Hard Love

by Shana Vanterpool

  At one point my eyes tired, and I felt my back slacken a moment before I fell asleep. I was awakened by a new nurse. She shook me and then draped a blanket over my lap and a moment later, the TV went off. I fell asleep sitting up as Brando’s monitor led me into a nightmare.

  I was in a forest running. It was dark, so dark, I couldn’t see. My teeth chattered and my heart hurt. And then I saw it. Eyes so green they shamed the trees around me. But they were gone so fast they were replaced with shadows. So many shadows, they came for me. I gasped awake and jolted upright, blinking my eyes awake.

  Nothing had changed. Brando was still in a coma, but his sheets had been pulled down again. The nurses had probably been in to clean him up while I slept. I still floated on a plane of unease. The light outside was bleeding into the room through the curtains. There was a crook in my neck and my mouth tasted like balls. I stood and stretched, my eyes falling across his. A punch of pain hit me in the gut. I didn’t understand the tears, I just knew I was breaking.

  My hands fumbled for him, but I didn’t know where to touch. So much of him was bleeding and broken. So much of him wasn’t even mine to touch. Giving up, I left to get a coffee downstairs and then returned, sitting cross-legged on the chair and staring at his tattoos.

  They started below his collar bone on his left side and one piece wrapped around his shoulder. I couldn’t see it from where I sat, so I followed it down his bicep. That piece seemed to be a woman, but I couldn’t see her entire face, just one dark, haunted eye. The piece on his forearm, however, was easily discernible. It was black—they all were—and the inked random pieces locked together. Eyes exploding looking at the sun. The explosion fell from the sky and turned into tears, and those fell into a puddle, and the puddle became a new pair of eyes.

  My breathing hitched. I leaned close and traced the eyes. They were his. The long raven lashes, the intense attention locked in their depths. I wondered what it meant, and spent hours picking it apart. Eyes exploding—losing sight. Staring at the sun—at all he may have once wanted. The raining of tears—his pain was everywhere. The pooling of those tears—they must go someplace. And the eyes within the puddle of tears—his insides saw when no one else did.

  I rose, leaning over to study the piece on his bicep. It was a woman. The artist who did it caught her beauty perfectly, even up to the wrinkles in her eyes and the small scar on her forehead. Her hair was flowing, wrapping around his entire bicep, and each strand of her hair was a word. I lost count of all the words in her hair. Lost, believe, mistakes, hope, fire, passion—her hair had become a hundred strands of confessions.

  The shoulder piece that close was chilling. Flames, vivid black flames, crackled from the end of a bullet. There was a word on the bullet, and I leaned so close to him my cheek brushed his. Justice was transcribed on the bullet and it was aimed right at his jugular. The backdrop for the tattoo seemed to be roses. A least a dozen roses shielding the brutal danger of the bullet. Their petals fell away and marked his left pec, left his sternum bare, and then an entire new story started on his right side.

  His ink was stunning.

  “Who are you, Brando Hawkins?” I whispered, my lips brushing his ear before I pulled away and sat back down. I closed my eyes and prayed that I would get to know the answer to that question.

  I created a pattern.

  And in a present unchanging, it wasn’t hard to fall into it. But it was hard on my heart. I stayed with him all day and I started talking to him like he was awake. I ate in his room, left when the nurses came to clean his wounds and tend to him, and then I came back, falling asleep most nights—if I didn’t sleep at his place—staring at his unconscious face.

  Sleeping at his place was hard. It wasn’t my space, and I wasn’t sure if he’d want me there when he woke up, but it was hard to be there without him. Ethan showed up sometimes and I’d leave to get coffee to give him some privacy. The nurses and I got well-acquainted, and I’d even drawn one of them a sketch for a tattoo they’d always wanted.

  But most of all, I sketched Brando.

  Brando awake, Brando sleeping, Brando shirtless, his tattoos twisting around his torso. I didn’t draw us together, I was too afraid I’d want it.

