Page 85 of Love Always

My stomach clenches as flashes of the scene cut into memory.

“We didn’t anticipate this happening. Mateus was with her the whole time,” says Bryce.

“And we still almost lost both of them.”

Claire is flailing. Attacking, trying to retrofit blame somewhere so she doesn’t have to carry it. I am so glad I learned to let things go. Just take responsibility, not blame. Cory has helped me with this lesson.

“Can we not do this? It’s no one’s fault but Cruz. I’m sure he did this.”

Bryce looks up. “What did you say?”

“I’m pretty sure he switched the water bottle at the restaurant. Or maybe he injected it right there.” I sigh, trying to make sense of what happened. “Either way, he had me eat this salty breakfast. He dropped his napkin at some point. I bet that’s when he did it. I drank about half and then gave Mateus some. Then, I felt completely incapacitated. Like immediately. I can’t believe it works so fast.”

Bryce drops his arm from Chloe’s waist and makes a quick phone call. He raises an index finger as if to tell us to wait and then moves out into the hallway.

“I think that’s information they didn’t have before,” says Claire.

“Isn’t that the creepy prof from your composition course?” asks Chloe.

But I don’t want to talk about him or what happened anymore. I want to hear Cory’s voice and go see Mateus.

΅

It’s eight o’clock at night and I’m in street clothes. Chloe’s down in the lobby waiting for me.

Mateus still sleeps, as if the world doesn’t exist. An IV snakes from the top of his hand, a pulse oximeter is clipped onto his finger and another gauge that monitors his blood is attached to a patch. I’ve been sitting in a little plastic chair for about an hour, not wanting to go home, torn between seeing Cory and being here for Mateus. When Devon calls a final time for me to say goodnight to him, it is so bittersweet I weep afterwards.

The monitors, one of them, beeps faster and Mateus stirs. He moans so loudly it scares me. His face and chest are suddenly bathed in sweat and he’s in terrible pain. I stand, still a bit wobbly, and try to hold his hand. His arms press against the mattress as if he’s trying to escape something. His chest heaves once, twice, and I lay a hand on his ribs, his heart thudding hard under my hand. A sigh escapes him and then he opens his eyes.

He doesn’t recognize me for the first second or two and then his face flinches with love and pain and relief. Then he gasps and grabs his left leg, looks down, almost bewildered. He’s forgotten about his leg. He’s forgotten he’s an amputee. For a minute, he was who he used to be. But instead of turning away from me, from himself, he grits his teeth as another phantom pain shoots through his missing limb crossing into real muscle and bone. It passes in thirty seconds and then his body sags.

“I forgot,” he says and closes his eyes, exhausted. I slip a hand under his neck and turn his face to mine. His head is heavy, his throat exposed. He swallows and his eyes open. I touch his lips with my fingers.

“I will remember for you,” I say, not really knowing what I mean, trying to stop the sob burning in the back of my throat. What I’m trying to say is that whatever he carries, I will carry too, that we’ll do it together. But I can’t think of the words, so instead I kiss him. Sheets rustle, his warm hand cups my face and we kiss again.

΅

That night, with Cory snuggled next to me, I try to sleep. But whether from the fentanyl, the Narcan, the purging (I threw up two more times), I am now wide awake. Detective Carlson is meeting Mateus tomorrow at eight o’clock sharp at the hospital. He will be released tomorrow and I want to get there later, around nine, after Cory’s on the bus. I already gave my statement last night before I left the hospital. Detective Carlson was quiet through most of it—and asked me twice if I knew how I got the one-inch cut on my forearm. I didn’t. Three stitches later, it’s one piece of the day that remains out of place.

The darkness is total. The night light in the hallway is burned out. Cory’s breathing is even and once he calls out and then snuggles again next to me, his hot little hand touching my arm. I spoon him thinking of him curled inside me growing, developing. I kiss the top of his head and slide the back of my hand under his fingers, then rotate and hold his little fist. It is one of the few times I can be this close to him. I nuzzle his neck and start to cry. Because he will grow bigger, out of being a little boy and these nights, these moments will be lost forever—only alive in memory. So, I make one. His soft curls under my chin, his small body next to mine, the absence of moonlight leaving me to imagine my tears matting those curls.

Sometime much later, I wake to hear Devon thumping in the kitchen, home from her shift. I extricate myself from Cory and step out into the hallway. She is covered in soot, her face streaked. She’s in street clothes, but they’re filthy. She looks weary. In the windows behind her, the sky winks pink with the promise of a sunrise.

When I got home last night she was already gone and Chloe was reading. This is the first time I’ve seen her and she says nothing but wraps her strong arms around me and just starts sobbing.

΅

“I’m sorry,” Devon says, still towel drying her hair. We’re whispering because Cory’s still sleeping. It’s nearly seven and he needs to get up soon to meet the bus. My body feels like someone’s beaten me with a stick, my forearm throbs, and my stomach is sore from vomiting.

“You don’t have to apologize,” I say and keep saying. I know she’s embarrassed. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Devon cry hard except at Mom and Dad’s funeral. She doesn’t have time for it—at least that’s what she always says.

“Bryce called and told us what happened, when they were taking you both to the hospital. And then gave us the update. I couldn’t believe it. That professor? The creepy one? What does that mean?” She hits the switch for coffee and the room immediately smells of roasted Mainly Mainer’s Beans: deep, rich. My stomach growls.

“You probably haven’t had anything to eat, right?”

I shake my head. “They told me to wait until noon—but to drink lots of water.”

She pours me a cup of coffee, black. “This counts. It’s just hot, black, water.”