by K. L. Savage
Don’t mind me. I’m fine. My cheek is only pressed against dried mud on the truck.
“There we go,” he celebrates with a big goofy grin.
I wipe my cheek off, and he bends down to put me in the truck, but he smacks my head against the door frame. “Ow,” I hiss.
“Shit, are you okay? Are you bleeding? Is the baby okay?”
I rub my head, and he carefully swings my legs in front of the seat and gestures for them to stay as he backs away from me. “Please, don’t tell Doc. Fuck me. He’s going to remove all my organs.”
“I’m fine. The baby is fine. My head hit the door, not my stomach.”
Knives closes the door gently, and I watch as he walks around the truck, kicking the dirt and hitting himself in the head with his hand. The guy is too hard on himself. He finally opens the driver’s side door and climbs in, cranks the engine, and the grumbles vibrate my ass, but they tickle my stiches and I wince.
I’m real tired of these damn stitches, but it’s my fault. Pain is karma, and I deserve it. I dig in my pocket for a pain killer, break it in half because I don’t want to be loopy, and toss it in my mouth.
“It’s been awhile since I’ve seen Rachel. I’m excited. Don’t tell, Doc, but his mom is hot. I’d totally—”
“Nope, don’t tell me. Please, don’t tell me.” I stop him, not wanting to hear what he thinks. Eric’s mom is beautiful, but I don’t want to think of her like that.
“Right. You’re right.” He whips out of the parking lot, and my back slams against the seat. The tires spin, and the bed fishtails. Braveheart opens the gate just in time before Knives is speeding down the road. I grasp the ‘oh-shit’ handle above me, and my fingers dig into the middle console.
He’s worried about smacking my head against the door, but not my life while he drives? I just made peace with myself. I don’t really feel like seeing my brains scattered along the road. “Why are we checking on her? Rachel doesn’t like to be bothered unless it’s by Doc.”
“Knives,” I sigh. “She’s sick. Really sick. I want to check on her. She and Eric didn’t leave on a great note. She has cancer. Terminal. Doc hasn’t told anyone. I’ve only told Reaper so I can go check on her. And since…” We fly over the hill and catch a few inches of air and land on a rough bounce. My stomach turns, and the baby doesn’t like the speed. “Can you slow down a little? I’m not feeling so hot.”
“Oh, sure.” He slams his foot on the brake to slow down, and I fly forward, catching myself on the dash.
Note to freaking self, never drive with Knives again.
“Better?” he asks as he speeds up.
Don’t throw up. Don’t throw up. Don’t throw up.
“Sure,” I grumble.
“Now, why is she sick? The flu or some shit?” he asks.
I hold a hand over my stomach as we jump over another hill. “She has breast cancer. Terminal. Are you not listening to me?”
“What!” He slams on the brakes again, and my head almost slams against the dash. “No, no, not Rachel. No.” Denial is thick in his voice as he leans his arms against the steering wheel.
“Doc hasn’t told anyone. He isn’t taking it well. So keep it to yourself. I’m telling you because you’re coming with me to check on her.”
He jerks the wheel right to turn down her street, and my body slides left, smashing against Knives. I hold on to the door as the tires skid, and I swear, I know we’re about to tip over. This is it. I’m going to die.
Knives then takes a left into her driveway and slams the truck in park. I gasp for air, trying not to throw up, but I can’t manage. I open the door and stick my head out, puking all over Rachel’s beautiful daisies.
Ugh, I’m so sorry, Rachel.
“You can’t drive worth a damn,” I mutter, wiping my mouth off.
“Did you die?” he asks, climbing out of the truck.
“No, but—”
“Stop being dramatic.” He rolls his eyes as he helps me out of the truck by swinging me in his arms.
“Nope, put me down or I swear, I’ll beat you with my crutches, Knives. All the movement is making me sick.”
“The baby?” he asks, horrified.
“The baby,” I agree, and he gently places my feet on the ground, then grabs my crutches from the bed of the truck.
I tuck them under my arms, sweating already from the effort of hopping toward the door and the Vegas sun searing my shoulders. Knives is in front of me, arms out, as if he’s waiting on something to jump from either side of them.
