I placed my hands on the hood—pretended I didn’t see them quaking—and stepped back with one foot. Then I leaned forward, pressing all my weight against the car.
I glanced up shocked. He was laughing at me. “I’m sorry.” He mashed his lips together. “It was a valiant effort,” he mocked, though his voice held less bite than before. “Maybe we should trade places, hm?”
I was attempting to move a car, in the rain, up an incline. Yes, we should have absolutely traded places. But I felt shamed by lack of strength, and the possibility of inflicting anymore damage on Dominic’s car made me nauseous.
“I want to try again,” I said. And this time I coached myself, using Emily’s voice.
Plant your feet. Put your hands on the hood. Take a deep breath. Now Push!
For one very brief, euphoric second I believed I was doing it. The impossible; moving an automobile ten times my weight. That second over with, I realized the great surge of momentum was not the car propelling forward, but me.
I opened my eyes, watching myself shoot up the hood, then travel back down it with a blow to my forehead. This made a tinny sound, like a mallet whacking a steel drum. All color faded and I felt my limbs go slack. I was a glob of jelly dripping off the edge of a counter. My head thudded again—the back of it—as my body finally met the cold, unforgiving pavement. I lay supine, desperate for air, in absolute darkness.
The flutters brushing across the shallow hallows of my cheeks told me my eyes were in fact opening and closing, though darkness was all I could see. My ears on the other hand, were working just fine. A terrible sound, like helium released from a balloon one fraction at a time, grated against my eardrums. Faintly above it I heard a door slam.
Very large hands were gently pressing my shoulders flat. “Foster,” said a terse voice flecked with concern and fear. “Foster, you need to lie still.”
Frightened and unable to breathe very well I did the opposite; the hands tightened, pressing firmly until I was entirely recumbent. “No, lay down!” The voice barked.
I was startled to realize that awful sound was me, attempting to bring air into my lungs.
“You’ve had the wind knocked from you. You need to lie still,” he repeated. “Please.”
It was not the brusque demand that summoned clarity to mind, but the fervent—almost helpless—word following the demand that caused me to obey. I stopped fidgeting beneath the insistent hold, taking a deep and moderately painful wheezing gasp. The grating sound ceased; oxygen coating the inside of my lungs, spreading out and absorbing into the deprived organs like thick lotion on dehydrated skin. I could breathe.
“Good. That’s better, right?” Warm breath smelling of cinnamon fanned across my face. “Can you open your eyes?” His voice was low. I didn’t need to see him. I imagined the wide arching brows, thick and black, merged together over glowing blue eyes. “Foster?” I responded to the panic in his voice by flinging my eyes open. “Oh, thank God,” he groaned, eyes closing briefly. I watched as his face relaxed and the muscles around his jaw and forehead went slack. He squeezed me once, then took his hands from my shoulders and clumsily raked them through his hair. My entire body flooded with warmth—a side effect from the blood and oxygen beginning to recirculate, I told myself. I squinted against the harsh, gray sky forming a hazy glow around the mop of black hair falling into his eyes. A small smile tugged one side of his mouth into a lopsided grin. “I thought you had passed out.”
I smiled in return, mortified to the point of nausea, and tried to lift my neck.
“No! Don’t move.” The brusque voice had returned, but the concern stamped on his eyes told me it was not anger but fear he spoke with. “Let’s just—stay still for a minute, okay. No moving.”
I nodded and the sky started to spin, like I was in one of those awful carnival rides that suction you to the wall. I closed my eyes, and instantly felt much better.
“When you’re ready, try moving just your legs.”
He spoke with the authority of someone experienced with such situations.
“Ready?”
“Yes,” I answered hoarsely, doing as he advised and rolling out both ankles.
“Good,” he said instantly, the tone congratulatory and detached. “Does anything hurt?”
“No,” I replied, wincing as I tried to open one eye. “They both feel normal.”
“Good. You’ve already moved your neck and arms, so I don’t think anything’s broken. Let’s try sitting you up.”
