N K Smith - [Old Wounds 03]

by Weight of the World (epub)

  I had not.

  She wouldn’t let me look at her for long, and turned away. I had wanted her to take my hand, but instead I was the one who took hold of her index finger. I stepped through the door and she closed it behind me.

  “I have coffee,” she mentioned quietly.

  I nodded, hoping she would see that I would accept a cup, but she wasn’t looking. With just her finger within my closed hand, I followed her to the kitchen and stopped at the coffee pot. She handed me a mug and then poured the coffee.

  I felt relieved at just the smell of it. I was tired and my body ached. I felt like I could have slept for days.

  Sophie still didn’t look at me and the awkwardness was the same as when we first met. Maybe she thought I was angry with her. Maybe she felt bad about yesterday.

  I didn’t want her to feel bad or to think I was upset with her, but I couldn’t get her to look at me and I still didn’t want to hear my voice, even if it was calling her name.

  Setting down the cup, I pulled her to me, both wanting and needing to feel her in my arms. She took a deep breath when her face was pressed against my chest. Her hands moved to my lower back and her arms tightened around me.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. I could barely understand her words muffled against my body. “I wish I was different for you, and that I hadn’t done all of those things … before, but …”

  I wished I could’ve just told her that she didn’t have to be sorry about things that couldn’t be changed. I wished I could just say that I was sorry for my reaction and that I would never judge her based on things that happened in the past.

  People are evolutions of themselves. Who we were a year, a month, a week, or a day ago was not the same as who we were presently.

  But again, even though I wanted to alleviate her guilt and shame, the words stuck not in my mouth but in my chest. There was an underlying fear after each big attack and it kept me from wanting to interact at all. In fact, I was surprised that I was here with her.

  After one last long squeeze, I moved away, keeping hold of one of her hands and taking my coffee in the other as I led her to her room. I was sure that there were other parts of her house that were enjoyable, but I was willing to bet that none was as comfortable.

  We sat together on her bed and she asked me a few questions about the hospital and then about music. I suspected that she switched topics in an attempt to draw me out, just like Dr. Emmanuel.

  I used all known forms of nonverbal communication to reply.

  “So what? You’re not talking now?”

  I shook my head.

  “Why?”

  I shrugged.

  “Because of yesterday?”

  I nodded.

  “You’re mad at me?”

  I shook my head again.

  “You think I’m a slut, right?”

  She turned her head when she asked that, so I tightened my hold on her hand until she looked at me. I bored my gaze into hers and shook my head slowly. I did not think of her like that. She could use those words if it made her feel better, but I never would. Not in voice, and not in thought.

  Sophie looked like she was going to cry. As much as I wanted to give her a smile to calm her, my lips remained unmoved.

  “Are you,” she paused, letting her eyes search mine, “embarrassed about yesterday?”

  I nodded. I had no words that could adequately describe how horrible I felt that she had witnessed a break-down like that. It wasn’t my worst, but I had needed an ambulance. They picked me up like a baby and put me on a gurney. I felt so small and not at all masculine.

  How could I expect her to share anything with me when I panicked so badly at a simple admission about her having sex with that guy?

  “So you aren’t talking?”

  I shook my head.

  “At all?”

  Again, I indicated no.

  The line of her lips settled into a frown. “Well, that fucking blows.”

  I had to smile at her bluntness.

  “I love your voice.”

  The smile faded and slowly I shook my head yet again. No one could love my voice.

  Sophie took the mug from my hands, set it down on her bedside table and moved to sit on top of me. I breathed deep and waited to see if it was of a sexual nature, but as she took my face into her hands, I knew it wasn’t.

  She pressed her lips against mine and then whispered. “I do love your voice, Elliott.”

  She tasted like coffee and French toast, and smelled like a rose amid a blueberry patch. I breathed her in as if she were air. I could feel her inside of me, giving oxygen to every cell, awakening the dead parts of my body.

  Sophie leaned in, pressing herself against me and tucking her head into the crook of my neck. Her breath tickled me.

  Even if she didn’t say it back to me when I told her I loved her, even if she panicked and told me to take it back, I chose to believe that she loved me a little, too. Her kindness and the comfort she constantly provided for me was evidence enough.

  I could get upset and angry over every guy she might have had sex with, but deep down I knew that what we had was more. She might have shared her body with them, but she had never shared her heart. That part of her was still a virgin and she gave it to me to hold.

  And I gave her mine.

  Her lips were pressed against the skin of my neck and part of me longed to feel her tongue against my skin, but I was happy the way it was. She gave me the ability to be silent without pushing for me to move beyond what I was comfortable with. Sophie understood what all the therapists in the world would never get: I was silent when my world was deafening with noise.

  Sophie knew that once I figured out how to turn down my world’s volume, I would be ready to give my voice again.

  But for right now, there was nothing to say and not enough words to say it.

  After a while, we lay down together and after I was sure that she was sleeping, I let myself fall asleep.