Knives rings the doorbell, and we wait. She’s home. Eric told me he makes sure she’s taken care of so she doesn’t have to work and can do whatever she wants. He takes care of her, not only because he loves her, but for what she did for him when he was younger.
“I don’t think she’s home,” Knives says, ringing the doorbell again.
“Her car is in the driveway. She’s home.”
A few seconds go by, and there still isn’t an answer. I’m worried. What if something happened? “Knives, she should be answering,” I whisper, cupping my eyes as I press my head against the window in the door. “I can’t see anything.”
“Rachel!” Knives yells and bangs his fist against it. There is no way she can’t hear that loud banging. I bet the neighbors can hear the loud thunder coming from the door. “Rachel, I’m going to kick the door in if you don’t answer,” he warns.
We wait.
Nothing.
“Stand back,” Knives says, and I do as I’m told without question. My crutch slips off the side of the walkway, sinking into the decorative rocks, but I catch myself. Knives stands straight, lifts his leg, and smashes his foot under the silver knob. The wood splinters apart and hangs off the hinges, creaking in the silence of the house.
Knives reaches behind him, lifts the back of his cut, and grabs onto a gun before stepping inside. “Rachel? You here?” he shouts, sidestepping the pieces of wood on the beautiful slate floors.
Silence.
I keep my more injured leg off the floor as I swing the crutches in front of me to hold my weight. The silence is unsettling. The hair on the back of my neck stands up. Something is wrong. I feel it.
“Knives,” I whisper in fear, and he places his finger against his lips as we stealthily move deeper inside the house. I roll my lips to keep myself quiet. I only wanted to come check on her. I wanted to show that I care about her and respect her as Eric’s mom, but I didn’t actually think something would be wrong.
“Kitchen is clear,” Knives says, inching his way around the dining room, then aiming his gun in the living room, swinging it back and forth.
I glance down the hallway and see a pair of feet on the floor. “Knives!” I yell for him and try to hobble toward her as quick as I can. “Knives, oh my God, is she dead?” I ask as he runs by me and squats next to her.
She looks pale and still has her pink silk pajamas on. There’s a mug on the floor next to her, broken in half with a brown stain on the floor from her morning coffee. Knives places his fingers against her neck to search for a pulse.
“She’s alive,” he says, then slides his arms under her to pick her up, lifting her as he did me. “We need to take her to the hospital, and we need to call Doc.”
“You’re good at picking people up,” I say, following him out the door. I wish I had a cell phone, but I don’t know where it is. I don’t have the apartment anymore. Reaper packed it up, paid off my lease, and moved my stuff into Eric’s house.
“Well, I unfortunately have a lot of practice picking up bodies,” he says sadly with a hint of a frown. He opens up the back door and lays Rachel in the backseat. “I’m not looking forward to calling Doc. This is going to kill him.”
I’m starting to wonder if the cancer is further along than what she told him. If she dies, a part of Eric will too. He’s been there for me and I’m going to be there for him.
No matter what.
When he falls, I’ll figure out how to
catch him, even if it means ripping my stitches open.
I’m at my mom’s bedside in the hospital, and most of the club members surround me while I hold her hand. I’m reading her chart, trying to understand the numbers, trying to understand how it got so bad and I didn’t notice. I’m trying to understand why she didn’t tell me.
The room is silent minus the heart rate monitor. How has my life changed so much in the last few weeks?
I don’t even know. I don’t know how any of this has happened.
A knock at the door sounds, and I glance up to the door to see Doctor Halligan, a friend of mine when I worked here. I get up and hold out my hand, still gripping my mom’s with the other. “Ryan, it’s good to see you.”
“You too. I hate the circumstances, Eric. I’m sorry to see your mom here,” he says as his eyes roam everyone until they land on my mom. Ryan is the best oncologist I’ve ever come across, but the look on his face matches the numbers on the chart.
And it isn’t good.
“Yeah, me too.” I run my fingers through my hair, and Jo hobbles next to me on her crutches for support. She must notice the bad news written all over Ryan’s face. “Ryan, come on, man. Please have good news for me. She’s my mom,” I whisper, pained.