I worked past the pain and opened both eyes. When I did I noticed the strangest thing. While Dominic’s voice was cool and composed, a physician-like lilt to it, his expression was puckered. He didn’t look well at all.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
Bewildered, he stared at me. “What?”
“Your face, it—nevermind.” I felt my cheeks warm and knew I would be fine.
Still . . . moving was an entirely premature endeavor. I knew this the second I tried to lift my neck. A clammy sweat broke across my forehead. I wouldn’t be able to do this myself. “Do you think—” His hands were instantly on me, supporting my back as I rose to my elbows. Again, the torrent of warmth raced up my body; along with it, a searing pain that turned everything a blazing white, eclipsing his face from view.
“Does that hurt? Do you want to lie back down? Where does it hurt?”
“No,” I said breathlessly. “I’m okay . . . I just need a minute to adjust.” I saw his expression, both stricken and unconvinced. I smiled, opening my eyes wide with a show of vigor. “Much better,” I said.
“You’re pale and sweating,” he observed sardonically.
“I’m . . . always pale,” I countered. “I can feel the beginning of a headache. I have Advil—in the car.” There wasn’t one pore that didn’t ache. “I’ll be fine.”
“We’ll see,” he said, his tone implying something. He rose to a squat, and then suddenly the hands were around my waist, lifting me carefully into a full upright position. Taken aback, I bobbed when I should have weaved, and our faces met. Very faintly his cheek grazed mine; the skin was soft and warm, leaving behind a tingling heat. Busy in the task at hand, and more than likely wanting to hurry up and be done with it, I didn’t see him respond in the slightest. With his head bent near mine, rearranging my slicker, I took advantage of the proximity, peeking at him out of the corner of my eyes. It didn’t help my labored breathing. I had to swallow a gasp when I spotted a tiny scar running down the length of his bottom lip.
It’s real . . .
After waking from the auditorium dream, I was sure I’d made up that detail. There wasn’t any way for me to know such a scar existed, having never been even remotely this close. It was the thinnest of flesh colored threads, shiny and less than half an inch long.
Getting me situated, he angled his head at me as though to ask, “Is this okay?” and caught me staring at his lips. The inquiry on his face disappeared as our eyes locked, mere inches apart. The icy blue eyes were anything but cold as they rolled slowly over my chin, lips, nose, and then again my eyes. I couldn’t breathe; this time it had nothing to do with any deficiency on my lungs’ part. The sonorous display of drums in my chest was loud to my own ears, and I only hoped the wind rustling the leaves in the trees was even louder. A misted breeze lifted the dark bangs from his forehead, leaving the tiniest of drops smattered over his skin and eyelashes. I concentrated on the droplet, a perfect crystal clinging to the long, black lashes. He blinked and it was gone, the moment along with it.
The distance between us quadrupled as he rocked back on his heels. With the connection severed, I started to breathe again—slowly, so as not to make an abrupt noise. And though I could no longer see directly into his eyes, the moment was sufficiently long enough for me to see something else that took me by surprise.
Over the last eleven days, I’d asked myself endless questions about Dominic, never able to answer any of them. The little I did know—what had been told to me—differe
d greatly from the actual firsthand experience I had. And in the last twenty minutes, it was careful and screened emotions he’d allowed me to see: anger, irritation, worry, and sarcasm—relatively simple emotions considering the gamut of human emotion. It was locked in that spontaneous stare, however, that he hadn’t enough time to block me out. For that reason alone, I’d seen something I was quite sure he never meant to show me.
He was hiding something—and it was more than just his disdain for me.
“Why didn’t you just say you couldn’t do it?” He stared accusingly, his sculpted face cleverly concealing all traces of secrecy. Wiping his palms over his knees in rushed swipes, he removed bits of gravel as he glared accusingly. He suddenly rose so that I had to crane my neck to see him. “It wouldn’t have been a big deal,” he added, “and if you had, then maybe we would have been able to make it there.”
