Gus (23 page)

The right side of my face is throbbing and tender.

My scalp burns where he pulled my hair.

My wrists are ringed in purpling bruises, a gift from his restraint. A telltale reminder of the size and strength of his hands. There's pain and tingling weakness.
 

I hurt.

I'm sobbing so hard that I'm nearly hysterical at this point.
 

I can't wash him off me.

I need to wash
him
off me.

I need to wash
me
off me.

I feel sickened by what happened. He's never gone that far before. Not even close.

But I can't help but feel responsible. I went with him, when I knew I shouldn't.
 

The blame keeps shifting from him to me. From me to him. I know it's all on him.
I fucking know that.
But my screwed up mind always turns everything back around on me. I'm always to blame for people treating me badly; it's how I've lived my life. People I love don't know how to love me back. They hurt me. That's how they love.
 

That's how they love.

When the water begins to run cold, I step out and just stand there dripping on the tile floor. I'm looking at myself in the mirror over the sink from afar. My right cheek is bruised, and my eyes are puffy and red. I tenderly touch my face. The bruises on my wrists look worse now that I see them next to my cheek, a vicious purple trio. As the wounds emerge, I gasp and take a few steps closer to the mirror. There's a fresh cut bleeding amongst the scarring and bruising on my right cheek. He punched me with his left hand.
His left fucking hand
. "
That lying bastard
." He was wearing a wedding ring and I hadn't even noticed, because everything deteriorated so quickly into a nightmare. His. Wedding. Ring.

My shoulders rise in a sob, but nothing comes out. I'm cried out.
 

I skip clothes and walk into the bedroom and climb in under the sheet. I need to sleep.
 

For days I need to sleep.
 

Maybe I'll wake up and realize this was only a nightmare. And when I wake up I'll never talk to Michael again. Ever.

Sleep comes for me quickly, my mind taking pity on my body and shutting everything off.

(Gus)

It's around midnight when I get home. Franco and I went to Joe's Bar to watch a local band play. They were good. We stuck to a booth in a dark corner in the back and no one recognized us. The whole night was mint.

Ma's sitting in the living room reading. "Hi, honey, did you have a good time?"

"Hey, Ma. Yeah, I did." The answer surprises me. I did.

She smiles. "Good. Do you want something to eat? There are leftovers in the fridge. I'll heat them up if you're hungry."

I yawn. "No thanks, Ma." I pat my belly. "Had three grilled cheese and a basket of fries at Joe's earlier. Tank's full."

She laughs. I love to hear her laugh. I'm hearing it more and more lately.

I walk over and lean over the back of the sofa and kiss the top of her head. "I'm going to bed. Night Ma. Love you."

She reaches up and pats my cheek with her hand. "I'm going to shower and go to bed, too. I love you, Gus. Good night."

As I'm walking toward the hallway she calls out, "Gus, can you check on Scout before you go to bed? She hasn't come out of her room all night. I knocked on the door around seven o'clock to see if she wanted to eat with me, but she didn't answer."

"She's probably sleeping, Ma, it's midnight. I don't want to wake her."

"Just make sure she's not sick or something," she replies.

I shrug, but do as she asked. I knock softly on the door. I really don't want to wake her, so it's a half-hearted effort. I know she didn't hear it unless she's awake and has her hearing aid in. I've learned her limits where hearing is concerned. No movement inside and no answer. I turn the doorknob slowly and push my way in. I feel like I'm breaking and entering, burglar-style, in our own home. With the door open and the moonlight spilling in, for an instant I see Bright Side standing there in a tank top and panties, just the way she looked on her last night here before she went to Grant. When I blink, the apparition is gone. Damn, I only had one beer tonight. I shouldn't be seeing things.

When I glance at the bed, I see her lying there, Bright Side, hooked up to IVs and oxygen. Fighting to make the most of her last days. I didn't sleep during her last weeks with us. I stayed up all night looking at her, not wanting to miss out on even a minute with her. I watched her, just in case she needed anything. I held her hand, just so I could feel her, so I knew she was still real. Still my girl. Goddamn, I don't want to be in this room with her memory. It feels heavy, claustrophobic.
 