“I think it’s best if we talk alone,” he suggests.
I shake my head and wrap my arm around Jo’s shoulders and tug her close. “No, you can say it in front of everyone. They’re my family. They’re her family too.”
Ryan sighs, the day as a doctor weighing on him just like every other day. His shoulders deflate, his face sags with exhaustion, and he rubs the back of his neck with the palm of his hand. “Your mom’s numbers suggest the cancer has gotten worse. It’s metastasized.”
“To where? Is it operable? What can we do? Chemo? What? Tell me and … and we will do it, Ryan. You know I will.”
Ryan’s lips press together, not liking that decision, but I don’t care. He opens the folder in his hand and flips a paper over. “It’s everywhere, Eric. It’s in her lungs, her liver … it’s cut her time that the previous doctor told her she has.”
I stretch my arms behind my head and lace my fingers together, shaking my head in denial. A few of my brothers curse behind me, and Jo leans into my side, touching me, grounding me, and honestly if she weren’t here, I would yell and curse. I might even punch Ryan in the face.
My eyes water, and I stare up at the light, thinking about all the times we had together. How she busted her ass to get me through college and med-school. She gave me a home, she loved me when I didn’t think anyone did. I’m here because of her. My father would’ve killed me eventually. “No, no, I refuse to believe that. I refuse. She’s strong. She isn’t like other people, Ryan. Come on, she’s better; you know it.”
“Strong or not, Eric, the cancer is stronger, and I’m sorry, but the three months are gone. She has a month, maybe.”
“No.” I’m ignorant. I’m resisting. I can’t. I can’t handle this. I can’t do it. My hand lays against my heart. “No, no! Please, there has to be something. Ryan, I’m begging you. I’m begging you, do something.” Tears swim in my eyes, and like a broken man, they fall.
They fall right in front of my brothers, my woman, my friend. I don’t care. “No, not after everything. It can’t end like this. It can’t. We’ve been through too much.” I press my palms against my eyes, trying to dry them out, but the memories shared with my mom slam against the front of my mind, and like a movie, like watching my life play before my eyes, they won’t stop flashing.
A beautiful life, and now I have to prepare myself for a painful goodbye.
I can’t.
“Get out of my way.” Like a child, I shove Ryan out of my way and run out the door. I slam against the wall, almost making a nurse fall when she trips over my foot. She rights herself, and she doesn’t seem mad. “Move!” I scream at everyone in the hallway, and doctors, patients, and nurses pause what they’re doing, and I create a path as everyone gets out of my way. I pass the nurses station and suddenly feel drunk, like I can’t feel my legs, arms, or heart. It hurts. I feel like I’m having a heart attack, but I know I’m not.
My heart veins are tight, threatening to pop, just like a piano getting tuned, too much stress and pop.
No more music, no more life.
A sign above me that says ‘Chapel’ has me turning left and busting through the doors. It’s empty.
Figures.
God doesn’t live in hospitals, only the Devil does.
What god would decide to take a soul, a good soul, the kind who makes the world a better place? No great god, I can say that much.
No. My pain. My misery. My heartbreak. It’s the Devil on my shoulder, and he’s laughing, soaking up my torment like a sponge because that’s what keeps him alive.
Like a little boy, I fall to my knees in front of the candles that are burning underneath the cross. There are only a few, and the wax is nearly gone, the wick barely allowing the flame to keep flickering.
“Me and you, we’re going to go rounds,” I tell whoever is listening. “I found it difficult to believe in you before, but now? What the hell do you want from me? Huh? You gave me a father who skinned me, and now…” I snort, wiping my nose on the back of my hand. “And now you want to take my mom? My best friend? What the fuck did I do to you, huh? What did I do!” I scream, grab the cross from it’s holder, and snap it in half. “Fuck. You.” I spread my arms wide and shout toward the ceiling, then laugh. “Strike me dead, you sick, twisted, asshole. What else do you want to do to me, huh?”
