Die for You

by Amy Fellner Dominy

  “Stop it!” I scream. I grab his wrist with both hands, but he doesn’t quit. He drags my hand with his so I feel the press of the blade against his flesh.

  I’m on my knees, all my strength focused on stopping him. I can hardly see through the blur of tears as I cry, “Stop! Stop! Stop!”

  His hand shudders, trembles. The knife hovers just above, his strength too much for me. “I won’t go,” I cry. “I won’t leave you…only, stop!”

  “Do you love me, Emma?”

  “Yes!” I scream. “I love you.”

  The muscles of his hand ease and I grab the knife. Blood is everywhere, all over his hand and his sweats and the knife and now my hand and my bare legs. The rusty wet scent of it makes my stomach heave. I lurch for the side of the truck and barely get my head over before vomit burns up my throat and spills to the pavement below. My whole body convulses and I let it all come up—I want it all out of me. Finally, nothing is left but gasps. Shakily I wipe my mouth on my sweater and collapse back in the truck. My face is wet with tears and snot, and my chest heaves for breath.

  “It’s okay,” Dillon says in a comforting voice.

  I burst into new sobs. He’s watching me, concern in his eyes. For me.

  His hand is an open wound. “Dillon,” I say. I gesture to his hand. He stares at the blood almost curiously, as if he doesn’t feel anything. Is he in shock? Am I in shock?

  “We need to get you to a doctor. Let’s call your mom and—”

  “No.”

  “You’re bleeding!” I dig around in the blankets beneath me, looking for something I can wrap around his hand. Then I remember. There’s a thick headband in my purse. When I have it, I turn back to him. “Give me your hand,” I say.

  “You have blood on you,” he says. “My blood.”

  “Give me your hand,” I say again.

  “Will you give me yours?”

  “What?” I cry. I’m ready to shatter into a million pieces. I don’t know what he’s talking about.

  He shifts to his knees so we’re at the same height. He takes my hand and presses his palm against mine. The stickiness of his blood makes me want to vomit again.

  “Blood vows,” he says. “Remember?”

  It takes a second—my mind is a whirl—but then it comes to me and I nod. I told him once about an ancient Wiccan ritual called blood binding. It was said to be a marriage ritual where a man and woman would draw blood from their fingers and drink it in a cup of wine. Then they’d join hands and be bound by words and by blood. Dillon laughed about it. Said Communion wine would be just fine for him.

  “This is our blood vow,” he says fiercely. “Nothing will come between us.” His breath is fast and ragged as his eyes begin to burn with a different sort of heat.

  “Dillon, please—”

  He turns in one quick motion, his weight pushing me down in the bed of blankets. “I love you, Emma. Let me show you how much I love you.”

  “Your hand!”

  His shape is above, blotting out the moonlight. His left hand is still pressed to mine while he uses his right to tug down his sweatpants and yank open my shorts.

  No no no no no no no no no no.

  I want to push him off me. I want to crawl out of my skin and run. But I’m trapped by his weight. Trapped by his tears on my cheek and the broken murmur of his voice whispering my name, over and over.

  A desperate prayer. An aching plea.

  He’s not himself. He doesn’t mean to.

  I swallow a sob and let him take what he needs.

  With my face turned into the blanket, I squeeze my right hand into his left and force pressure on the wound. I need to keep him alive—that’s what matters. His blood is dripping down my arm and I have to keep him alive.

  He needs help. I have to get him help.

  When it’s over, Dillon collapses, pressing his face to my shoulder.

  “I’m sorry,” he cries. “I’m so sorry.”

  “I know.” I lift my face to the sky so I can breathe. “It’s okay,” I say. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

  I wonder if anyone has ever spoken those words when they weren’t a lie.

  AUGUST 25, AD 79

  HUSH OF THE NIGHT; 3:00 A.M.

  It is raining white.

  The gray stone has long since spent itself on the roads and roofs of Pompeii and something much worse has been falling. The rock is larger and whitish like bits of bones, bleached in ash.

  Anna is lucky to be alive.

