| |
“Weeping and great mourning.” Either Grandma Lucy’s repeating herself now or I’m having a crazy case of déjà-vu. “The voice of a mother weeping for her child.” She just won’t stop talking. Won’t shut up. “Weeping tears of sorrow and grief.”
I’ve known those tears. Known them far more than I would care to admit to anyone, even you.
Especially you.
“Refusing to be comforted.”
I’ve read the verse before, so I’m prepared for what she’s going to say next. What I’m not prepared for is the way her words invite a fresh wave of grief to come crashing down over me as I sit in that hard, uncomfortable pew.
“Refusing to be comforted because her children are no more.”
I spring to my feet, not sure I’ll make it to the bathroom in time. I never used to throw up. Even as a kid, my stomach bugs almost always found me sitting over the toilet bowl instead of heaving into one. But I threw up six or seven times the night Chris kicked me out, and probably more because there are certain parts of what happened I don’t even remember.
What that Sacred Meadows psychologist Dr. Jacob said about blackouts is true. Sometimes your brain turns itself off to block memories. You’d think it was a merciful gesture, sparing you from the horrors of what you endured. But that’s romanticizing the trauma far more than it deserves. The fear is still there. The injuries are still there. But now you only remember bits and pieces. You don’t remember the voice of your attacker, you only remember the feel of the scream trying to lodge its way out of your throat. You can’t recall his face, you only know the way his hands feel as they poke and prod and ram until he gets you in the position he wants.
You don’t remember the act of violence itself, so when you wake up in the ER with the terrified eyes of your tender-hearted boss staring down at you, there’s nothing in your memory to draw on to explain why you’re there. Why your body feels like a pulverized melon. And the physical pain isn’t the worst of it, because as broken and bruised as you feel on the outside, you know your soul has endured infinitely worse injuries, except your brain won’t tell you what they are.
“Reginald?” For a minute, I imagine I must be hallucinating. The suffering in my friend’s face is unmatched in any painting or any sculpture of the crucifixion that I’ve ever seen.
He tries to smile at me, but Reginald’s always been one to bleed out his emotions, which is why his children and grandchildren all learned so readily to take advantage of his generosity and compassion.
“I got hurt.” I’m not sure if this is a question or a statement, or maybe a plea for more information to explain why I’m here. Why my throat is so raw. My legs and core so sore. My mind terrified and confused like I’m Anna Karenina in that foggy train station.
“Shh.” He runs his hand across my forehead, and I see tears in his eyes. Actual tears. For a minute, I’m afraid I might be dying. Did I get in a car accident? Did someone run me over? All I know is he doesn’t want me to talk. He steps aside gently while a nurse fidgets with me. What are they doing? What’s wrong? Why don’t I remember anything?
“Shh.”
I shut my eyes. I want to tell him what happened. I want to explain to him that I’m going to be fine. He looks so hurt to see me injured like this. I want to soothe his pain. He’s such a good friend to me. It’s a shame he and Daddy never got to meet. They would have enjoyed each other’s company, I think.
The nurse asks me something, but I can’t make out the words. Then another man comes in. Is that a police officer? Reginald tells him something, at least I think he does, and the stranger goes away.
Reginald stands close again. I feel safer now that he’s near. The only thing is I can’t figure out what it is that’s made me so afraid in the first place.
“What happened?” I ask, but even now I’m not sure I want to know the answer.
Reginald leans over and gives me a kiss on the forehead. “Shh.”