A hand lands on my shoulder, and I turn around and see a minister, a pastor, a father, whoever he is. He’s wearing a black shirt and a white collar.
Whoever is he, he’s the voice of God, and me and God, well, I don’t want to talk to him right now.
I’ve never talked to him, honestly, but I’d do anything for my mom. If the Devil came to me and asked for my soul in exchange for her life, without hesitation, I’d give it away. I’d do it for Jo too. She and I haven’t had much time to ourselves; too much has happened, with me saving everyone and her fighting the darkness inside her.
I want peace.
I want everyone in my life to be fucking happy. I need them to be. I need Jo to be. I love her. I love that baby.
I want life to stop fucking with me, for once. I want a goddamn break.
I shrug the man’s hand off me and grip him by the collar. “I’d rather die than pray,” I seethe through my teeth.
“Eric!” Jo snaps at me from the doorway. “Let him go, baby. He’s only trying to help.”
“He can’t,” I choke, letting him go and stumbling back. “No one can.”
“I can,” Jo says confidently, holding out her hand while she balances herself on the crutch. “Come on, let’s go somewhere quiet. Let’s talk.”
I don’t want to talk.
I want to kill.
I want to kill so fucking bad. With my bare hands, I want to squeeze the life out of someone, somewhere. The need is overwhelming.
“God is with you always,” the man of God informs me, slapping me on the shoulder.
“God left me a long time ago,” I add, sliding by the pastor and to the only person I think can save me. I intertwine Jo’s fingers with mine, then say forget it because she can’t hold onto me and her crutches. I bend over and throw her over my shoulder, grabbing her crutches in my other hand.
“Woah, put me down! I swear, you guys carry me everywhere. You’re going to make me vomit. The baby doesn’t like it when I’m upside down.”
I bring her into my arms, in a wedding style hold, and I lift a brow at her. That feeling of needing to murder takes over my veins. “Who the hell has been holding you besides me?” I’m not in the mood to know one of my brothers has touched what is mine.
“Knives, making sure I didn’t trip and hurt the baby,” she grumbles.
Oh.
I’ll think about forgiving him.
&nbs
p; “We found your mom, and he carried her to the truck.”
I’ll forgive him.
“For tonight, can I just be with you? Tomorrow, I’ll be with my mom. I thought I had three months, and now … maybe a month. I just need a night where I’m not going to be devastated.
“Whatever you want,” she whispers, her lashes tickling my neck. “I’m sorry, Eric. I’m so sorry. I never wanted this for you.”
“I never wanted what happened to you to happen either, but the world can be unfair.”
“It isn’t unfair right now. You’re the one thing the world got right,” she whispers into my ear as she settles her cheek against my shoulders.
“I’d have to agree with that, Jo-love. I’d have to agree,” I say, alleviated, holding her tighter against me. I’m afraid something, some unknown evil in the world will take her from me. I wouldn’t be able to open my eyes the next morning. She’s the only thing that keeps me going. The thought of her living, breathing, before I had the chance to kiss her for the first time, was enough.
Her existence is more than enough to keep my world spinning on its axis.
Walking out the doors of the hospital, I feel horrible leaving Mom here. I’m a bad son. I just… I don’t know. I can’t fucking breathe in that hospital room knowing the breath she’s inhaling is some of the last.
I just need a fucking minute.
I need to be alone with my girl. My woman. My kid.
One night to get my head on straight, and I’ll do whatever I need to do tomorrow when the sun rises over the desert.
I’ll be the man everyone needs me to be.
Tonight, I want to be broken because having it together, stitching yourself up until you’re connecting torn, jagged, cut off pieces…. Eventually everything falls apart.
Maybe I’ve never had myself together, maybe when my dad cut me, he took a part of me I can never get back.
The night air hits me in the face, and when I feel the drying liquid against my face, I forget that I’ve been crying. I stand there for a minute in the silence, the peace, the air, the stars, the dropping sun, and I take my moment.
I fucking reel it in. I never get a moment of peace. Someone always needs a part of me, something from me, my skill, my knowledge, my time; no one ever just wants me. Me as a person, me as a man, me as a friend.