I break down and do what I say I will never do again— drive. I’ve continued to renew my license every four years simply for identification purposes, especially since I own a business that sells alcohol and requires proper identification. But just because I have a driver’s license doesn’t mean I have to use it.
The last time I drove, I killed Olivia. Thankfully, we are not too far from the Urgent Care in Brentwood, and down the street from my sister’s house. My hands tremble the entire ride, and I’ve got sweat starting to trickle down my temples. I grip the steering wheel extra tight, knowing that Isabella is watching my every move. I think she doesn’t believe that I can drive, but she doesn’t say a word. Her silence is helpful.
I pull up to the circle drive in the parking lot and run in to get a wheelchair. While she is completing the registration process, I park the car giving her some privacy. By the time I come back in, she is wheeling herself to the waiting area. Someone must have triaged her ankle because the mechanical leg is now in the up position on the wheelchair to ease her swelling.
After x-rays declare it’s not broken— it’s just a strain, they release her into my care. It’s all wrapped up nice and tight and should remain that way for a few days. I help her into the car and get her settled in comfortably, making sure to click her seat belt and pull it tight. Precious cargo and all, you know.
“I’m not quite sure what to do about getting you some clothes and your personal items for a few days?” I ask, turning onto the main road back to my house.
“Frank, what are you talking about?” she questions in return. “I’m confused.”
“They released you into my care just now, and you’re my responsibility for a few days until your strain heals,” I reply, glancing over at her. “Did you not hear the nurse and her instructions?” She is clearly exasperated because both arms flail awkwardly in the air before they find a resting place crossed with fists tight over her chest.
“Oh, I heard her, all right,” she shrieks in a restrained voice through gnashed teeth and a clenched jaw. “What I don’t understand is how YOU didn’t hear her. She clearly gave me directions on how to care for the strain, and what my limitations are. There were no instructions to stay with you and give you control over me.” She huffs a very loud sigh, blowing her breath out and twists her body to look out the window, disregarding me.
I pull over to a side street and stop the car. I refuse to drive distracted while we argue. We sit in silence for a few moments. I collect my thoughts and calm down, while she twiddles the ribboned hem on her shirt.
“Bella,” talking softly to her, I touch the soft spot on the crease of her elbow and try to get her to turn her face towards mine, but she shrugs me off. “I’m not going to apologize for wanting to take care of you. You’re hurt for Christ’s sake. Caring for you is not controlling you.” My voice raises on my last words, and I have to take another deep breath to ease the tension rising in my chest. She remains silent, and I know I’m losing her.
“Please look at me,” I beg. The silence is deafening within the small space of her car. “There is nothing wrong with letting someone take care of you in a time of need.” She huffs her breath again. Damn, she’s a stubborn woman.
“Just because I want to take care of you doesn’t mean that you aren’t still a strong woman,” I explain, feeling completely lost and out of words to get through to her. “Fuck. You’re one of the strongest women I know. Maybe I want you to need me. I want to feel that I matter to someone, and I want that someone to be you.”
The only sound in the car is our mixed breathing; hers in anger and mine in frustration. Giving up, I twist the keys in the ignition and her hand reaches out to stop me.
“I’ve been doing everything for myself practically since I was eight years old,” she sighs heavily. “My parents were always working. I’ve had to bandage my own cuts and scrapes, pull glass from my foot, tweeze splinters from my own hands, and...heal my own heart when it’s been devastated. It isn’t easy giving that up when it’s all you know.”
She leans over and puts her head on my shoulder, lacing her fingers within mine. “I’m sorry for every hurt you’ve ever experienced, but let me make this one better,” I whisper, kissing her forehead. “And if I do a good job with your ankle, maybe you’ll let me take care of your heart?”
She gasps and squeezes my hand tighter within hers. “I’m not sure you’ll want that job after you’re done with the other task,” she murmurs, looking up into my eyes. The moment is solemn and sobering because she isn’t teasing, but sounds sad. “No one else has ever wanted it before. Even my parents. I’m thirty-eight and unloved.” The tears that had started to well up in her eyes overflow down her cheeks.
“I have a bartender named Derek,” I explain, wiping the tears from her face. “He’s a damn good bartender, but he sucks at mopping the floors. And I have several servers that are damn good servers, but they can’t pour a drink to save their lives. The moral here is that not everyone is good at everything. You have to find the right person for the job or at least someone who is going to give it their all and work their hardest to improve themselves to do the job. You just haven’t found the right person to take care of your heart. I’ll die trying to do the best job I can. I promise you that.” I kiss her hand that’s entwined in mine, and she reaches up and presses her lips to mine, sealing my words between us.
