Page 212 of Things We Hide from the Light
The rain madefor slick roads, and slick roads made for accidents. The first call wasn’t bad. A fender bender with an anxious new mom and her infant on the way to the pediatrician.
Bannerjee calmed both mom and baby while the tow truck was called. Meanwhile I dealt with the traffic and cleanup, forcing myself not to think about the woman I’d left warm in my bed.
We hadn’t even dried off from the first call when we got the second.
There’s a mode of operation first responders learn to shift into so the trauma they witness doesn’t haunt them. It works. For the most part.
But given the mood I couldn’t shake, the circumstances, the cruel coincidence… I knew I was already spiraling before things got worse.
It was dark and I was thoroughly frozen by the time I trudged up the stairs to my apartment. My shoulder and head were battling it out for which could ache more.
I just wanted a hot shower so I could stand under the water until my soul thawed. And then I wanted to go to bed and sink into the blackness until I could forget about the pain that I hadn’t been able to save anyone from.
There was a husband and two little boys holding vigil in the ICU waiting room hoping their wife and mom would wake up.
I’d arrived after the fact. Generally how things worked. Something bad happened and then the cops came. I’d helped the fire crew and paramedics pull her from the mangled prison of twisted metal, held a poncho over her motionless body while they belted her onto the gurney, and felt fucking helpless.
I was supposed to save people, but I hadn’t even been able to save myself. It was dumb luck that I was still here. A lucky coincidence that Xandra had been there at the exact right time.
I unlocked my door with frozen fingers, anxious for the dark, the quiet.
Instead, I was met with light and warmth and the smell of something cooking on the stove.
There was music, an upbeat country classic playing loud. Memories of her pulling me or Knox or my dad into a dance in the kitchen assailed me, making my chest ache.
Jayla Morgan was the light and laughter of our little family.
When she didn’t come home that day, part of me died. Part of all of us died. We were never the same.
Piper trotted up to me growling playfully through a stuffed snake.
“Hey!” Lina called cheerily from the kitchen. “Before you panic, I didn’t actually cook. Mrs. Tweedy made a triple batch of chili and I found a box mix for cornbread in your pantry that I managed not to burn. I figured it was the perfect, miserable day for it.”
She was in leggings and a long-sleeve white top that was cropped at the waist and open with crisscrossed straps at the back. Her skin was dewy and her short, dark hair tousled. The earrings I got her dangled from her ears.
In that moment, I knew a longing so intense I felt my knees buckle.
In that moment, I understood my father.
In that moment, I realized I was my father.
“Do you like Piper’s new toy? The mayor dropped it off. Said you’d get the joke,” she continued.
I wanted to take off my shoes, peel the wet clothes from my body, and stand under the showerhead until I felt human again. But I was frozen to the spot. Because I didn’t deserve to feel warm. Not until I’d let her go.
“Nash? Are you okay?” her voice sounded like it was far away. Like it was floating to me over country music and the smell of fresh cornbread.
Something rose up in me. Something dark and determined. I couldn’t do this.
If I stayed, if I kept her, kept leaning on her, I’d be no better than my father.
And if I loved her too much, I would lose her.
“I think you should go.” My voice sounded thin and shaky, like my father’s when he needed a fix.
The ladle fell from her hand and landed on the floor.
“You think I should do what?” she demanded, meeting my icy numbness with her fire.
