Page 98 of Beautiful Deceit
Her hair is in the same braid my mother put in for her yesterday, a few tendrils hanging around her face. Most of the bruising has faded to a yellowish stain, painting parts of her face, her temples, her left cheekbone, and the corner of her chin. Her eyes are a little bloodshot as she stares out, not really looking at anything. She hasn’t been sleeping well as she’s slowly coming off pain the medication.
“We can talk to the doctor about that today.”
“I’m ready,” She mutters in a hushed tone. “I don’t want to be here anymore.”
I cross the room in two strides, dropping down on my hunches, looking right into her eyes.
“Samantha,” I breathe, running my fingers over her cheek. “We’ll get through this. You are amazingly strong.” She leans her head down, and it falls to my shoulder.
“I don’t feel strong.” I squeeze her in return.
“You might not feel like it right now, but I promise you, you are. You have been through so much, too much.” I lean back placing my finger under her chin, lifting her face to mine. “You survived Sammy. You’re still surviving. Every day you get up, you do everything the doctors are asking for, and then some. You’re strong. If you for one minute think you’re not, lean on me for a little while.” I kiss her temple, tucking a lock past her ear, “I am here.”
Her eyes soften, and her lips part.
I can’t stop myself from leaning forward and sealing our lips.
She accepts my kiss, turning her head to deepen it.
I kiss her until the coffee machine beats for attention.
We leavethe surgeon’s office with permission to head back to New York within the next week. Sam is particularly pleased. Her physical therapist catches us as we leave the hospital.
“I have already faxed your orders to a local office,” she says, and waves us goodbye with a quick, “Take care.”
I’m worried about how she’s handling the emotional aspect of her ordeal. I open the door to the passenger side door for her, my brow furrowed in thought. The drive home is silent as she looks out the window, at the passing landscape.
I've slept beside her every night since that night in the hospital. Every night she either wakes herself up crying, or I end up waking her to tell her she's just dreaming. Her nightmares are all too real. She never acknowledges her episodes during the day. The few times I've tried to bring it up, she acts like she doesn't remember.
I turn up the drive to our rental. I plan on trying to convince her to see a therapist. I know she doesn't have much faith in them. Rita took her to a few when she was younger, but I think we both need help dealing with her abduction.
I park the car as she quickly heads back in to have a scheduled phone call with her store employees. She’s spoke to them a little, but today they all came in to the store to call her together.
As I walk into the house, I hear her speaking to them. Jess, Jude and George are all on the phone. She sees me and waves, but then walks outside to have more privacy to talk with her friends. I can tell she is trying to hold it together. I watch from the window. She bites her lip and paces back and forth during the call. She laughs and smiles, but there are also tears in her eyes.
When she hangs up and comes inside, she cries quietly on the sofa for a few minutes.
I walk over and wrap her in my arms, placing a gentle kiss to her hair.
“Why are you crying Sweets?”
Her shoulders rise, “I…” she trails off. “I’m not really sure.” She sniffles and laughs.
My motherand father come over in the afternoon. It’s a regular habit they have forced on us this past week. Usually they stay for an hour or so, long enough for my mom to help Sammy with her hair some days or just sit and talk together. They’ve taken to each other really well, just like I’d imagined they would.
My dad gives us a little more space, but he’s supportive in his own ways.
The first time he got his first look at Samantha, he had me go to the pub up the street to have a few shots. I left her in the capable hands of my mother with some reluctance.
The tone of this afternoon together is different. I try to keep her spirits up with board games and books, but I find her staring off into the distance, my parents looking on with paired worried expressions.
My mother tells me as they leave that, “She just needs time.”
I can’t help but think returning to New York might help. The normalcy of her store, and her friends’ support will do her good.
I make plans.
The next day comes,and her mood stays the same. My parents decide to stop by early and have breakfast with us. My mom makes decadent waffles, topping them with fresh berries and cream. Sam nibbles, not engaging with the conversation as much as usual.