  The doctor took him out of his coma two weeks later. His lung was healing and the wounds in his back and chest had survived infection. Keeping him in a coma kept him still, which kept him alive. They warned it could take a few hours for him to wake, and even longer for him to “be himself.” And much longer to get him home. When the doctor called me Mrs. Hawkins, I didn’t correct him, because even my demons didn’t mind the sound of that.

  It had been four hours since they took him out of his coma. He hadn’t moved once. I sighed, tapping my fingers impatiently on the arm of my chair. I was restless and anxious; I wanted him to open his eyes. But I was nervous for when he did.

  I was sketching his hands when I heard him groan. My head shot up and my eyes zeroed in on his face. His lips twitched, and he groaned again.

  I set my sketchbook down and got up, putting my face close to his. “Brando?”

  Another moan emanated from his lips. It sounded like he was in excruciating pain and muddled with confusion. This wasn’t like waking up from a nap in the afternoon. This was waking up from a medically induced coma after having your heart restarted.

  I wanted to settle his confusion. “You’re in the hospital, Brando. You were shot in your back. You’ve been here for over two weeks.”

  A deeper moan sounded from him.

  I leaned over his body and pressed down on the call button. Both nurses rushed in immediately, never having been called into this room before, and they waved me back. One of them settled on his right and began speaking in his ear as the other went to his left to hold his hand.

  “Mr. Hawkins? You are at the hospital. You’ve been in a coma. I know that’s confusing. But you have to stay still. Your wounds healed enough for you to be awake, but not enough for you to sit up. You’re going to be in a lot of pain. You had many injuries and surgeries. If you’re in severe pain, please squeeze Betty’s hand.”

  My eyes shot to his left hand where Betty the nurse held. His fingers gripped hers. “He squeezed.”

  “We’re going to give you some medication to lessen your pain.” The first nurse, Mona, nodded at Betty, who left the room. “Can you speak?”

  He moaned just as Betty returned in a flurry, changing out a bag hooked to his IV line alarmingly fast.

  “You should feel the effects of the medication soon. Yes,” she hummed, when Brando’s entire body relaxed. “Sleep. You’re in safe hands.”

  My eyes flashed to theirs. They looked relieved, so that had to be a good sign.

  “Now what?” I asked.

  “Now, we wait. He’ll probably do that a few times before he’s comfortable enough to be awake with the pain. We’ll have someone check in on him every fifteen minutes.” Mona walked by me. “Why don’t you go home. Shower, sleep, and eat something. He’ll be out for most of the night.”

  “But—” I started to say when they both shook their heads. “Fine,” I sighed. “I’ll be back tomorrow morning.” It was a quarter past eight at night.

  I called Madi on my way down to my rental car.

  “Hi,” she answered. “Anything new?”

  I sighed again, settling into the front seat and staring out at the congested parking lot in my rearview mirror. “He woke up.”

  “He did? That’s great, right?” The hopefulness in her tone made me feel it too.

  “I think so. Now I need to come up with a good reason why I’m the one he’ll see when he wakes up.”

  “Why do you need a good reason? Why can’t you give him the truth? You’re there because you wanted to be. Brando is a sweet man. He’ll appreciate it.”

  “Madi,” I breathed, chuckling sadly. No matter what she went through, no matter the horrors she faced, there was still a subtle naivety in her heart that always warmed mine. “I’ve been sittin
g by the hospital bed of a man I barely know for three weeks. He’s going to wonder why I’m there, and no one else is.”

  “Exactly. You’re there. Not anyone else. I wonder why no one’s come to visit him?” She sounded so sad and confused. “He has to have family.”

  “The hospital’s been trying to find his next of kin for weeks. There isn’t any, Mad. No parents, no siblings, not even any cousins. It’s weird.”

  “Or lonely,” she breathed, exhaling a miserable breath. “Something tells me he’ll be thankful you’re there. Plus, you’re the perfect person to take care of him. You took care of Klay, you took care of me, and you’re not here taking care of her now, but you adopted Trixie the three-legged dog, who by the way peed on our bed last night. Klay was so mad. I had to plead Trixie’s case. Suffice it to say, she’s sleeping in your room from now on.”

  I glared out of my window. “Can I talk to him?”