The abrupt change in his behavior had me reeling; it also had me wondering if I’d imagined the whole thing. Maybe he really was just a mean and angry person. This misdirection, ironically enough, was exactly what I would do were our situations reversed. His methods of pushing people away were far more hostile than mine, but the same nonetheless. It was the question of why, I couldn’t quite figure out.
After more than a year of keeping my closest friends at arm’s length, I didn’t have any misgivings about doing this. If I wanted to keep Jake and Emily in my life it was necessary. But Dominic didn’t want me in his life—that much was abundantly clear. I couldn’t understand, why then he would go out of his way to keep me at arm’s length? I was nothing to him.
“I’m sorry,” I said quietly, lowering my head. “You’re right, I should have said something.”
This seemed to befuddle him and the glower intensified. “Where’s the nearest hospital?”
“Um.” I had to think about it. Since moving here, I hadn’t been to a hospital, and only occasionally drove by them. I opened my eyes when I had the answer. “Clancy Mayes Memorial, I think. Why?”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. “Because I’m taking you there.”
“What?”
Spoken casually, it took a moment before the words registered. When it did, I gaped up at him, forced to squint at the blindingly white sky. This caused a sharp pain to slice through my head, and with it more words I had somehow overlooked.
And if you had, then maybe we would have been able to make it there.
Between the momentary one-hundred-and-eighty-degree twist in Dominic’s behavior, the twist back, trying to process what all of this meant, and working with a brain that was slightly impaired after being so rudely handled—for some reason I had added the words, “on time,” to the end of his sentence.
Dominic’s hands were busy at the buttons of his phone. Knowing what he was doing—getting directions with intentions to take me somewhere that wasn’t The House of Hope—made me sick with helplessness.
“You know—the hospital,” His voice was almost friendly enough to convince me he was sincere. “That place where the highly caffeinated people in green scrubs and white jackets make you all better?”
“But . . . why? I’m fine.” He flicked his eyes at me, offering the driest of glances before moving them back to his business, thumbs clicking like rapid fire.
“For one, because it’s closer than the asylum,” he answered, abstracted.
Ignoring the sarcasm, I decided showing him I was fine, rather than telling him, would likely be more conducive to the situation. I began the laborious process of getting to my feet. Even with taking my time, moving from one foot to two, then into a crouch, I very nearly face planted into the ground. Dominic watched these proceedings through scrutinizing and wary eyes. As I rose to my full height, my vision dimmed at the corners. Dominic leapt forward to steady me, grabbing hold of my arms just above my elbows. It was a poor attempt to prove I didn’t need emergency care; I had to admit that, but I was fairly certain I could have managed if he hadn’t intervened.
“See?” I said, a little breathless, but cheerfully.
“See, what?” He laughed humorlessly. “That you just about fainted trying to stand up. Yeah, I did see that, actually.” He let go of me once I was stable, then resumed the clicking.
“Can you tell me what time it is, please?” I asked, changing subjects.
He ignored me, then glanced up with a stern look, hesitating. “Eleven-forty-five.”
My eyes widened incredulously, but I managed to stifle the gasp and took off toward the curb. Running fifteen minutes late wouldn’t have been a big deal in most situations, but this wasn’t one of them—I was never late to see my kids. Before I reached down to grab one of Dominic’s boxes, he was in front of me, blue eyes wild with indignation.
“What are you doing?” His voice was terse, but he managed to speak evenly enough.
“Oh . . . did you not want to take this one?” I asked, my voice specious with innocence. He gave me a shrewd look, raising one eyebrow very slowly. I took a breath for courage and bent down to pick up the box.
“Foster”—I didn’t need to see his face to know how upset he was. The way he said my name, copiously imbuing each letter with anger, astonishment, and a demand to stop what I was doing immediately, gave me a very good idea of what I would find when I stood up—“You’re joking, right?” I could hear him trying to control his breathing. “You’ve just bashed your head into the hood of my car, followed by a repeat into the cement. You can hardly stand up—you can’t seriously be considering running around with a bunch of rowdy kids for the rest of the day.”
“I feel much better now.” I righted myself, offering a reassuring smile while I waited for his face to come into focus. When it did, I wished it hadn’t.