Every thought evaporates into the air like a wisp of smoke when I catch sight of something—something that doesn't look right. I open the door wider and the light from the hall floods in. Stepping closer to the bed, I stop when I get confirmation and my stomach twists. There's a bruise on Impatient's cheek that spreads to the edge of her eye, and a cut runs down the middle of her cheekbone. The scarring stands out bold against the purple background. I let my eyes drift over the rest of her and the sick feeling amplifies when I see a solid bruise three inches wide circling each wrist.
 

"What the fuck?" I wasn't supposed to say that out loud. I was thinking it in my head. Over and over and over, but it wasn't supposed to pass between my lips.

She stirs and I cringe, because I don't want to wake her. But at the same time I want to find out what happened. Find out what I can do to help. And find out who the motherfucker is so I can hunt him down and kill him.

"Gustov?" Her voice is hoarse. It's always hoarse when she wakes up, but even more so now, like her throat's been brutalized.

I kneel on the floor next to her, so we're on the same eye level. I'm talking softly because I don't want to upset her, but loud enough that she'll hear me because I'm sure she doesn't have her hearing aid in. "What happened?"

Even in the dark, I see recognition flare in her eyes. She looks panicked. She's pulling the sheet up over her cheek and hiding her arms and hands underneath. I don't know if she's more self-conscious about the bruises or her scars. I've never seen her left arm bare before. The scars extend down from her shoulder almost to her wrist.
 

Spare Ribs was curled into her side, sleeping peacefully. She stands protectively and meows, probably sensing Impatient's stress. I shush the cat and pet her once before picking her up and setting her on the floor.
 

"Hey." I pull back the sheet so I can just see her eyes. They're shiny. "Hey," I repeat, it's quiet and coaxing. I need answers. I'm not sure I really
want
to hear them, but I
need
to help her. "What happened?"

She's staring at me now. The look on her face is determined. She doesn't want to talk. Slowly that fades and morphs into hurt and sadness as her forehead creases and the corners of her mouth turn down, tight with the effort of someone who's trying not to cry. And then the tears start, one or two before her strength crumbles and she's sobbing.
 

I don't know what else to do, so I sit on the edge of the bed next to her belly where the cat was tucked away. There's not much room. I start stroking her hair from the crown of her head down to her shoulder blades. Ma used to do this whenever I was upset as a kid, and it always worked. She's still crying, but I can feel her relaxing. When her eyes open, and the tears are no longer flowing, I don't know what to say to her so I run her soft hair through my fingers. Again. And again.
 

She sniffles and tries to smile at me. "You're not an asshole, Gustov."

I didn't expect that. I shrug. "Sometimes I am."

She shakes her head. "No, you're not. You're one of the good guys. Believe me."

I don't know where she's going with this, but I need to steer her in the direction of answers. "So, who is the asshole?" She knows what I'm asking, and my mind keeps going to fucking Michael.
 

She shakes her head.
 

I touch her cheek gently and her instinct to hide her scar is paired with pain. I pull back my fingers quickly. "Sorry. You want some ice?"

She shrugs. "Doesn't matter."

"Pain matters. Swelling matters. Let's help both with some ice. And then we'll talk."

Ma's in the shower when I head back out to the kitchen. I can hear the water running. I don't want to worry her until I know what's going on with Impatient, so I decide to hold off until the morning to tell her anything because she'll sit up all night worrying if I only give her the few details I have now.
 

After a stop in the kitchen for a baggie of ice and a kitchen towel, I head back to Impatient. I'm almost there when I hear it. I'd say someone's knocking on the door, but the level of noise that's coming from the foyer would imply someone's pounding the shit out of the front door and skipping polite knocking.

The pounding is quickly fueling a fire that ends with me in a rage. By the time I reach the door I'm ready to pull the motherfucker off its hinges and go ripshit on whoever's on the other side. I swing it open, yelling, "
What the fuck
?"

And then I see him. Fucking Michael. My blood is boiling now.

