“As much as I’m going to be.” Which isn’t much, but I’ll be damned if I’ll admit that I’m probably going to fall flat onto my face as soon as he releases me.
I might be an invalid, but I still have my pride.
“The bathroom is over there.” He gestures to something.
“That would be helpful, if I could see where you pointed.”
“Your vision is that bad?”
“I’m legally blind without my glasses.”
“I’ll get you another pair.”
“They’re prescription.”
“Let me worry about that.”
He takes one step back, keeping his hands underneath my armpits. I shuffle forward. He takes another step back. We go halfway across the room like that, until he loses his patience.
“This will take forever. I’m picking you up.”
“I need to walk. It helps with blood flow and healing. Lying in bed too long after surgery puts you at risk for blood clots and lung problems like pneumonia.”
I sense surprise in his pause. “How did you know that?”
Because that’s what the doctors told my mother after the surgery she had to remove her cancerous ovaries, but I’m not in the mood to share painful personal anecdotes.
I say crossly, “I’ve got a big brain.”
His answer is mild. “Your head is uncommonly large for such a small person. Have you ever been approached by the circus and offered a job?”
“That’s not even a little bit funny.”
“Then why are your lips turning up?”
“That’s the face I make before projectile vomiting.”
He picks me up and carries me the rest of the way to the restroom, as if we didn’t already go over this. When he sets me down in front of the toilet and stands there with his arms folded over his chest, staring at me, I blanch.
“You’re not standing right there while I pee.”
“You could fall.”
“Yes, I could. That would be an appropriate time for you to appear and assist me. Not now.”
He doesn’t budge. Which, of course, makes me mad.
“Why go to all this trouble for someone you were threatening to kill? You could’ve just let me die back there and been done with me.”
As if he thinks he’s making perfect sense, he says calmly, “You took a bullet for me. I’m responsible for you now.”
“I’m not lucid enough to unravel that logic.”
Ignoring that, he turns to go. “I’ll be right outside the door if you need me.”
I lean on the edge of the sink, staring in confusion at the closed door, until I decide I’d better sit down before I topple over. Moving carefully, I creep to the toilet.
“Are you all right?” Through the door, his voice sounds sharp.
“Until you hear a loud thump, assume I’m fine.”
“I thought I did hear a loud thump.”
“That was just the sound of all the hope leaving my body.”
It’s not until I finish using the toilet and look at myself in the mirror above the sink that I realize the underwear and long black sleep shirt I’m wearing aren’t mine.
All the ramifications of what that means are pushed aside by the sheer horror of seeing my reflection in the mirror.
Even without my glasses, I can see that I look like Death.
Like the literal, physical embodiment of Death.
I’m pale as chalk. My eyes are red and sunken. My lips are chapped, and my hair is a nest of snarls where rodents have obviously been fighting.
I’ve lost weight, too. Maybe ten pounds. My clavicle bones stick out like a skeleton’s.
In disbelief, I touch my cheek, then my hair.
Then, overwhelmed by the reality of my situation, I start crying. I crumple against the sink and break into sobs so loud, I don’t hear it when Mal bursts through the door.
Without a word, he takes me in his arms and holds me against his chest as I weep.
No, that sounds too delicate for what I’m doing. This is a breakdown. A full-body event complete with blubbering and bawling, howling and wailing, shaking and quaking and lots of snot.
Mal remains silent during it all. He simply holds me.
It’s the only reason I don’t fall to my knees.
When the loudest wails have tapered, and I’m a hiccupping, red-faced mess, he releases me long enough to turn to the counter and grab a tissue. He holds it against my face and tells me to blow, like I’m a five-year-old with a head cold.
It’s surprisingly soothing.
I blow into the tissue. He wipes my nose, tosses that tissue into the trash, gets another one, and wipes the tears from my cheeks. He picks me up in his arms and heads back to the bedroom.