  As the world collapsed around them, Marcus pulled her, stumbling, down a narrow flight of stone steps and into a basement with scarred wooden walls and floors. One oil lantern provides a small golden glow on their huddled forms and on the stacks of goods that lie in broken piles at the opposite end of the storeroom.

  Down here they are protected from the timber, plaster, and heavy ash that is raining down above them. But they are not safe.

  They are trapped.

  The remaining household slaves lucky enough to dodge death have also gathered here, each praying to his or her own god.

  “We will be fine,” Marcus says. He clutches the wooden chest. “The rock will stop and the dust will settle. We will be the lucky ones. The smart ones. Surely the gods have willed it.”

  “The gods have willed this?” Anna says in a voice that shakes like the earth.

  “You will see,” Marcus says. “My father will reward my bravery. He will buy your freedom.”

  Anna has never felt less free than she does now.

  “Where is the ring I gave you?” Marcus asks.

  Remembering, she unties the pouch and pulls out the ring. Even this day cannot completely dull the glimmer of gold. Squeezing her eyes shut in a quick prayer, she slides the ring over her finger as the night thickens around them. The rock rises higher and higher, the sound of it an agony that Anna dreams of escaping.

  “We will be fine,” Marcus repeats, over and over.

  Anna rubs the ring and tells herself that she will live through this. The ring is proof—it must be. And so she waits, and hopes.

  Dillon makes sure I get home safe.

  He hums to the radio, one arm draped over the wheel, the other reaching every few minutes to touch my hair, my shoulder, my thigh. His left hand rests lightly on the steering wheel, the sterile tape a three-inch stripe of white that circles his hand and holds the thick gauze bandage in place.

  “Are you okay?” he asks every few minutes. When we pull into my neighborhood, he slows the truck to a crawl. “You’re so quiet. Don’t be so quiet. Em. You’re okay, right? We’re going to be okay.”

  I nod.

  “We’ve got prom in less than two weeks,” he says. “It’s going to be so special. I’m going to make sure it’s special.”

  He talks and I let his words wash over me like the saline the nurse poured over his wound. Maybe I should have told her. My instincts said no—not with Dillon sitting there—but can I trust my instincts? I’m focused on what I need to do, but I’m also scared. Very scared. I need to be careful. I need to do this right.

  We only waited fifteen minutes at urgent care before a pretty nurse with blond hair and pink lipstick cleaned out the wound and gave Dillon something to numb the pain and a tetanus shot in his shoulder. “You’re very lucky,” she said, watching as he tapped each finger to his thumb. “It doesn’t look as if you’ve cut any tendons.” Then the doctor came in and knit together the edges of Dillon’s torn flesh with twelve stitches. Everything sewed up nice and neat. Dillon is eighteen, with his own insurance card, and at that time of night no one seemed interested in asking a lot of questions. An accident, he told LeAnn, the nurse. He’d been slicing an apple and the knife slipped, momentum forcing the knife across his hand before he realized. It’s the same thing he’ll tell his mother later.

  I held Dillon’s good hand and imagined following the nurse out to the hallway and pulling her into an empty room. My boyfriend did that to himself, I would tell her.

&nb
sp; And then what?

  Would she even believe me? Dillon had her charmed in thirty seconds, and he was so relaxed that I kept looking at the cut on his hand to remind myself that it was real. I was the one shaky and on edge.

  “Can I get a drink for my girlfriend?” Dillon had asked. “Do you have Gatorade or something with electrolytes? Emma can’t stand the sight of blood.”

  So LeAnn brought me a blue Gatorade and I drank it while she layered ointment and gauze pads over the new stitches, taped everything down, and instructed him to see his family doctor in twenty-four hours and have the dressing changed. Then she smiled and proclaimed Dillon good as new.

  He turned and smiled at me. “I’m fine, Em. There’s nothing to worry about. I promise. I’m fine.”

  And I could see in the deep blue of his eyes that he absolutely believed it.

  —

  When he pulls up in front of my house, he shifts the truck into park and gets out to jog around and open my door. I take his hand and step out into the cold. The stars are visible now, and I don’t remember ever seeing a moon quite so pretty.

