“You’re gonna get cold,” she murmured softly as she released her hold slightly, and I could feel her reach over the side of the tub. She draped a towel over me. “C’mon baby, let’s get you out of here.”
Once inside the room, Jean inspected my damaged knuckles. “Remind me not to get in your way if you wanna throw a right hook,” she joked.
I stood still, a curious blankness enveloping me as she bandaged the skin that stretched and oozed across my knuckles.
That’ll probably hurt soon,
I observed with the same strange detachment.
“Oh hey, I brought you some pj’s,” Jean said and pointed to the folded clothes on the bed. “I’m gonna go grab a shower, okay?”
“Yeah, fine,” I agreed, numb as I walked over and sat on the bed, pulling the T-shirt and the lounge pants onto my lap. So it had started: we never slept clothed; it was one of the things I loved about us, the way we felt together in those hazy moments before sleeping and waking.
I shivered and pulled the towel tightly. I hadn’t wanted to lose that intimacy, not ever, and especially not now when I so needed the reassurance of her skin, to breathe it in and feel like home. But I didn’t blame her.
I was still sitting there when Jean came back into the room, dressed in a T-shirt and the “light” version of the plaid loungers she so loved. Dusty followed her in, and Jean closed the door as the dog settled by my feet.
“Aren’t you cold in that towel?”
I stared at her a long moment. “Jean…we don’t wear pajamas,” I said finally.
I watched as she came over and sat on the edge of the bed next to me. She gazed down at the space between us.
“I thought…” she began, then lifted her eyes to mine. “Tori, I thought you wouldn’t…you wouldn’t want…” She gestured helplessly, at a seeming loss for the first time since I’d known her.
“I’m okay with that, I…” I didn’t want to tell her how much I needed the reassurance of her body close to me, how necessary to my survival it felt; I didn’t want her to do anything simply because she felt obligated. “It’s okay, never mind.” I sighed and turned down the blanket so I wouldn’t have to look into those beautiful eyes and find the distance I expected.
“Tori,” she said quietly, “I don’t…I don’t—I’m making a mess of this, aren’t I?” She touched my hand so gently I wanted to cry. “Baby, what do you need? What do you want? That’s what I want to do, and I don’t know what I’m doing right now.”
That light touch, that small bit of skin on skin, gave me hope that something could be saved. I curled my fingers around hers. “I want us to be okay, I want…” I felt desperate as I twisted to look at her and moved her hand so that the palm pressed against my sternum. She delicately stroked my skin with her fingertips. “I want you to be the way you always are with me, Jean, I—” I took a deep breath. “I’m not feeling very normal right now, and I very much need for us to be normal, even just a little bit.”
“Okay, that I can do,” she said softly. “Can I kiss you?”
“Sure.”
She did, first my forehead, then a gentle sealing of her lips to mine that made my chest grow warm. “All right,” she murmured and pulled the blankets further down, “get under there and I’ll join you in a moment.”
I climbed under the blankets, and once I was fully covered, I unwrapped myself from the towel, then handed it to her. Yes, I needed Jean next to me, her skin on mine, but I felt vulnerable for asking and ashamed of the lines etched into my skin, the faint bruises that marked me in other places. I couldn’t bear to let her see that, to see her reaction, because I didn’t know if I could take it, no matter what it was.
It was seconds before Jean slid in next to me, and the fear that I wouldn’t accept her touch disappeared when I felt the so-familiar glide I didn’t think I could live without. In that instant of contact, I could breathe again.
“Thank you,” I whispered as I pressed my back against her and her arms wound around me.
“I thought you wouldn’t want me to hold you,” Jean said softly into my hair.
I faced her, secure now in her grip, and pressed my lips to the pulse in her neck. “I think I’d break if you didn’t.”
“I won’t let you—I swear I won’t let you.” The urgent whisper played in my ear and soothed me.
