Vote Then Read: Volume II

by Lauren Blakely

  “She doesn’t have a choice,” he mumbles, dropping his arm from me. “You need to figure out who you want here with you. I’m going to check on her and make sure they are moving her expeditiously. You need to be by her side, but you are going to need support.”

  I tremble as I watch him walk off. The absence of his courage leaves me weak as I glance around the waiting room. There is only one other person here with me in the cancer unit at this hour. The middle-aged woman knitting says nothing as she offers a sympathetic smile, and I cannot help but wonder what she is doing here. Now is not the time to inquire as I get up and wander into the darkened section by the windows.

  With my new position, I can see Dale Archer, waiting in the hallway. He glances in my direction, and I turn away. I don’t want to think about my weakened position and the fact I’m an easy target right now. I have to trust Archer has me.

  Because I sure fuckin don’t.

  The sky is cloudy, and moisture droplets are forming on the window. From my inside pocket, I take out the work phone and decide to call Amber. She arrived back in New Orleans late last night, probably when I was fucking my wife. I bawl, dialing her number.

  She answers on the first ring as I break down again. “She’s…”

  “Oh god…when?”

  “She’s not gone yet, but the doctors all say it won’t be long—a few days at most.”

  Her voice cracks, “Do you need me to come?”

  “… No,” I hesitate as I really want to tell her to go get her ass on a plane. I can’t do that though because it is simply too dangerous for us to be seen alone together. She is my spy, and that won’t change when Kaci passes. Despite how difficult it is to think about the future, I must not allow myself to become skewed into this moment. I have to look at the big picture. I have to be able to function beyond the present. There is so much talk about staying in the present and relishing in its beauty, but it is not a privilege I have. “I just needed to hear your voice and know that someone has got my shit.”

  “Use me to ground your emotions, Sal,” she whispers, reassuringly. “I’m not leaving your side.”

  Staring at the skyscraper across from the hospital, I notice all the lights left on. With the dew in the air, they sparkle like diamonds. “Cristos has eyes on you and so do I.”

  In her pause, I detect her acknowledgment of the reality of being my mistress. “How many?”

  “I have two, and I would imagine he has at least as many if not more. We signed our agreement in his spunk.”

  With a lingering sigh, she says, “I’m not surprised. You should call him.”

  “What?”

  “If he wants to care for you, he will come running to be by your side,” she whispers, pointing out something I hadn’t thought of. “You can at least have some idea how serious he is about you and his investment in you.”

  The fact that she can work on these problems during my times of duress is a huge part of the reason I need her on my team. My mistress watches my back. “Can you call Jaid?”

  “Do you want her to go to Houston?”

  “Yes. Tell her to call Georgia.”

  She snickers. “You going to expense that jet trip?”

  “Fuck yes.”

  “Such a naughty boy,” she giggles as I try to smile. Her teasing feels good. “Is there anything else you need?”

  “Tell Georgia to make sure Father Quinn is available, and the funeral arrangements are made. I need this done and over with as fast as possible.”

  “Anything else?”

  I turn around and ignore Archer’s scrutinizing faze as I study the woman knitting. She is still sitting and waiting. I decide then; I don’t want that to be me. “Are you writing my list down?”

  With a high pitch, she flirts, “What do you think?”

  “I think you have it all in your memory.”

  She laughs. “Next?”

  “Ask Jaid to bring me a duffel full of casual clothes from The Dollhouse, please.”

  “M’kay...what else?”

  “A carton… No, two cartons of smokes and a bottle of whiskey. Tell her to steal it out of the library. The good shit. Speaking of good shit, Cristos will be delivering a parcel of nice stuff to you weekly. You can sell it off to the girls or partake, but be fucking careful.”

  “… Snow?”

  “Yes, Stardust.”

  “That is very generous of you.”

  The pause leaves me slightly unsettled as I ask, “What are you doing?”

  She sighs with a deep breath. “… Touching my pussy and thinking about you fucking me,” she lustfully moans. “I need your dick in me, Sal.”

  “You’re playing mind games with me.”