“Take me home,” she commands, pointing to the road. “Your home.” She corrects herself smiling. She is still holding my hand and leaning on me, but I don’t have the heart to confide in her that I need to concentrate on my driving. I’ll just have to be on hyper-alert. I twist the key in the ignition and check both mirrors before re-entering the street. Maybe I can take the back roads with ease to keep her safe.
I pull into my actual driveway at the front of my house and notice her eyes are bugged out in wonder. She’s soaking up the landscaping to my house like a kid in a candy store.
“You take really good care of your yard,” she says in awe. “I’m impressed.”
“Please don’t be,” I chuckle in return to her response. “My niece’s husband owns a landscaping business, and he sends someone every week. I never see them or hear them.” I get out of the car and grab her crutches from the backseat.
“You can just hand them to me,” she says, as she watches me trying to maneuver them closer to her and have them face the correct way. “I’ve been on crutches many times from playing soccer. I’m pretty good at using them by now.”
And she’s right. She hoists herself out of the car and starts swinging her body towards the front steps. A few hops later and she’s standing by the front door. I take a moment to release the breath I’ve been holding while giving her space to move. She’s a proud woman, and I don’t ever want to take that away from her.
I unlock the front door for her and give her more space to enter my living room. She crosses the threshold and with bated breath, I wait for her to say something...anything about this room. She slowly takes in her surroundings as she rests, and finally moves through to the kitchen just beyond the hall.
I stop and run my hand over the white piano and leather bench, re-adjusting a few of the picture frames that hold our time to this room. The engagement ring photo that we had professionally taken captures my attention in it’s mirrored, silver frame. My face reflects in the corner, reminding me of the time that has passed and every time I see it my heart squeezes tighter. This innocent picture reminds me the most of everything I’ve lost.
But not today, I won’t let it. I lay the picture face down and walk away.
“Bella,” I call out to her as I join her in the kitchen, “let’s move you to the den for comfort, and then I’ll make you some lunch, or an early dinner with the time being what it is. Okay?”
“There’s a den?” she asks mockingly, her bright eyes tease me. “How big is this house? I might need a map.” She winks at me, and that tiny little gesture makes my heart thump loudly in my chest. For a second, I thought she heard it because she places her hand on my heart.
“I can give you a piggyback tour after we eat,” I hint, right as my stomach grumbles loudly in complaint.
“Okay, but I don’t want to sit in the den while you cook,” she groans. “Can’t I sit here and watch, or maybe even help?”
“No, you can’t sit here,” answering more sharply than I intended. “There isn’t anywhere for you to elevate your foot, and that’s exactly what you’re supposed to be doing.” I tap her nose playfully making her smile. “And if you don’t elevate your foot, you’re never going to heal and get out of this house,” I remind her.
Her face falls in sadness but recovers quickly with a bright smile. She raises her arms up, waving them like a child who wants to be picked up. “You’re going to have to carry me then, or I don’t budge, ankle be damned,” she insists. Stubborn woman.
I scoop one arm under her thighs while securing the other against her back and lift. She’s so light, I stumble for a moment in lifting too quickly. She braces herself against me as I swing her around, almost hitting her wrapped ankle against the hallway door frame.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’re trying to injure me further to get me to stay longer,” she teases, snuggling her head into my chest as we move into the den. We descend the few stairs into the den. She looks up and around the room, gasping in awe at one point as I walk her further into the room. “It may be too early to judge, but I think this is my favorite room so far.”
“Maybe. We’ll have to see. Everyone is entitled to their own opinion, but on your first assessment, I tend to agree,” I inform her. “It’s my favorite room too.”
I sit her down in the recliner of my sectional sofa, facing the television and help her recline comfortably. I grab a pillow and start to prop her foot up even higher, but she hisses startling me. “Are you in pain?” I ask, stopping in mid-motion too afraid to move.
“No, no pain,” she replies. “I promise. I think I was just nervous about you moving around so fast. Sorry.”
“Alright then,” I say. “How about some chicken for an early dinner? And I’m sorry, but I should probably tell you now that I’ll have to go to the bar this evening. I don’t have a night manager on Sundays.”
“Chicken sounds great,” she answers and grabs her phone without saying anything about me leaving her tonight. I lay the television remote next to her on the cushion and walk away, stopping briefly to stand at the door for one last word from her. Nothing further is said as she scrolls through her phone.