He's standing there in his three-piece suit trying to look all composed and professional, except that he's practically vibrating and a vein at his temple is throbbing. I can smell the gin on him like he's been marinating in it instead of drinking it.

He hasn't answered me, so I try again. "Jesus Christ, was all the pounding really necessary, dickhead? We have a fucking doorbell."

"Where is she?" he growls.

I laugh, although that question is anything but funny to me. I know this guy put those bruises on her even if she won't admit it yet. He's bad news. Standing before me now, he's a head case on the verge of psychopathic. "As soon as you laid a fucking hand on her you lost the right to ask that question. I should beat your ass right here, right now, you sonofabitch. But I'm not gonna do that because, believe me, motherfucker, if I get started I won't stop until you're lying face down in the driveway, no longer breathing.
Leave
."

He shakes his head and his body sways to right itself. He's drunk off his ass. "She's mine."

I shake my head and take a step over the threshold so I'm nose to nose with him. "What the fuck kind of creepy stalker talk is that?
Leave her the fuck alone
."

"Are you fucking her?" The temple vein throbbing has amped up in intensity.

"None of your fucking business."

A short burst of disgust flares from his nostrils. "I knew it."

"Listen, I don't know what you think you know, jackass, but you need to leave Scout alone. If I find out you've contacted her in any way, shape, or form, I will find you, you piece of shit.
And I will annihilate you
. Are we clear?"

Before he can answer I've stepped back in the house and slammed the door in his face.
 

"Goddamn, I need a cigarette," I say to myself as I march through the living room toward the hallway. I need to get back to Impatient.

The bedside table lamp is turned on when I return. It's dim, but lights the room in a soft glow. She's dressed in a long-sleeved pajama top and shorts. The pillows are propped up against the headboard and she's leaning back on them. Her legs are pulled into her chest and her chin is resting on her knees. Her hair's messy and tangled and her eyes are puffy, like she's been crying for days.

"Here you go," I say, handing her the ice pack. My hands are still shaking with anger from the run-in with fucking Michael, and I'm trying to calm myself.

She takes it and presses it to her cheek, wincing against the pain.
 

I sit on the bed next to her. She seems relaxed, but not in a peaceful way. It's more like all of the energy has been drained out of her. "So. This is the part where I ask questions and if I'm lucky, you answer them."

She nods.

"When did you meet fucking Michael?"

"
Fucking
Michael?" she questions, though it also sounds like agreement. One hundred percent agreement.

"Yeah, that's what I call him in my head. Seems especially fitting tonight." I'm trying to hold back my anger, but it's proving difficult.

She takes a deep breath and heaves it out, and just when I think she's going to keep quiet she says, "I met him a little over two years ago. I was at a coffee shop near my subway stop, killing some time. There was a storm outside. He came in, bought some coffee, and asked if he could sit with me because every other chair in the place was taken. Against my better judgment, I said yes. I thought he would just sit there and ignore me, because that's what people usually do. They don't want to stare at my scars, so they pretend I'm not there."

"But he didn't ignore you?"

She shakes her head sadly. "No. He talked to me. About normal stuff. It was small talk, I guess, but it didn't feel small to me. We talked for over an hour, and in that hour I never once felt ugly or broken." She's talking quietly, but her voice carries so much emotion. And it's the kind of emotion that could flip at any moment only you don't know which way it's going to go. Sad. Mad. Defeated. Vengeful.
 

"You're not ugly. Or broken."

Her eyes find mine, but there's no agreement in them and she continues without acknowledging my comment. "He asked for my phone number when I had to leave to catch my train." She shrugs. "And I gave it to him. He was handsome. And he was interesting. And he had on a nice suit. And he was charming. And I didn't think he'd actually call. No one had ever asked for my number before. I was sure he'd throw it in the trash on his way out the door."

She stops there, so I prompt her to continue. "But he did call?"

She nods and exhales a long, slow breath. "He did. He called a month later. He lived in Florida and traveled to New York for a few days every month for his business. He took me out to dinner that night." A faint smile crosses her lips, but instead of joyful, it looks disgusted. "I remember how nervous and happy I was."