Chapter 27 #2
Romi leans back against the edge of the tub, considering me for a moment.
I gently run the wet cloth along her skin, checking the water to make sure it’s still hot enough.
The sting of the bullet wound is a gentle throb, and I know I should stitch it up soon but am reluctant to do so because it’s a consistent reminder of her.
“I haven’t really spoken to anyone about it,” she says, then bites her bottom lip before continuing.
“Lorraine and I walked Borris every day along the wharf. She had highs and lows with her depression, and always assured me she was in control, but after living two years with someone, you become accustomed to their patterns.” She sighs heavily as she stares at the water.
We remain there quietly until she’s ready to speak once more.
“I knew she was in a low period. It was often triggered when her mother, Meredith, contacted her. She only ever called when she needed money to dig herself out of a hole. It put a strain on Lorraine, but she never stopped it. I almost felt guilty for having an incredible mother myself.”
She falls quiet again, as if every word is being dragged out of her, but she pushes through, and I give her the opportunity she needs to finally get this off her chest. I’ve never cared for listening to others, but for her, I hang off every word, if only to better understand so I can fix it all.
“The evening before Lorraine passed away, we spoke about her manuscripts and publishing them. Then we began discussing her mother, and I encouraged her to cut her out of her life, and it turned into a massive argument.” Her voice cracks.
“We both said some cruel things, and I told her she could rot for all I care. But I didn’t mean it.
I always promised I’d listen and be there for her, and I wasn’t when it counted most.
"That morning, we didn’t even speak. I had Lily’s father’s funeral and left before she’d even woken up.
It’d been raining for a few days, and I'd warned her the night before to be careful on the water's edge, but…” I sense the moment she’s not with me anymore.
Her mind drifting to a different place entirely, and what she sees, physically hurts her.
“She never learned to swim,” she finally forces out. “And I wasn’t there to—”
I gently wrap my hand around the back of her neck, ensuring she’s looking at me as I say, “It was not your fault.”
“She drowned!” she snaps, all that bottled ferocity and grief bubbling to the surface.
“She drowned, and I wasn’t there to help her!
The one time I couldn’t go with her, and she slipped into the water and fucking drowned after I said all of those awful things!
When I found out, all I could think of was our last conversation, and if I’d pushed her over the edge.
What if she took her life because of what I said?
What if it was my fault? Can you imagine how painful that death must’ve been?
How horrible and lonely and—” Her words get caught, coming in and out as her voice trembles, and all I can do is massage the knot in her neck, listen to her story, and let her force out the pain because it’s most likely the first time she’s done it since her friend's death.
She wipes at her tears and tries to cover herself, but I bring the cloth to her face, to wipe over her chin, delicately forcing her to look at me.
So she knows that I want to see all of her ugliness, all that she’s willing to lay vulnerable, and I will listen.
I will be here—whether she wants me to be or not.
I will always be here.
“I called her four times after I returned home from the funeral, but she never answered. An hour later, I got a call from the police asking me to identify her body. I was her emergency contact. That’s how unreliable her mother was.
She didn’t even have her as her emergency contact!
I was the only one she had, and I hurt her with what I said when I should’ve been more understanding. ” She hiccups.
“When I went down to identify her body… she was so blue, so fucking gone. There was nothing there, Dante. She was there one moment, and then the next, she was gone. All her hopes and dreams. Her laughter. Her struggles… fighting all of them, for what?!” she demands of me.
“Why the fuck did she have to go through all of that just to die like that?! I should’ve been there!
They said it wasn’t a suicide because her ankle was twisted from where she’d fallen, but all I could think was ‘I did this.’ I wasn’t there for her like I’d promised.
I told her to rot, but I didn’t mean it! ”
I wipe at her tears as she folds into herself. Knowing my little fighter has been harboring this weight this whole time makes my chest hurt.
“This was never your fault, Cattivella,” I say gently, wanting to touch her everywhere, be everywhere, if it would offer her a sense of relief from this pain.
“She couldn’t swim,” she repeats. “I should’ve been there,” she continues, like some kind of chant.
“This has never been your fault,” I tell her again, letting her hide her face in my chest as she cries, holding her as she falls apart in my arms.
I don’t often care for people's emotions; in fact, up until a few months ago, they were irrelevant to me in every sense. Other doctors had even been in awe of my ability to compartmentalize when informing loved ones of fatalities or when shit went wrong, but the truth was, I never cared.
I started not caring after my mother died, and I stopped caring about anyone altogether after losing my sister. It’s like my emotions simply switched off, but now they’re uncomfortably coming back to life for this woman alone.
I care if Romi stubs her fucking toe, and if she needs hours to simply cry, then I’ll protect her fiercely, ensuring no one else encroaches on her space.
I brush my fingers through her hair, listening to her sobs like they’re the crumbling of my own world.
For the first time in a long time, I feel lost because there’s no one I can fight for her. Because the one she hates and is battling—is herself.