CHAPTER 22
SAM
Confessions
Now
Noelle is asleep and Sara is finally resting. It’s been hours since Abi flew out of the house like the devil himself was chasing her.
I wanted to go after her. I wanted to stop her, stop her and make her talk to me. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t leave Noelle and I couldn’t leave Sara. My place is with them.
But, in a way, it’s also with her.
Abi is part of my past—a big part—and part of my present now, too. But there’s a chance she could be part of my future. I want her to be. I think she wants to be, and I feel a loyalty toward her as well, like I do toward Sara and Noelle. But who comes first?
I’ve never been more conflicted in my entire life.
But in the end, I had to stay home. My daughter is too young to fend for herself and my wife is too ill. No matter how strong my feelings for Abi were—and are and always have been—I love my wife and child, and I have a duty to them. They are my top priority. They have to be.
I called Abi a dozen times, minimum. She never answered. I just got her voicemail over and over. My next call was going to be to the police, but she finally texted me and said she was okay and that she’d talk to me later.
As if that had a chance in hell of being enough to satisfy me.
It helped to know that she was alive and okay, though. It helped to get me to here, to now, when I could finally go to her.
When Anna Sturgill showed up to cook dinner, which she does occasionally just out of the kindness of her heart and her love for Sara and Noelle, I asked if she’d mind keeping an eye on Noelle and an ear out for Sara while I ran a quick errand. She agreed without hesitation, which she always does. Now I’m sitting in the makeshift driveway of the cabin Abi’s staying at, staring at the golden wedge of light pouring from the front window.
She didn’t invite me over. If anything, what’s happened in the last hours has more or less shouted that she wants to be left alone.
Only I can’t do that.
She’s hurting. And I want to know why. I can’t help her if I don’t know what’s hurting her. So here I am, prepared to bulldoze my way in if I have to.
Only I hope I don’t have to.
I mount the steps and knock on the door. I get no answer, which doesn’t really surprise me. Abi was always too damn stubborn for her own good.
But so was I and, like my feelings for her, that hasn’t changed.
I shout through the door. “Abi, open up. It’s me.”
No response, so I knock again, this time more forcefully.
Still nothing.
I pull open the screen and knock on the wooden door. Pound actually, the only thing louder than my knock being my voice when I shout again. “Abi, dammit, let me in.”
When she still doesn’t answer, I reach for the knob, not really expecting it to turn. But it does, so I push it open.
I do pause before I go in. For at least a second or two. But then I go ahead and enter, calling her name one more time.
“Abi, I’m coming in.”
That’s when I hear the moan.
The hair on the back of my neck stands up at the sound. Between being a doctor and being a husband, I know the difference between a moan of pleasure and a moan of pain.
This is a moan of pain.
Of agony, it seems like. And I kick into high gear.
I go from room to room looking for Abi, repeating her name. I find her lying spread eagle on her bed, covered in sweat, writhing in pain. My heart does a terrified flip in my chest, my first and only thought being that I can’t lose her again. Whatever the hell is going on, I’ll fix it. Whatever the cost, whatever the means, whatever the need, I’ll fix it. I have to. I can’t let her go again. I can’t.
I bend over her, my eyes looking for signs of injury, my brain clicking through possible causes for her pain. The only thing I see is redness in her right foot and muscle spasms in her right calf and toes.
“Did you hurt your leg?” I gently palpate her knee and move down to her tibia and fibula. As I descend, she cries out in anguish and slaps my hand away.
Oh, Jesus! What if a car hit her as she ran from my house? She could have internal bleeding.
I yank up the hem of her shirt, expertly moving my hands over her flat abdomen, feeling for distention or anatomical irregularities, anything out of the ordinary.
“Abi, tell me what happened? Did you fall? Were you hit?”
She pushes at my hands, shaking her head and rolling onto her side. “Go away, Sam.”
“The hell I will! Tell me what’s wrong. Why are you hurting? I can help you. I’m a doctor. Let me help.”
“I don’t need your help, Sam. Just leave me alone.”
“Forget it. There’s no way I’m leaving you like this. Tell me what’s going on or I’m taking you to the emergency room.”
“No, please don’t. They can’t help me.”
“Why? Tell me why.”
“They just…they just can’t. I know what to do. Just please go. Go, Sam! Leave!”
It pisses me off that she won’t tell me what’s going on. It pisses me off that I can’t help her. It pisses me off that she’s shutting me out. And it pisses me off that it hurts so much that she is.
“Damn it, Abi. Tell me what’s going on.”
I’m trying to keep my cool. I’m a doctor. That should be easy.
But this is Abi.
My Abi.
And she’s hurt.
That seems to be the only thing I can think of, and the only thing that matters.
“Abi, if you don’t talk to me, I’m taking you to the hospital.” As if to give credence to the threat, I bend and sweep her into my arms.
“No, no! Sam, please!”