  “I’ll pick you up in the morning and we’ll get your car,” he says.

  I shoulder my purse. “You sleep in,” I say. “I’ll go for a run and get it. It’s not far.” My car is still in the parking lot of Chapel House. He wouldn’t hear of me driving home alone this late. Too dangerous.

  “You sure you’re okay?” His voice is soft and full of concern. Whatever drove him in the truck is gone. Bled out.

  For now.

  I wait with an ear to the front door until I hear Dillon’s truck drive off. Then I lock it. Dad left the hall light on for me. I texted that I was staying at Dillon’s to watch a movie and I’d be home around eleven. I set my purse on the kitchen island, then slip off my sandals and walk barefoot down the hall, through my bedroom and into the bathroom.

  I raise the seat of the toilet and throw up blue Gatorade.

  —

  I was sick like this the night Mom admitted she’d been having an affair with Henry Ramos. Lauren reacted with questions and fury. I ran from the room and threw up. When my mind can’t handle something, it’s as if my body tries to get rid of it. If only it worked that easily.

  My mouth feels bruised and burned with the taste of vomit. I turn on the shower. It only takes a second for the heat to build, for the spray to prickle hot against my hand as I test the temperature. I shed my clothes, shivering as they come off. I climb into the shower and close the sliding glass door.

  The water stings my skin, so hot my flesh shrinks. I suck in air. I want the heat to cleanse me, to wipe the memory of this night off my skin. I reach for the soap, and when the water runs off my thighs in shades of rust, I look away. Tremors run through my body, spasms I can’t control.

  This is the kind of thing that happens to girls who skip class and hang out at the 7-Eleven with guys who get drunk in the afternoon. It’s not supposed to happen to me. And Dillon—he’s not violent. He never even loses his temper. I’ve teased him about it, how he gets quiet and contained. How he gets that measured voice that I hate.

  But now I’m going over our history, shining this new light into the dark corners of my memory. There have been a few times lately when I’ve seen that anger build. The day the team lost a baseball game because he thought some of the guys were slacking. The night when the computer froze and he couldn’t upload an economics paper that was 50 percent of our grade. Both times, he got mad enough that I saw cracks in his control. Nothing like this—just curses and clenched fists, rigid muscles that I couldn’t relax. He said he was tired and went home early. But was it more than that?

  And that morning in February. I came over on a Saturday, fresh muffins in a bag, and found shards of pottery sticking up from the carpet of the guesthouse. An accident, he explained, his eyes bleary with lack of sleep. He was drinking from a coffee mug on the treadmill and it flew out of his hands. But there was a stain of liquid on the wall—not by the treadmill but by the front door. I ignored it at the time, more worried about him than anything, but now I dissect the memory, wondering if it wasn’t an accident at all.

  I lean a hand against the tile and find my balance. I have to face this. Dillon isn’t fine. He’s a long way from fine. What if he hadn’t stopped tonight? What if I couldn’t make him stop?

  I think of the note in my nightstand. I keep telling myself they’re just words. People say them all the time. I say them all the time.

  I’d die for another hour of sleep.

  If I have to sit through another calculus lecture, I’ll kill myself.

  But tonight it was more than words. The memory of the knife and his hand and the blood…and what came after. I double over, my stomach heaving, though there’s nothing left to come out.

  I catch my breath, pressing my head into the corner of the shower, feeling the spray sting my back. Dillon told me the details of his dad’s death on one of our first dates. I wanted to hug him, but we were still new to each other. So I held his hand. I felt the strength in his fingers. I liked the clean, even cut of his nails, the rough calluses from playing baseball, and the warmth of his skin—the way it made me warm to touch him like that. Dillon told me it was hard, the way his dad left all the time, the way he had no control over when or how long. I knew it hurt him—we’d talked about it. How both of our parents had made choices that didn’t include being with us. My mom had chosen another family. His dad had chosen a job.

  How does a father leave his son?

  How does a mother leave her family?

  It’s one of the connections that brought us together and the one that binds us so tightly. We’ve been hurt in the name of love—both of us have had our faith shaken. We promised each other that love would mean something different for us. Something real and lasting.