  “Is it working?”

  I finally crack a chuckle. “Yes.”

  “Life will go on,” she assures as I imagine her fingers, coaxing around her nub and thrusting inside of her wetness. “I promise. Let her go.”

  “I know,” I reply, trying not to cry and getting turned on at the same time. The complexities of my emotional map are vast as I experience the extremes, the bitter cold in high altitudes and the sweltering heat of the tropics. Minute by minute, they shift and change. “Let me hear you come.”

  Feeling the twitch in my cock, I prop against the window ledge and lean forward slightly. The last thing I need is Jack resurfacing and seeing my boner as my wife is dying. Or worse yet, Dale Archer asking if I’m okay.

  No, I’m not fucking okay. My wife is dying. I’m covered in her blood. And I have a raging hard-on for a girl I can’t have.

  The sound of her breathy gasps fills my mind as I memorize every one. I’m going to chase them—this pulse in my heart—when I walk into her hospital room. I understand I’m reprogramming my brain as I sit here. I know she wouldn’t be happy I’m on the phone with Amber, but I don’t care. I need her—I need this—or I will never cross the finish line.

  Whatever it takes.

  “Oh hell, Salvatore… Yes! Yes! Fuck me, please! God…”

  I hear the hitch in her in words and know she is coming. I imagine her toes are curling and her fingers are twisting and bunching the sheet as she flies over the edge into the land of ecstasy. It is the most beautiful sound I have ever heard. I close my eyes, remembering every moment. In the end, I replay it all again and again, and then I embellish it with my scintillating fantasy.

  With sand in our toes, I imagine Amber and me alone on a beach. Her wide brim straw hat shields her eyes as we stay through the day. At night, I hear those same mewls from her precious lips as she comes underneath me.

  Moments pass as I look up to find the woman gone. “What is your favorite car?”

  “That’s a weird question to ask after I come… I always wanted a fast, sporty coupe. Why?”

  “Just wondering.”

  “You should go now. Call me back if you need more coaching.”

  “Amber, tell Jaid to bring my rosary.”

  “Which one?”

  “Any of them.” Holding back, I softly mutter, “I love you, babygirl.”

  “Back at ya, Nero.”

  “Are you ready?” Jack asks, gripping my shoulder as we stand outside of her room. I’ve cleaned up some and changed into a pair of his scrubs he was kind enough to loan me. “This isn’t going to be easy.”

  I freeze like a deer in the headlights with no blinking, no breath, no movement.

  The thundering voices shift and tear away, becoming the orchestra and serenading the party with their old standards. I’m on the dance floor in a tux and holding Amber in a swishy red dress. It hits my calves with every spin and twirl. “Let’s get out of here!”

  We run through the posh, roaring club and find a secluded, darkened hallway as her hands soar up high onto the wall as she submits her all to me. Pulling up the skirt, she bites her lip as I have to get inside of her now. I need to be there. Fucking my girl. With the red ruffles pouring between us, I thrust hard inside of her shelter and find my sanctuary, my ritu
al, my peace.

  I pin her hands with my own and sharply bite at her neck. Amber comes and says my name, “Salvatore!”

  “Yes,” I calmly reply to Jack. “Let’s do this.”

  The peach colored room with dark wooden accents is warm and inviting. I step inside with some trepidation as I do not know how bad this will be. My cautious demeanor is to save us both. I don’t want her worrying, and I cannot have another meltdown, especially in here.

  She lifts a finger and her eyes barely slit open as I pull back the curtain. The numerous intravenous lines web over her body and the oxygen mask conceals most of her ghostlike face. Her hand lifts to remove it, and I notice the massive amount of bruising on her arms. Her veins are shot. Her skin is thin. Her whole system is checking out.

  “No,” Jack scolds, walking to her bedside and stopping her. “You cannot take it off.”

  “… Is she here?”

  His face twitches. “Yes and no. She’s on a lot of medicine for the pain. Take everything with a grain of salt. She may be talking to you or the wall or little green men.”