  I dreamt of the dark winter in Chicago. I saw myself waiting for the bus with my shoes that were too big and my coat that was too small. I was still in elementary school and had to ride the bus alone. The other kids were mean and I sat at the front, right behind the driver.

  He was relatively nice and would yell at the other kids if they came near me. It had only taken that one time on his first day to figure out how I reacted when they got too close. It wasn’t that they had just gotten too near; they all gathered around and yelled at me. Their words were fairly unintelligible, but their intent had been clear and they’d scared me.

  My dream continued on to school where I relived the routine of those horrid days in rapid seconds, only to find myself at home, taking my wet shoes off and putting them out in the garage. I wiped up the floor before my father saw the marks I had made because it was too cold to take them off outside.

  Chores came first, and then my studies. First the Bible and then my school work. Joseph made dinner and I set the table. My father’s prayers always lasted fifteen minutes. The noodles were cold and clumpy. He would ask us what we learned today. Joseph would always mention what he learned from the Scriptures first and then would speak about what math equation he was working on in his high school class.

  I would never look up as I told my father what verse I’d been studying. He never had enough patience to make it beyond that. He would tell me what it meant for me and my blackened spirit, but he would never give me time to explain what I thought it meant.

  I cleared the table and cleaned the kitchen while Joseph and my father read the Bible. I never knew where they were; sometimes they studied in the living room, sometimes not. Sometimes Joseph would help when he could, but most nights I would clean until my father told me to stop because it wasn’t good enough. He would always say that
he had to clean up my mess for me since I was unable to do it properly.

  In my dream, I found myself scrubbing the floor that was already clean. It felt like hours that I spent re-washing the dishes after that. Finally, even though I knew what was next, I felt relieved that it was time for prayer and lessons.

  I put the supplies away and moved slowly upstairs.

  The broom was on the floor at the end of my bed. My father stood next to the door with his well-worn Bible in his hands. The strap was on my dresser.

  I didn’t look at him and he didn’t speak. I knelt on the broom, my knees already hurting before they touched the hard handle. He silently placed the Bible in front of me, opened to Isaiah.

  “Shirt, please,” he said, as he did every night.

  Slowly I unbuttoned my shirt with trembling fingers. When it had slipped down my shoulders, he bent and picked it up, then folded it as always and placed it in the laundry basket near my closet.

  “Read.”

  I turned my eyes to the pages below, the text almost too small to make out, but I didn’t need to read it. We had been on the same passage for two weeks. I knew it by heart, but still had trouble saying it.

  I took a deep breath and thought about my mother. I imagined her smiling at me. I remembered the song she sang to me.

  “Read, please,” he prompted again. If I wasted any more time his tone would become unpleasant.

  I started off slowly, concentrating hard on my breathing.

  “But He … was … wounded … for … our trrrransgressions,” I took a deep breath, hoping that my father wouldn’t fixate on how I drew out the word. Hoping that he would let it go, I peeked up at him, but turned my eyes back down when I saw him looking at me. “He … was … bruised … for our iniquities: the chastisement of our … peace … was upon him; and with his … stripes we are … healed. All wwwe like sheep have gone astray, we have turned every one to his own w-w-wway …” My breath caught and I instantly felt sick. Without looking, I knew what he was doing. I heard the strap drag across the dresser. My breathing quickened.

  “Continue, please.”

  I couldn’t speak aloud for fear of messing up the verse again.

  The first lash against my shoulders stung deep, but it was his voice that drove me to speak again.

  “Continue, please.”

  “… and the LLLord has llllaid on hhh-hhh-hhhim the in-i-i-iquity of us all.” I finished quickly, knowing that the next lash was going to hurt worse and it would be followed by more. Then he would make me repeat the verse after.

  I heard the strap again.

  Thankfully before I felt it, I woke. Sophie was sitting up next to me, her legs drawn up to her chest. She gave me a small smile, but it was very difficult to feel comfort when I knew I could have done anything while I was asleep, so I had no idea what she saw.

  I sat up quickly and pressed the heel of my hand to my forehead.

  “Are you okay?”

  I nodded, even though my head throbbed.

  I looked down to see little white impressions on my right hand. Thankfully, I hadn’t broken the skin.

  Sophie didn’t say anything, but her eyes were on me.

  I knew that she didn’t understand. I knew that one day I would probably have to tell her about … everything. I knew nothing made sense to her. I saw the confusion on her face that day on the beach when I couldn’t adequately tell her why sand was different in my mind than potting soil.

  It had taken Kate a long time to get me to help her repot plants. At first I would just watch her. Her hands would be covered in dirt. Sometimes she would scratch her cheek or chin and I would feel sick at the sight of the dirty smudge.

  She liked houseplants, so she was always busy with them. She’d been repotting a Norfolk Pine when she asked me to open the bag of soil. It took me ten minutes to even touch the bag, but she sat there patiently, not watching me, just fiddling around with the roots of the tree. She called it “tickling.” She “tickled” the roots to shake off old soil and make it easier for the root system to acclimate to its new environment.