  “Klay? Sure. Hold on.” I heard shuffling, and then their murmured voices. “It’s Cat,” Madi explained.

  “What’s up, loser?” Klay greeted.

  “If you do anything to Trixie, I will cut your balls off and make earrings out of them, you hear me, Caldwell?”

  He snorted. “Your ears couldn’t stand the weight of my balls.”

  I laughed for the first time in weeks. “They’d go great with a pair of nude heels, so leave my dog alone.”

  “Yeah, yeah, Mad already laid the guilt on. The damn mutt’s fine.”

  “She isn’t a mutt,” Madi’s muted voice argued. “She’s a dog with a multicultural background.”

  Klay chuckled. “That so, huh, baby?”

  “Yeah,” came her soft murmur. I could picture what they looked like from here. All locked eyes trapped in their bubble of lust.

  A moment later, I heard wet skin on skin and knew I’d lost them to a kiss. I hung up without saying goodbye and smiled at the same time I cried. I wanted that. To joke and kiss and know my demons were buried.

  They weren’t buried, and I didn’t have that.

  I had a rental car and a sketchbook full of a man I knew would decimate my heart like so many before him.

  Not out of evil.

  But out of necessity.

  A man with no family didn’t come any more prepared for this than I was.

  Chapter Five

  Brando

  The hush that had fallen over my soul was gone.

  In its place was turmoil.

  Pain burned in my blood. I felt nothing but pain in my back where I lay. I tried to open my eyes but they wouldn’t unhinge, and I tried to move but I couldn’t move, and I tried to talk; nothing came out but groaning.

  My brain was muddled with too many things, too much pain, too much confusion.

  “Brando?” a soft melodic voice whispered.

  I was thankful for the whispering. It didn’t hurt to hear. I tried to talk, but nothing came out but a garbled string of words. It fucking hurts, was what I wanted to say.

  “Does it hurt?” they asked.

  I tried to say yes.

  “You sound like a zombie,” they teased, but there wasn’t any humor in their tone. “There’s a morphine drip in your IV. There’s a button on your right. It’s set up so you can’t overdose. Press it when you need it. But—” they started, but I’d already grabbed for the button and pressed. “It’ll knock you out and I’d really like you to wake up.”

  I was out in seconds.

  When I woke up the second time, it was much of the same thing. The pain was blinding in my back. Why the hell was I lying on my back if that’s where it hurt the most? I demanded angrily, and since the only person I could talk to in my head was me, I let myself have it good. I grappled for the button and pressed it, fading into unconsciousness. I did that five more times before I woke up and went for the button only to come up empty.

  “They took it away.”

  What? Without the weight of the morphine, I felt my brain come off the fog. My pain was a dull aggravating ache, but I might as well get used to it. I faded in and out for what felt like hours to me, but when I finally did manage to get my eyes to open, I didn’t know anything about time anymore. My eyes absorbed the harsh light in the room. I squeezed them shut. My heart monitor picked up.

  When I pried my eyes open again, I caught a few blurry shapes before I had to close them. I did that a few more times before my eyes got used to the light and they could see again. What I saw, however, didn’t make things clearer.

  I was in a hospital room. Everything hurt. And Catherine Abbot was sleeping in the chair beside my bed. Even high on pain and lost in blood, she was beautiful. Her onyx hair was in a messy bun and she was sleeping on her hand, her other hand hugging her torso. Her blanket had fallen to the floor in sleep and goosebumps sprouted on her arms. She wore a black shirt and jeans, and her feet were sock-clad; her Converses were tucked under her chair.

  Why was she here?

  I lay there for a while, fighting sleep. My brain was full of bloody memories but there weren’t many questions I had left. I could piece together what happened after I got shot. The only pressing questions I had were about the woman sleeping in my room and where my safe was.

  Sleep won out. When I came to, the sun bled into the room, and Catherine wasn’t there. My stomach twisted at the realization, but I pushed it back. I tried to move, finding it slightly easier today than it had been any time prior. I got as far as lifting my right hand to lift the sheet, finding my body completely bare. The sheets were pooled around my waist.

  My heart stilled. My upper body was exposed, probably had been for however long I’d been in the hospital. Great. So much for pretenses.