I sit back down on the bed, cradling her in my arms. “Then for chrissake tell me what’s going on.”
She snaps an answer, her voice taut with pain. “I have CRPS.”
“CRPS? As in Complex Regional Pain Syndrome?”
I feel her nod.
The physician in me kicks in and I triage her.
“How long have you had it?”
“Two years.”
“What kind of event precipitated it? Did you have an accident or…?”
“Yes. Broke my leg.”
“Family history of this condition?”
“Not that I know of.”
My mind is racing.
I’m no neurologist, but I remember enough about CRPS from medical school to know that it’s nothing to mess around with. It’s uncommonly painful, stressful, often debilitating, and in some cases quickly progressive. It can be deadly, but only in worst-case scenarios when it spreads beyond limbs to organs. Most live with it, but it’s one of the most painful diseases for a person to have.
I close my eyes and resist the urge to draw Abi closer. I can’t keep my hold on her from tightening, though. It seems beyond my control to stop my hands from gripping her, almost like if I hold her tight enough, I can keep her from ever leaving me again.
“So you’re accustomed to these flares then?”
“Yes.”
“What can I do? Tell me how I can help.”
“Just…just lay me back down, Sam. Please.”
I do as she asks, shifting her back to the mattress as though she were made of thin, frail porcelain. When she’s situated, foot elevated and a pillow behind her head, I sit on the edge of the bed. “What soothes you?”
CRPS symptoms are aggravated by anxiety. I know it’s important to calm her down.
“What?”
I repeat. “What soothes you?”
She seems perplexed by the question. “I don’t know. Music, I guess. Why do you ask?”
“Because I want to help.”
I take my phone from my pocket and bring the screen to life, then click the music app. I scroll through until I find something soothing and instrumental. I tap it.
Sounds of a pan flute and running water and birds fill the air. Abi is quiet for a few seconds, but then I hear a muffled snort.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing. Nothing at all.” I don’t need light to be able to detect the snigger in her tone.
“Is the music not to your liking?”
“The music is fine.”
“But?” I know there’s a “but” in there.
“But nothing.”
I pretend to get up. “Hospital it is.”
“No, no! I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” I can see her holding up her hand in the dark, so I sit back down.
“Then what are you laughing at?”
“I didn’t laugh. Not out loud at least.” She does now, though. “It’s just that…yoga music, Sam? Really?”
“What’s wrong with yoga music? It’s soothing.”
“It is. For a woman.”
“So men can’t find the sounds of nature soothing?”
“Of course they can. But you…you…”
“You what?”
“You’re just such a manly-man. I’m surprised. That’s all.”
I can’t help puffing out my chest a little. Her words please me more than they should. “I am a manly-man. And manly men like yoga music. Grrrraaaahhhh.” I make a manly-man growling sound.
She gives a bark of laughter, but it’s strained.
“Is that how manly men sound when they listen to yoga music?”
“Damn right.”
“Do you practice manly yoga?”
“Let’s not get ridiculous now.”
“Oh, we’re just now getting ridiculous?”
I give an exaggerated sigh, teasing. “Can we change the subject?”
“Sure, manly man. Whatever you say.”
Although it’s plain she’s suffering discomfort, her tone has eased some, my tension level dropping off significantly at the sound. We fall silent as the music continues. I don’t know when I even picked up her hand, but I’m stroking Abi’s fingers, one by one, with each breath I take. I hope it’s as soothing to her as it is to me.
After a song and half of another plays, Abi speaks again, her voice low and sincere. “Thank you, Sam.”
“For what?”
“For everything.”
“You’re feeling better?”
Her nod shakes the bed the tiniest bit. “I am.”
I’m relieved to hear it. I reach over to smooth my knuckles down her cheek. “You’re welcome. I would say it’s my pleasure, but that might insinuate that I like it when you’re sick, which I don’t. I really don’t,” I add with a wry smile.
“I know. You’ve got enough sickness in your life right now. The last thing you need is someone else to take care of or worry about.”
“That’s not what I meant, Abi.”
“I know it’s not, but it’s true nonetheless.”
“I’m a doctor. I like helping people. It’s kinda my thing.”
“But you care for people and then forget about them. And I don’t mean that in a bad way,” she says, putting up a hand to stop me before I can respond. “I was a nurse for a while before—. Well, I was a nurse and I know it’s not only healthy, but also necessary to leave those worries at work. You do what you can, but you have to let it go. That’s hard to do when it’s someone you know, though.”
I’m not going to argue with her about this. I’m not going to try to explain that I don’t mind worrying about her. I never have. Abi and I are complicated, yes, but she’s still my Abi.
Rather than debating the issue, I choose a back door that I hope will lead me to the answers I’m after.
“I didn’t know you were a nurse. Why did you quit?”