  When I was finally able to hold the bag open, she scooped the dirt out with her bare hands. As she moved it to the new pot, a chunk fell onto the back of my hand and I dropped the bag. Her fingers brushed it off my skin but little crumbs were left behind. I felt like I couldn’t breathe.

  Kate took my hand in both of her dirty ones and pulled me up. She walked me to the spigot and held them under the running water.

  “It washes away,” was all she said.

  While I watched as the dirt ran down my hands onto the ground, I couldn’t help the goose bumps that formed on my skin. My teeth were clamped tight and tears stung my eyes.

  I had taken a long, hot shower that afternoon, hoping that the sin would wash from me as easily as the filth had run from my skin, but it was no use.

  “Look what I found.” Sophie’s voice pulled my attention from thoughts of the past. When I looked up, I saw that she was no longer on the bed next to me, but was pulling something out of the top drawer of her dresser.

  “I almost threw it out when I first got here, but for some reason I kept it.” She crawled up the bed to me, holding a purple box. “Tom’s been telling me about a bunch of shit I’d forgotten. I think my grandma Catherine got this for me when I was like eight or something.”

  She smiled timidly before opening the lid. A tiny ballerina in a pink outfit started dancing while the tinkling music box music started. I recognized the song and instantly my fingers began to move as if over the keys of a piano. I wished she had one here so that I could play it for her.

  There was nothing in the box, but she was staring at it with wonder as if it were the best thing she’d seen in her life.

  “I think I remember it. I probably left it here on purpose so Helen wouldn’t make me burn it.”

  I reached out and touched her cheek. She barely flinched, but I saw it. After she recovered, her eyes closed and she nestled her cheek into my open hand. I wanted to tell her that I loved her again, but I didn’t want the mood to change. It made her uncomfortable, but just like being touched on the face, she would get used to it.

  Her letting me touch her face at all told me how she felt about me. I found myself thankful again that she allowed me to be silent instead of pushing me to speak. No one else in my life would have done that. Even Jane would have pushed in her own way.

  We had only spoken about it that one time, so I wondered if Sophie remembered that in two days it would be the anniversary of my mom’s death. I hoped she did, even if she didn’t say anything. I just wanted her to know that my inability to function properly was not because of her.

  I didn’t expect her to truly understand, considering the people I’d lived with for five years still didn’t really know how to handle it. Stephen always tried to speak to me. David avoided me because he was fairly clueless about how to handle some of my darker moments and Jane always tried to be quietly supportive, but didn’t understand my need for solitude.

  It didn’t seem right to share that day with anyone and the days leading up were always horrible. Something always went wrong.

  I tried this year for the first time to do something normal, but just like always, the day ended with oxygen masks and a trip to the E.R.

  I tried to focus on the little music box, but my head was still hurting and I kept thinking of Scripture, my father, and my mother’s brains sliding down my door.

  “Do you like it?”

  My eyelids fluttered and I swallowed hard. Then I looked back up at Sophie and shook my head.

  “You don’t?”

  Wait. I’d forgotten what she asked me. Finally I remembered she was holding the box, so I nodded.

  “Are you okay?”

  I could have nodded and pretended tha
t things in my head were as normal as they got, and ended it all, but I couldn’t. Slowly, I shook my head. A moment later I felt her hands in my hair, my mind slowed, and I felt marginally better.

  “Let’s just drive somewhere tomorrow, okay? We’ll just drive. We can just … you know, just take off and we’ll find some place to … shit, I don’t know, but we’ll be away from here and you won’t have to think about stupid shit and you won’t have to talk if you don’t want to and I can just …” She was rambling at this point and while I loved that she just wanted to drive me away from the demons of my past, the demons of a tainted and wicked spirit would follow me wherever I went.

  Instead of listening to her like a good boyfriend would, I kissed her, just to make her quiet. Her hands tightened just a little in my hair and normally I liked it, but today the way the skin pulled taut against my skull aided the headache that had already assaulted me.

  Gently, I pulled her hands away and brought them between our chests without breaking the kiss. The backs of my hands touched her breasts by accident. I wanted closeness but not like that. I feared that she would misinterpret my intentions.

  I hadn’t touched her below the waist since that first time, and she hadn’t asked, but knowing Sophie, she wanted me to.

  Her tongue moved out against my lips. I wanted to let her distract me with kisses. She was always a lovely distraction. With her, my mind could focus on something other than the rampant craziness in my head.

  However, I had just awoken from that dream about my life in Chicago and her kisses, the ones that were trailing away from my mouth and moving down toward my neck, were not working in that same distracting capacity. It was unfortunate because I wanted the feel of the lash to be gone. I didn’t want to recite the verse in my head.

  If I just ignored the pulsating pain in my head and allowed her to distract me, I wouldn’t have to feel bad. Perhaps it could be the best Christmas in years. Maybe if I allowed myself to feel good, I wouldn’t have to experience one more year of emotional pain.

  Before I was able to debate the pros and cons of going further with Sophie this particular day, she pulled away from me. I looked at her, wondering why she stopped when Sophie never stopped.