harrison’s neck, down his shoulder, and across his chest before making my way down to a blow job. The path I blazed across his body seemed to increase the excitement for him. Would Pierce like that too?

His white shirt is wet from carrying me. Total traitors, I feel my rosy buds begin to poke up, thoroughly aroused. I realize Pierce may be professionally cool and collected, but I'm toxic and restless—unsuitable to make decisions. Maybe running my hand up his powerful thigh until I hit his cock then stroking it until it’s pulsing and hard isn’t wise. He could be married. Maybe he’s in a serious relationship with someone.

Trying to distract myself, I notice he's wearing a crucifix, a rather ornate one for a man, though how am I qualified to judge—
Miss Lapsed Baptist
? When he leans forward, the tiny cross swings forward, thumping my injured cheek.

"Sorry,” Pierce apologizes as he tucks the pendant into his shirt, sending me a waft of his masculine cologne. It’s very musky and, while it suits him, I can’t help but note how different it is from Harrison’s earthy scent. It’s amazing how the brain works. While I was getting the best fuck of my life, I could smell Harrison, and now no other scent compares.