But still, it took forever to fall asleep. Every time I closed my eyes and drifted, I’d jump upright, because I thought I was falling, panicked I’d dissolve and die. Every single time, Jean would gently draw me back down and I’d shake—I couldn’t help it.
Finally, Jean retrieved a few extra pillows from the hallway linen closet and placed them between me and the wall. We shifted with her around me until I finally felt secure. I ended up lying on my stomach with Jean literally on top of me and was finally able to really close my eyes.
When I woke, Jean was still half draped over my back, the warmest, most comforting blanket I’d ever have. “Holy shit, I’m gonna be late for my shift!” I struggled to sit up.
Jean again gently pressed me back down. “I called us both out for the week last night. We’ve got almost a dozen comp days we haven’t used,” she said as she drew me back into the warmth of her body, “and you’re staying here, with me, for the rest of the week.”
“Yeah?” I asked, oddly grateful for the reprieve, and even more so for the continued reassurance of her warm presence.
“Yeah,” she kissed my neck, “now close your eyes and dream of those paint chips that we’ll go pick up later.”
I settled into her contours and laced my fingers through hers as I drew her over me again. “I love you,” I said simply and kissed her hand.
“You better,” she sighed, then kissed the back of my head. “I’m giving up plaid for you.”
*
I couldn’t look anyone in the eye over breakfast later that morning. I felt like my skin had been ripped off, making every glance, every word, no matter how kind or mild, sting and scald, a whispered reproach, a litany of shame that weighted my head. I couldn’t look at Nina at all, afraid that even the slightest glance would…contaminate her or something, somehow.
I jumped at the tiniest of noises: the scrape of a chair on the floor, the solid thunk of a coffee cup on the table. And every time I placed a fork to my mouth, my appetite completely disappeared. Even Samantha’s home fries were tasteless.
“Hey, Tor. Gonna spar with me today?” she asked casually. She made no comment about my bandaged hands.
“Yeah, sure,” I said, glad to do something normal. I practically jumped out of my seat. “I just need to grab my sneakers.”
I was sore, still spotting a bit, but I didn’t think it would matter much; it wasn’t like the stitches were in my stomach or anything, I thought as I wrapped my hands for sparring. Besides, the sweat would purge anything left out of my system.
The session started as they normally did: stretches, footwork, push-hands techniques that forced the mind to act, not just react.
Then came the combinations. “Harder, Tori. Faster. C’mon,” Samantha urged as I almost missed ducking a strike-pad coming straight for my head.
Jab, jab, duck, reverse punch, then switch to the other side. A few more rounds, and it was time for the next combination, this one a mix of hand and footwork. The first roundhouse kick went fine, as did the second, though I did feel a burn across my belly. The third caught me short, a lick of fire that went deeper than skin, and I instinctively pressed my hand against it. The flame settled, and when I took my hand away, I saw a smear of blood. Closer inspection of my T-shirt showed a red cross that had leached through the cotton.
I lost it. I let loose a volley of kicks and blows until I found myself on my knees, crying and choking and puking on the grass, with Samantha’s arm across my shoulders.
“I’m sorry, Tor, I am so very sorry,” she soothed, rocking me as I fought to breathe. “The world is full of things that take…take things they have no right to. I
know
you hurt, I know
how
you hurt, but I swear, Tori, she didn’t take
you
, didn’t touch
you
. You’re still Victoria Scotts, still my cousin, still Nina’s favorite little sister and Elena’s big one. You’re still the beautiful young woman, the beautiful person Jean loves.”
“I don’t know about that,” I said, choking still on the bitter taste that filled my mouth.
“I do,” she said firmly and kissed the back of my head. “No one can touch or take your heart away from you, Tori, not a heart like yours. And I bet Jean’s just waiting by the door, giving us a moment before she comes out.”
She let go of me and stood up. “C’mon,” she said and stood before me, her hand out. “See, just like I told you”—she looked past my shoulder as she pulled me up—“here comes Jean now.”