  And now he needs help. I have to help him, but how? I scrub shampoo through my hair, the almond honey fragrant in the steam, and feel my head clear. There’s someone who will know exactly what to do—of course. I close my eyes at the sense of relief. The water flows over me and I let it wash away my fear. Tomorrow I’ll get us both the help we need.

  I ring the doorbell and then step back, beyond the word WELCOME that’s scrolled in gold across the shiny black mat. I’m not sure if it’s ever really been extended to me. A small fountain gurgles just behind a bench covered in thick gray cushions and surrounded on both sides by wrought-iron candleholders with cream pillars. The home is painted the same neutral cream and fronted by carefully ordered desert landscaping. It’s as neat and contained as Mrs. Hobbs.

  The door opens and surprise registers on her face for a second, and then Mrs. Hobbs surprises me by…smiling.

  “Emma. What brings you here?” She checks her watch. “It’s only four o’clock. Dillon is still at practice.”

  “I know. I came to talk to you. Do you have a minute?”

  “Of course. Is everything okay?” A flash of worry darkens her eyes. She’s much lighter in coloring than Dillon—he obviously got his olive skin and black hair from his dad’s side. But Mrs. Hobbs has the same beautiful blue eyes, though hers are usually cooler. She’s never quite trusted me with her son, which I figured was just her being overprotective. Now I’m starting to understand why. She looks beyond me as if to be sure I’m not being followed—by who? Police? An ambulance? I suddenly wonder how she found out about Mr. Hobbs being killed. Was it a phone call? Was it a knock on her door like this?

  “Everything is fine,” I say. “I mean. Sort of.” I flush. I always feel like such a teenager around Mrs. Hobbs, but for once I don’t care. I’m glad she’s a helicopter mom who always knows exactly what to do.

  I follow the sweep of her hand as she gestures me to the living room. As many times as I’ve been to this house, I’ve never actually sat in this room. The couches and chairs, the carpet, even the drapes and paint are all a shade of pale beige. Even I’m beige today. I’m wearing a cream blouse over light khaki cropped pants. Ginger
ly, I sit on the edge of the couch and watch her sink into an armchair. Mrs. Hobbs runs a consulting business from home. I’m not sure what she does, but she’s always dressed in nice blouses and pleated slacks. Sitting across from her now, I feel like I’m on an interview. I wish she’d suggested the kitchen. The kitchen is an easier place to talk.

  “I’m glad you stopped by, Emma,” she says.

  “You are?”

  “I owe you an apology.”

  I feel the pinch of my eyes as I frown. I wasn’t ready for this and my mind is so sluggish I don’t understand.

  “I’m sure you know I’ve had concerns about your relationship with Dillon,” she says. “In all fairness, I would have felt that way about any new love in his life.” She crosses one leg over the other. “He’s much more sensitive than most people realize, and the summer before he met you he’d had his heart broken by a girl that he cared for.”

  “Kiersten?”

  “That’s right. And then you came along and your relationship seemed to get very serious, very quickly. I couldn’t help but worry, fairly or not.” She purses her lips and draws in a breath that whistles through her nose. “Frankly, after these past couple of weeks, I was worried that it was happening all over again. But he told me this morning that you’d decided not to apply for the internship.”

  “He…he told you that?”

  She smiles. “Well, it wasn’t hard to guess. He was in such a wonderful mood.” She leans forward to adjust the angle of a picture frame on the coffee table. There are three frames grouped at one corner—two of them are Dillon’s school pictures and the third is a family portrait. “Of course, I was angry about his hand,” she says. “Such a careless thing with the team making the play-offs. He’s lucky Coach Diaz didn’t bench him. As it is, he won’t be able to do more than watch practice for a few days until our doctor gives the okay.”

  My eyes flicker back to the family portrait and Mr. Hobbs’s small, unreadable eyes. For Dillon’s sake, I hate him. I wish that Dillon could have hated him, too, and then he wouldn’t have been so hurt. Why are we hardwired to love our parents? Why shouldn’t they have to earn it like everyone else?