Jewel Ann - Idle Bloom

“How long have you been here?”

“Awhile,” he replies.

“Longer than me?”

He nods.

“Did you see me come in?”

He nods and I flush with humiliation, if that’s even possible at this point.

“I … uh … was just getting my stuff.”

“I see that.” He still doesn’t move. “Would you like some help?”

“I’ve got it.”

He nods.

I can’t stop staring at him. He looks worse than he did after the spanking incident. Cuts and bruises scattered all over his face.

“You not working today?”

He shakes his head.

“Me neither.”

He nods.

I can’t believe how awkward this feels. He lied to me and I’m royally pissed at him, yet his reserved demeanor actually makes me feel sorry for him. How does he always make me feel like I’m the one who needs to apologize for something?

“Well … I’ll just be … going now.”

He nods.

Stop with all the nodding!

I’m the martyr like in one of those war movies, the ones where the soldier with a severed arm and shrapnel in his legs and torso manages to drag himself and three other men off the battlefield to the safety of a bunker. I stand and try to mask my grimace by looking down. I probably couldn’t carry all three bags in a healthy state, so why I think I can do it now when carrying my own body weight is excruciating in itself, is beyond me. I bend and grasp the strap to one bag and lift it to my shoulder. The weight of it tears at the cuts on my hand. I suck in a breath between clenched teeth.

“Sure you don’t want some help?”

“I … I’ve got … it.”

I grab the second bag and the pain has me seeing white. My eyes water from the exertion. Okay, I’m crying … but oh my God it hurts! I take a shaky step toward the third bag and a sob escapes. I cough, trying to mask the sounds of my agony.

The weight on my shoulder is lifted. I look up. Oliver has my bags. He sets them back on the ground then scoops me up in his arms while shaking his head. “You’re one stubborn woman.”

“What are you doing?” I try to wriggle out of his arms as he carries me upstairs.

“You’re getting blood on my floor.”

I wrap my arms around his neck and rest my cheek against his chest because honestly … I’m too exhausted to protest. I hear his own muffled grunts with each step, and it just now occurs to me that he too probably has wounds on his feet.

He sets me on his bed without making eye contact and limps into the bathroom. I plop back and close my eyes, praying for the pain to subside. The bed dips as he sits on the edge and grabs my foot. In slow motion he unwraps the gauze bandaging. I hiss in a breath as he touches one of my cuts.

“It’s just a salve, it shouldn’t hurt.”

“Everything hurts,” I reply with a grimace while draping my arm over my face to hide my wimpy tears. I’m drowning in humiliation. Once again … why should I feel this way?

After treating and rewrapping both of my feet, he leans back next to me and rests his hands on his chest with his fingers interlaced. Being with him and yet not really with him is like dying a slow death. His presence in my life has felt as natural as the breath in my lungs. Losing him feels like losing the part of myself that has made me feel alive. What’s left when the part of yourself that feels everything is gone?

Oliver is not mine; he never really was. The circumstances don’t matter. There’s a woman at a hospital in Portland who bears his name. Caroline Konrad. Why are you there and what happened to you and Oliver?

Oliver

It’s unfathomable to think I don’t have the right to love someone. However, the morning I woke to the shrill scream of Vivian’s voice saying the one word I hadn’t been able to say, wife , I knew I didn’t deserve to love her. There’s just one problem. Loving her is not a choice. It’s automatic like the beat of my heart, the breath in my lungs, and the earth giving way to the sun every morning.

My emotions for Vivian cannot be defined by words which makes explaining my actions impossible. It’s absurd to think that the perfect touch or right look will say it for me, but I have to try. I rest my hand on the bed between us and our pinky fingers touch.

She doesn’t move.

I inch my fingers over the top of her hand until mine rests on hers.

She doesn’t move.

That’s it. One touch, albeit so small, feels like everything. She didn’t move her hand, she’s allowing my touch, my words , like she hears me.

“Why?” she whispers.

Why what? Why the touch? Why am I married? Why did I not tell her earlier? Why is life so unfair? It doesn’t matter. The answer is the same for it all.

“I don’t know.”

Her hand fists under mine, her body begins to shake, and then she sucks in a shaky breath. I did this to her. Turning, I pull her into my arms as she breaks down. Her hands fist the front of my shirt.

“I don’t want to love you anymore,” she cries.

“I know.” I kiss the top of her head and let her lose her emotions to me. They cut deep and I welcome the pain. It’s a reminder that what we had was real, our love was real, life with Vivian was real.

I’m not sure when she stops crying or when we fall asleep in each other’s arms. I’m awake again and she’s next to me, her head resting against my chest. If there’s truly a God, then I have to pray that he allowed my heart to whisper all my unspoken emotions. I’m not sure what it really means to bare my soul, but for this woman … I’d give my last breath.

“Oli?” Her voice is barely a whisper. I rest my cheek on her head.

“Hmm?”

“Tell me about Caroline.”

God, the pain is crippling. “We met in college. Married right after graduation and then moved to Portland. Her family is there and that’s where she grew up.”

“Why is she depressed and suicidal?”

The lump in my throat expands to an unbearable size as I feel my pulse begin to race.

“Oli?”

I try to swallow past it. “Our … um…” I try to clear my throat and fight back the emotions that have been haunting me for so long “…our baby died.”

Vivian gasps and looks up at me with her hand covering her mouth. I divert my eyes to the ceiling and blink back the tears. I don’t want to lose it … not now … not in front of her.

“Oh my God!”

I nod and keep looking up, blinking at a furious speed, fighting the fucking tears.

“Oliver, oh my God!” Her hands slide up and cradle my face. The undeserving touch is nearly as painful as the words I could barely speak.

“Flower? Are you here? Oliver?” Alex calls from downstairs.

I sit up and hobble into the bathroom shutting the door behind me. Leaning back against the door, I run my hands through my hair. “Fuck!” I hate this. Memories like this never disappear, but I wish they would. Sometimes I think I need a damn lobotomy. I’d gladly give up the good memories to get rid of the bad. I splash some cold water on my face and go back into the bedroom.

“Hey.” Alex greets me with a wary face, then looks at Vivian sitting on my bed. “What’s going on?”

Vivian glances at me with a sad smile then looks at Alex. “I just came to get my stuff. I didn’t know he was here. My bags are downstairs.”

Alex nods. “You shouldn’t be walking this far yet.”

Vivian scrunches her nose. “I know, it was stupid. I should have waited for you.”

“Yes, you should have. I’ll carry your bags home, and then I’ll come help you back across the street.”

“I’ll get her.”

“Your feet—” Vivian starts to protest.