“Do you, really?” he said pleasantly, matching my smile with a dazzling one of his own. “Well, you might want to inform your face of that. You’re whiter than a sheet, Foster.”
“I just need to sit down for a little while. I’ll be fine by the time we get there.”
“No,” he stated firmly and abducted the box from my hands without looking away. I opened my mouth to respond, not sure of what I might say, but knowing I needed to say something. He quickly became impatient and bent down to scoop up the other box. “Go wait in the car while I put these in the trunk.” He spoke quickly and calmly, with the assurance of someone who believes a matter has been settled.
It wasn’t though; it couldn’t be. How do I convince him that injuring myself was as unusual as eating breakfast? And, that if I allowed my whole life to stop every time I tripped, bumped, or stumbled into something, I would never get more than a few feet at a time.
“This is normal,” I said, my voice wobbling with panic. “For me, this is normal. I’m clumsy. I run into things and . . . people.”
“Yes”—a wry smile twisted his lips, accompanied by a dark chuckle—“I have noticed that about you.”
I flushed. “So then you understand why I have to go.” I whirled, starting toward my car at a brisk pace before he reacted.
Time had worn out; I was already late and every minute we stood here talking about whether or not I was going, was another minute wasted. I didn’t want to leave Dominic here, stranded and without a ride, but if it came down to it, I would choose my kids. I raised my voice loud enough so he could hear, keeping it steady and light, but my faux calm was already beginning to crumble.
“Do you want to see if someone inside the store can help you move your car?”
“Do you”—he roared back at me, enunciating the words and making it clear he wasn’t going to let this go—“understand you could have a concussion?” His footsteps were heavy as he followed after me, overburdened by the weight of two heavy boxes. “There could be bleeding in your brain and you wouldn’t even know it.”
Reaching my car, I turned and said the first thing that came to mind. “They have a doctor on staff if I start to feel queasy.”
“Oh.” He let out a long exhale, blinke
d, and then smiled serenely. “Well, why didn’t you say so?” The placid pretense was gone and now he glared at me, taking deep breaths through his nose. “Let me try putting this another way and see if you can understand,” he said, voice shaking as he spoke from clenched teeth. “We are going to the hospital—even if I have to put you in the trunk to get you there.”
My first instinct was to be frightened—this was not exactly a veiled threat. But even more than being scared of him, the thought of not being able to see my kids and knowing for certain how disappointed they would be if I didn’t show up, took precedent.
“Dominic”—I’d meant to state his name with determination; however, it was little better than a whimper—“I have to g-go. You don’t understand how important it is—my being there, how important it is to them. I have only a couple hours with them during the week. Sundays.” I made myself take a gulp of air. “Sundays are their favorite.”
Listening to myself, I was aware I was becoming less and less coherent. My throat wasn’t being overly generous—thick with emotion and forcing the words out garbled and watery. I wasn’t crying, but the idea of it was hovering close, nipping at the back of my eyes. Dominic remained stoic, hand fastened behind him to the door handle. Standing this close to him, I thought I saw just enough uncertainty in his eyes to give me the courage to continue.
“They wait all week for Sundays,” I said eagerly, the emotion swarming on me with a vengeance. My desperation was making me careless. More slowly I said, “I always plan something really special for us to do together. It’s—it’s one of the only consistencies they can rely on. If I don’t show up, they won’t just be disappointed . . . they’ll be devastated.” He didn’t move. It was as if all his features had hardened inside a mound of amber resin. The fiercely bright blue eyes, the straight long plane of his nose, the full rose lips—all stilled into a inexorable expression of obstinacy. “Dominic . . . I have to go,” I whispered. “Please.”
Then all at once, his expression softened. His rigid, unrelenting body seemed to close in on itself. Staring with resignation and no longer truculence, he searched my eyes as if something precious or misplaced might be found in them. Something about the way he looked at me made me want to turn and look away. Something equally as powerful refused to let me. I held his gaze, overcome with the absurd longing of wanting him to find whatever it was he was looking for.
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