In the soft light provided by the moonlight reflecting off the wooden floors, I see her brow furrow. She looks down at the sheet covering her. Her fingers pick at some unseen thing as though it holds the answers to world peace. “I went to nursing school straight out of high school. A two-year program was all we could afford and the community college was close, so…” Her chest rises and falls with her deep breath. “I only got to nurse for a few years, though. Momma was in an accident when I was twenty-six. Extensive brain damage, so she had to be put in a long-term care facility when she was released from the hospital. I was able to go over and check on her before and after work at first, but I’d just gotten married and it didn’t take Greg long to realize that he wasn’t getting enough attention, so… He asked me to quit.”
“So you did.”
She nods. “So I did.”
I ponder what she’s told me thus far. “Greg.” I’m not asking her about him; I’m just trying it on.
Abi and Greg.
Greg and Abi.
It doesn’t fit.
Abi wasn’t meant to be married to a guy named Greg, some uptight asshole who counts his money and puts himself above everyone else around him. That’s who Greg is. At least in my mind. Greg was never good enough for Abi. Only one man was.
“Yeah. Greg Jordan.”
Greg Jordan? Definitely an asshole. In my experience, anyone with a first name for a last name is a preppy, self-involved shit.
I nod. I’ll find out more about him later. Some other time. If he’s not important to Abi (which he’s clearly not if she’s here alone and with no intention of returning to him), he’s not important to me.
“So it wasn’t because of your fall?”
Abi’s eyes flick up to mine and I see the alarm in them. If she could, she’d probably get up from this bed, right now, in the middle of the night, and run again.
And I want to know why.
“No. That was…that was later.”
I press. “How’d it happen?”
Abi scoots herself up toward the headboard and tucks a stray strand of inky hair behind her ear. “I’m really tired, Sam. Could we continue this interrogation some other time?”
Interrogation.
I laugh. “That obvious, huh?”
“No, not at all.” Her tone is dripping with sarcasm.
“About as obvious as you trying to avoid it, right?”
To this she says nothing.
“Just be straight with me, Abs. This isn’t a trap. And it’s really not an interrogation. This is just me, Sam, being interested in your life, in your health, in who you’ve been all these years.”
She lets her head drop back in exasperation. “I don’t want to talk about it. Can’t you just respect that?”
“Are we being honest?”
“Of course.” The way she says it sounds like the question alone is offensive.
“Then, no. I can’t. This is a serious condition, Abi. You’re dealing with a kind of pain that most people know nothing about. Hell, I don’t even know everything there is to know about it. I just know it’s bad. It’s a tough diagnosis, and clearly you’ve been coping with it for a while now, but I’m in this now, too. I want to know. I want to help you.”
“You can’t help me, Sam,” she says angrily. “This is what I deserve.”
“That’s crazy, Abi. Nobody deserves this. We can get you to a great neurologist who can help with the pain and even—”
“I’ve seen a neurologist. Two, in fact. I don’t need another one.”
“But I know people. I could—”
“No, Sam. I’ve seen all the doctors I’m going to see. I know my options. I know the particulars. This is the way it’s going to be for me. End of story.”
“But it doesn’t have to be. We could ask about—”
“I know it all!” She flings up her hands. “I don’t need any more information or any more visits or any more help.”
“Why would you want to live this way if there was a better option?”
“Leave it alone, Sam.” There’s warning in her voice.
“I can’t just leave it alone, Abi. I can’t not care about what’s going on with you.”
“I’m not asking you not to care. I’m just asking you to stay out of this.”
“Just listen to me. We—”
“No, Sam. I don’t want to listen. You don’t understand. Just drop it. Please.”
“But there are drugs and procedures and—”
Her voice rises and takes on a hard edge. “Stop! Just stop! I don’t want any of that.”
“You don’t want help?”
“No.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“It’s not.”
“It is.”
Abi runs her hands into the hair above her ears, flattening her palms over her temples like she’s trying to squeeze me out of her head. “I deserve to suffer. I deserve the pain. Just leave it alone, Sam. God!”
“Why the hell do you think you deserve this? That’s ludicrous. It’s—”
“I told you. You don’t understand.”
“Then help me to. I want to know—”
“I don’t want you to know!”
“Abi, please. If we’re going to—”
“You need to leave, Sam.”
“I’m not going anywhere until you tell me—”
“Get the hell out of here, Sam!” She’s shouting now, sitting up in the bed and pointing toward the door. She’d get in my face if she could. She’d physically push me out of her room, out of her life if she could. I can see it in every stiff line of her body. But she can’t. And I’m not going.
“I’m not leaving. You need to be straight with me. I—”
“Sam—”
“Abi, you—”
“Drop it!”
“No, we need to get this—”
“Sam, stop!”
“Abi, come on, just—”
“Because I killed my daughter!” Her face is full of fury, her voice full of agony. “I killed my daughter and I deserve hell, as hot as it can get!”
I’m stunned into silence.
I killed my daughter.
The quiet that follows is as deep as an ocean and twice as dark.