  Unamused by his callous run-down of information, I ask, “Was she earlier?”

  “She was talking to Earl.”

  I flinch and hold back the tears trying to form. “Can I stay with her?”

  “I’ll let you, but Sal, behave. This is not the nurses or doctors fault. Don’t lash out.”

  Would I do that?

  Okay. Bad question.

  “Sit with her, talk to her, hold her hand,” he encourages as I’ve never experienced this. I must look horribly green myself. I would prefer to stay inexperienced in this one thing though. “She won’t bite, I assure you of that. I’m not leaving the hospital. If you need something or me, call. If something happens with her, push the red button first, and then call me. Got it?”

  I nod. “I can do this.”

  “You have to,” he points out. “You married Kaci for a reason.”

  Because she wanted me to.

  I spend the first hour staring at her like a specimen. This is not my wife. My wife wore black latex, thigh high boots, and cat ears. This is the sickness, having hollowed her out to nothingness.

  I’m sitting with the devil incarnate.

  The nurses come frequently. Sometimes, she opens her eyes. Sometimes, she sleeps. “You should make yourself comfortable, Mr. Raniero,” the nurse, Kimmie, urges. “Lean back and turn on the television. I’ll bring you a pillow and a blanket.”

  “How long could this go on?”

  “For some people, they fight like this for years. Kaci is hanging on right now, but she’s a tough cookie. So, make yourself at home. Take a shower, get something to eat, drink lots.”

  I would love to…drown in something.

  “Thank you,” I politely say, easing back into the squishy chair. “Really.”

  “You’re young, and so is she.”

  “I’m twenty,” I mumble off.

  “Wow, okay…you are younger than I thought. Just a baby. If you need anything, hit the button.”

  “Thank you,” I say as my eyes fill with tears as I’m so grateful someone understands where I’m at. This is so out of my ballpark. Everyone I have ever known who died went suddenly or made it to the emergency room only to die on the table.

  This terminal illness thing is fucked up.

  “Is she in pain?”

  “No…” She shakes her head. “And I’m not going to let her get in pain, but that’s part of the reason she is so groggy and incoherent.”

  “How long will she stay this way?”

  With a sad gaze, she says, “Until the end…”

  That doesn’t seem fair.

  I end up reclining in the chair and holding her hand. I doze in and out, but I cannot stop thinking about what I would say to her if I could. I understand I could talk to her now, but I’d like her at least awake and pretending to listen. I know it sounds selfish.

  “You’re beautiful,” I mumble between naps. She squeezes my fingers. “I love you, pixie girl.”

  Her eyes drift open and close. We sleep.

  And for the first time ever, we find quiet together.

  With the quiet, I find comfort in being alone when I wake up an hour later. I kiss Kaci’s hand and head. “I love you. I’ll be back soon.”

  I pace the floors, smile at patients, and hold open doors when I can. I’m the gentleman I was raised to be. By accident, I end up in the chapel, praying to an unknown God. Unknown because this sacred space is multi-denominational. My God may not be their God. But the one thing that unites us—prayer is prayer. If souls pass through those wooden doors, one thing is guaranteed—they need a strong dose of inspiration and hope.

  I genuflect and take a seat in the front pew. “This is so messed up,” I mutter to myself, leaning forward and clasping my hands together. “I’ve never lost someone like this.”

  With warm, fresh tears streaming down my cheeks, I look up to see the knitting woman. “Hi,” she says, touching my shoulder. She is a stranger. This feels foreign. “I saw you in the waiting room. Is it your wife?”

  “She has cancer,” I reveal, sliding over. “She’s on her last leg. She’s going to die soon.”

  Her hand, which never left my shoulder, rubs my back. I sense a maternal vibe coming off of her. “My son is here for treatment. He’s been in and out of the hospital since he was three.”

  “How old is he now?”

  “Thirteen.”

  “Tough kid.”

  She smiles. “We’re all tough until we’re knocked down. That’s when the real strength begins to show—who fights, who gives up. I’ve watched it for ten years. Not everyone is as resilient as the next.”

  “What makes the difference?”