I stood and before I could even fully turn, I was already firmly enclosed in Jean’s arms. Samantha said something about checking with Nina about Fran’s arrival time, as Jean kissed my head. “I want to take you inside, take care of your hands, take care of that cut, and then we’re gonna go lie down for a bit, okay?”
“I’m not tired,” I murmured into her shoulder.
“Humor the psycho dyke, please,” she said, and I could hear the smile in her voice. “You don’t want to mess with my I’m-always-right delusion, do you? Besides, if you’re really not sleepy, we’ll go see a movie or rent one or whatever, okay?”
“Okay, fine,” I chuckled, “but only because I don’t want to mess with your delusion.”
About fifteen, maybe twenty minutes later I muttered, “Medics,” as I lay down exhausted, with Jean stretched securely over me.
“What about ’em?”
“You guys think you know everything.”
“Ah, that. Well, you know why, right?” she asked and kissed my cheek.
“Why?”
“Because, in fact, we do. Hey, two years of med school crammed into one has to count for something, you know.”
“Hmm,” I answered with a yawn. “That all?”
“No,” she said, and kissed me again. “I know
you
, Tori. Go to sleep. I’ll be right here when you wake up.”
“Promise?”
“Always,” she swore as she curved her arms over mine. “For better or worse, baby. It only seems worse right now. It’ll get better, I swear.”
I snuggled a bit more under her and, thus assured, I slept right through to the next day.
*
The next morning, Jean didn’t let me out of her direct line of sight, not outside playing with Dusty or sparring with Samantha, not even in the shower, really, because she wanted to “check that cut again” before we went downstairs to meet Nina and Sam’s friend.
I recognized Fran instantly—she had that same lucky gene quirk that both Samantha and Nina had and appeared to be in her twenties, not her early thirties—she’d stood by Samantha at her and Nina’s wedding.
I remembered, too, her smile, which struck me as somewhat familiar as she shook my hand with friendly and firm warmth. Good shake, I thought as I noted the texture of her skin, a slight paperiness to it that her tan couldn’t hide. I knew what it meant instantly, the leaching effect of chemo, of radiation therapies, that took so long for the body that survived the treatments to recover from. I would have asked her questions about it had I not been trying so hard not to feel anything about why we were meeting in the first place.
“We’ll need about two hours,” Fran said as Nina and Sam ushered us into the den off the living room.
“Take all the time you need. We’re just gonna run a couple of errands and come back with lunch, ’kay?” Nina turned to me and said.
“Yeah, sure,” I agreed through dry lips.
Nina put a very light hand on my shoulder. “You’ll be okay,
querida
,” she said softly, “you’re in good hands—I trust her with my life.”
I swallowed and nodded as I put my arms around her. Hers was a vote of confidence I couldn’t ignore.
Reintroductions aside, the resulting discussion as we sat around that desk was difficult at best, and humiliating at worst, with the same questions Dr. Petrossi had asked, and more: specific, detailed questions that made me want to crawl—when was the last time Jean and I had made love before my visit to the emergency room (it was the morning of the funeral), what could I remember of that afternoon, what was the nature of my interactions with Trace, before and after we’d…ended.
Fran paid careful attention and asked to see the mark on my arm but didn’t ask to see the one on my stomach; there were already medical records on that. A few times during the deposition, because that was exactly what this question-and-answer session was—the report that would go to court if I pressed charges, the record that would accompany me to the precinct—I thought I’d explode, implode, or merely retch.
At one point, right before we got into the detailed history, Fran asked if I wanted to do that part alone. Jean stood to leave.
For some bizarre reason, my mind seized on the first night I’d spent there, the night I’d tried to argue with Nina about Kerry. “There’s nothing you don’t know,” Nina had said to Sam when she’d gotten up to go.
That…was some amazing trust. I might not have told Jean some things, but there was nothing that she couldn’t, or shouldn’t, know: if everyone was right, as they kept assuring me in every way they could, then I’d done nothing wrong, nothing to be ashamed of.