For a while, we lie there in silence, mostly because there isn’t much to say that would outweigh the severity of this moment.
But also because Sage can’t talk and I don’t have anything worth saying.
Eventually I’ll tell Sage how I came clean to my family.
And how my father cried while the police cuffed him. But for now, the moment belongs to us. And there’s nothing fake about it.
It was never fake to me.
I don’t even remember drifting off, but sometime later, the nurses come in to check on Sage. When she complains about the pain, they offer her something in her IV, and I pressure her to take it. I notice how gentle they are with her, careful and nurturing in their treatment.
It’s another few minutes before the doctor comes in. He tells us that she should be cleared to go home in the morning as long as they can keep the swelling down. When he mentions having to scope her again, Sage grimaces, and I pray that that’s not the case. Then I’m assaulted with shame for not being here the first time she had to endure that.
I step out into the hall for a moment to make some calls.
First, my mother to assure her that Sage is stable and should be able to go home tomorrow. Then, I call Gladys. It hurts to make the call, but I know she’s the closest thing Sage has to a mother, and she deserves to know that someone she loves is in the hospital. Telling her that it was my father makes me feel like the lowest piece of scum on the earth.
“That sonofabitch,” Gladys barks into the phone. Her voice is laced with anger and pain when I break the news, but it feels strangely nice to know someone cares about Sage so much. That Sage is never truly alone, even if her own mother isn’t there for her.
“If you could keep Roscoe tonight, we’ll hopefully be home in the morning.”
“They’re gonna let you stay all night?” she asks with hope in her voice.
“They’re going to have a hell of a time trying to get me to leave,” I reply with a dry laugh.
“Give ’em hell.”
“Thanks, Gladys. I’ll keep you posted.”
“Thank you, baby. And, Adam…” she says.
“Yeah?” I reply.
“You’re lucky to have each other.”
Truer words have never been spoken, I think as I stare into the hospital room at Sage on the bed.
“I agree. Night, Gladys.”
After I hang up the phone, I drop it on the table next to the bed. Then I climb back in next to her, kissing the top of her head.
She’s already written a message on the paper, so she holds it up for me to see.
Discharge tomorrow around 3.
I nod at the message, looking down at her and noticing the expression of concern etched into her features. She puts the pen back to the paper and writes out the rest.
Will you be there?
My breath comes out of my chest in a heavy exhale.
Remembering that night in the church, we shared our biggest dreams with each other, feeling then as if a future was impossible together. The idea that we would just be there was
such a lofty wish, but now it feels so trivial. There’s not a single thing on this earth that could keep me from being there.
Truly nothing else matters more than this, than her.
So I grab the pad of paper from her hands and I toss it on the table. Then I wrap her up in my arms, and I press my lips to her forehead.
“I’m not going anywhere, Peaches. I’ll be there. For as long as you want.”
Then she wraps her arms around my midsection and burrows herself against my chest. We lie like that for a while until exhaustion takes us and we fall asleep together.
August
The Boyfriend
Forty-Two
Sage
“B iscuits and—”
Adam holds up his hand. “Stop it. You’re supposed to be resting your voice.” Then he looks up at the waitress.
“She’ll have biscuits and gravy with a side of eggs, please.
Scrambled. And I think we’ll need another ketchup bottle.
This one is empty.”
I smile at him, holding the coffee cup tight in my hands to warm my fingers.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
I’ve been out of the hospital for four days now, and my voice has almost completely come back, except for a slight rasp, which makes me sound like a chain-smoker, but other than that, I’m fine. Still, he’s doting on me. And I know it’s just his way of making up for what happened.
If only I could make him understand that it isn’t just the damage to my throat that I need to worry about. Every time I close my eyes, I see Truett’s hate-filled sneer as he presses his weight into my neck. He wanted me dead, and that’s not something you just get over with some pain meds and a night in the hospital.
I think more than anything, it’s the why he wanted me dead that won’t stop harassing my ego. I didn’t pose a threat to him.
I didn’t hurt him or take anything from him. I was a problem to him because of who I am, and that’s the thought that keeps me awake at night. He wanted me dead because his son loves me.
Never in my life have I ever felt the need to apologize for who I am. Being on my own at seventeen, I was like a kid in a candy shop. I had the freedom to be as wild and free as I wanted with the added responsibility of also keeping myself alive with a roof over my head.
I lived for me by my rules and never with anyone else in mind. But what about now?
My eyes settle on another couple across from us at the diner. Everything about them appears compatible, from their matching black shirts to their matching egg-white omelets.
Adam reaches across the table, touching my fingers. I turn my attention toward him.
“I’m thinking about dying my hair,” I whisper, touching my pink strands.
He looks immediately affronted. “What? Why?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m getting too old for pink hair.”
The worried line between his brows grows even deeper.
“How many painkillers did you take this morning?”
I roll my eyes before holding up an O shape with my fingers.
“Then, don’t be ridiculous,” he replies, taking a drink of his coffee. “You’re twenty-seven. You could be sixty-seven and it still wouldn’t matter.”
I try to let his words of encouragement settle in, but all I keep thinking about is his promise in the hospital to be there for me for everything. And I wonder if any of that fantasy talk at the church still applies. What if I worked at a sex club?
What if he had his own church? Would my lifestyle ruin his?
Or the other way around?
I love him, but do I love him enough to change for him?
Does he love me enough to change for me?
As he sets down his coffee cup, I can practically feel the concern radiating from him as he stares at me.
“Peaches, look at me.”
Leaning back in my booth, I gaze across the table at him.
When he sees tears well up in my eyes, his jaw clenches and his nostrils flare. It’s still so incredible to me to be with
another person whose emotions are so easily affected by my own. When I cry, he hurts. When I’m happy, he smiles.
It’s romantic but also…overwhelming. I’ve never been so responsible for another person’s state of mind before.
“One day at a time,” he says, touching my hand again. And I let those words calm me. Silencing the thoughts of the future or of the past, I try to just focus on his presence here right now.