  Her eyes flick to the giant cross before us. “I know I should probably say something like faith or belief or trust or love…but I’ll tell you; I think people make the difference. Some people get dropped off and shuffled out like this is a freaking playground. They are fighting for their lives; they need someone with them. Someone to help in the fight, not hinder it or hold them back.”

  “We all do.”

  “Yes, we do,” she says, dropping her hand from my back. Immediately, I miss the connection. “You will recover, but you are going to need someone.”

  “So are you,” I mutter, watching the wicks of the prayer candles flicker. “Are you married?”

  “Yes,” she says with a smile. “We take turns during rounds of treatment. He’s at home with the littles.”

  “You have more children?”

  She nods. “We do. Three. All girls.”

  “Wow,” I boast, knowing how rowdy a house of girls can be. “I have four sisters.”

  “Are they here?”

  My father is a mob boss, and I’m running to save my soul.

  Smoothing my hands over my pants, I say, “No.”

  “Do you have a family with you?”

  I have a few friends.

  “They are on the way. It was an emergency situation. We didn’t plan on this.”

  “You never plan on any of it.” She lays her hand on top of mine. “Pray with me.”

  In the chapel of the hospital, I pray with the stranger. Her soul comforts mine as our paths cross in the most difficult of times. I offer her a hug and mention I will see her around as we part ways.

  Back in the ICU, I pass by Kimmie, and she smiles. “You need anything?”

  “Honestly?” I rhetoric off, leaning over the counter. “Something to sleep.”

  “Dr. Kerris left you this,” she replies, sliding the envelope to me.

  “Thank you.” I wink.

  “You’re welcome,” she says, blushing. “If her condition changes, I’ll wake you up.”

  I dream of finer things and the simplistic beauty of existence as I fall deeper into the well of our absolute discontent. We are children of a malformed, rigid system steeped in rituals and enigmatic practices which serve only to fuel our unendi
ng quandary.

  The schematics scatter in my mind as I see Kaci in a matronly outfit, standing at a chalkboard. I’m sitting at a desk too small for an average sized adult male. I glance around the room, expecting the class to be full, but I only see one other student in the back cloaked in a black shawl. Their face is concealed.

  With a wooden pointer stick, Professor Kaci illustrates the diagrams and language on the board. I do not comprehend any of it. It is beyond my rationale as I struggle to form the parallels. I’m the devil, attempting to confess in a sacred vault.

  Her stick comes down hard with a swift strike against my bare back. I’m naked? When did I shed my clothes?

  The cruel punishment continues, breaking my skin and burning into my soul. “Repeat the phrase.”

  “Do. Better.”

  “Not that one!” She harshly scolds, pelting me again with the smooth rod. “Repeat the phrase.”

  “She is the key,” I cry out in pain.

  The good professor snickers and paces around my body in a circle. “The key to what?”

  Refusing to fail the lesson, I stress, “The key to me!”

  The chalkboard shatters to the ground like glass but forms into small, black, liquid-like globules, rolling between the rows of desks and chairs. The globules trespass into the sanctum of my knowledge only to cluster like magnets to the shrouded one.

  I swivel to gaze at their attachment as the energy they possess fuels the unknown soul. When every single one is depleted and spent, the cloaked vision rises as a wall of water appears where the chalkboard once was. I panic, searching for Kaci, but she has vanished.

  Leaving her wretched stick on my desk, I grip tightly to the shaft only to realize the wood has turned into metal with razor-sharp shavings. I release the stick quick and stare at my bloodied hands.

  The shadowy essence paces closer as a low hum of a thousand voices drills out a hymn of my insanity. The restless, chanting oms hurt my head and render my body paralyzed by their mantra.

  “Please,” I beg, hoping it ceases. “Wake up. It’s just a dream. Wake up.”

  The cloaked one dissipates before me, and I take in the sight of the angel. Her naked body rises as my eyes skim over her voluptuous porcelain curves—heaving breasts, undulating with every breath and arching, smooth hips, demanding my attention. “I am the key; you are the lock.”