  Someone pushed the door open and my eyes shot to them, finding a woman in a pair of Nemo scrubs.

  She smiled wide when she noticed me awake. “Morning, Mr. Hawkins. My name is Mona. What’s the pain at? One finger for manageable and two for severe.”

  I held up one. I was tired of being out of it. The confusion in my brain felt almost as bad as the bullets had.

  “Good,” she said, coming to stand beside me. “I cleaned your wounds for the day, so that will eliminate a lot of your discomfort and give you time to acclimate. Would you like to sit up?”

  “Yes,” I croaked with a throat scraped so raw it killed to talk.

  She cringed. “Water first, I think. I’ll go and get some water and some chicken broth. See if you can keep that down before we start feeding you, sound good?” She seemed to be waiting for my response, hanging by the end of my bed.

  I nodded. “Thank you.”

  Her smile warmed. “I’m just glad you’re okay. Your wife has been by your side for weeks.”

  My wife? My brows shot up, but I didn’t have the energy to argue. Where was my wife? I glared at her empty chair and then took a deep breath, trying to focus.

  Mona returned with a pitcher of water and a cup. She poured some into the cup and then brought it to my lips. “Slowly,” she urged when the lukewarm liquid hit my lips. “You’ve been empty for almost a month.”

  The water was like rainfall in the desert—it soaked my dry tongue and throat. I drank a large swallow and then she took the cup away, staring into my eyes for a moment. I guessed she was waiting for me to puke. Giving me a nod, she brought the cup back and let me finish it before setting it down.

  Sitting up wasn’t as easy. My back was throbbing and burning; my side felt like there were nails driven into my ribcage. The wounds on my chest were tender and raw; one wrong move would reopen every wound I’d gotten. But I did it. And judging by the relieved look on Mona’s face, it went better than she thought it would.

  “Chicken broth,” she stated, bringing it to me. “Would you like to try holding it and feeding yourself?”

  I nodded, taking the cup from her, and finding my strength already returning. The chicken broth was bland and watery, but it was wet, and that’s all I wanted.

  “Keep that down and I’ll bring some Jell-O in ne
xt. Doctor Nino will be in shortly to speak with you. Are you up for it?” She patted my thigh reassuringly.

  But I wasn’t reassured. “Yes. Where’s Catherine?” I rasped, clearing my throat carefully. Everything hurt.

  “I sent her home first thing this morning. She’ll probably be back in a few hours. Would you like me to call her?”

  I didn’t have it in me to put up walls and figure out which pretense would be most pleasing. Odds are she’d seen every inch of me anyway. Lies weren’t working anymore. “If it’s not too much trouble.”

  “I’ll call her ASAP. Sit tight.”

  I didn’t comment. Where was I going to go? The door opened not a minute later. A man possibly in his late-fifties wearing a white coat emerged, and he was all smiles. It chilled me, to see how relieved everyone was. When the doctor opened his mouth, I figured out why.

  “Your heart stopped at the scene. Paramedics had no idea how long you’d been out when they revived you. It’s a miracle, Mr. Hawkins, that you’re alive with all your faculties.”

  I stared at him and then looked down, needing to free myself from the relief in his eyes. They didn’t think I’d live, let alone know my own name. There was a sudden sharp hollowness in my chest I hadn’t ever felt before. Doctor Nino went on and on, and though I knew it was important I listen, I didn’t have the willpower. What I gleaned was enough to stab that hollowness in my chest further and it was enough to freak me out, too.

  After he’d left, Mona returned, and I scarfed down the strawberry Jell-O in seconds. She quirked her brow. “Your appetite’s just fine, I see. How about some chicken soup and chocolate pudding for dinner?”

  “I’d prefer a few beers and some hot wings, but I’ll take what I can get.”

  She laughed. “You and me both, Mr. Hawkins.”

  I was licking my chocolate pudding cup clean when Catherine barreled into the room. She skidded to a halt and our eyes latched. Her deep brown eyes were rimmed in red and she looked flushed and panicked. I knew the signs. Stress, anxiety—something had done a number on her since I saw her last.