Chapter 25 #4
I traipsed the stairs, careful not to hit my toes on the silver bars, locking down the pastel pink carpet.
The whole house was white with soft-colored decorations, almost too pretty for a man to live here, at all.
It screamed feminism. It screamed light and beautiful, and promised to be a place where I could make memories that would be described in the same way.
I found myself upstairs, but unlike its predecessor, this house had no narrow hallway. The landing was an open square, much like the entry downstairs.
Four doors surrounded me, each one closed. Something called me to one, and whatever it was, wasn't Woodrow, because he wasn't in there.
I stepped inside, the thick carpet snuggling into my toes as I wandered deeper into the room.
This place was a haven, with the walls lined with tiny bottles of nail gel.
In the corner of the room was a large table where I could work to create mini masterpieces.
A giant gerbera filled a tiny vase on the top.
The other side of the room had a range of hair care products, all suitable for my hair type.
I picked up a bottle of gel and decided, without looking at the others, this would be the color of my nails tomorrow.
I placed it back in its perfect spot, careful not to nudge any others from theirs, and I stepped back out of the room, still in awe.
I closed the door, not wanting a ginger minion to destroy anything.
Feeling around the glass banister, I swayed to another door.
I found Woodrow on a four-poster bed, his eyes closed, the voile curtains blowing in the breeze from the open balcony doors. I could see from here, the bunch of daisies out there, blowing in the wind.
Bushy Tail was cuddled atop Woodrow’s jeans, resting somewhere near the waistband, arms stretched out and doing paddy-paws on Woodrow’s naked stomach.
My eyes stalled on a part of Woodrow’s body. He sunk in below his ribs, the lack of a full meal showing.
The strain on his face told me sleep didn't come easy, but his little companion, constantly making noise by purring and meowing, told me the slumber was deep.
I pulled back the blankets, and tucked them up to my chest.
I didn't bother to look around the room for pajamas. My dress was comfortable enough to sleep in, and I was too tired for a clothing hunt. Even if it wouldn’t have been much of a hunt.
Two doors were opposite me, one on each side of a giant TV that was taking up most of the wall. One door was open, revealing hints of the ensuite bathroom beyond. The other was surely a walk-in closet, and even as the excitement of that realization dawned on me, I stayed in bed.
I snuggled down on my side, and watched the rise and fall of Woodrow's chest, trying to read the inked words that covered him. But the dark room didn’t allow that.
But it did allow for peace, knowing that we were here. . . together. Safe.
I reached for his hand, cold at his side, and I covered it with my warmth. I closed my eyes, knowing I wouldn't have to daydream tonight.
Because some days, reality was better.
I woke with a full bladder that couldn't be ignored, and found myself rushing from the empty bed to the ensuite.
After the longest pee in history—serves me right for not going before bed—I washed my hands and wiped them on a small hand towel.
I looked at the room behind me in the mirror.
The shower glass wasn't steamed, the blush-colored bath mat wasn't wet.
I realized Woodrow hadn't taken the time to shower, not unless he did it in another room not to wake me.
My eyes moved from the room to my face. My skin was dryer than usual, making my scars ache as I yawned.
I opened the mirrored cabinet in search of some moisturizer. I flicked through some vitamins and day and night creams—something, I'd come back to if I had no other options.
I closed the cabinet and dropped to my knees, the white tiles cold on my skin as my legs pressed against them.
I opened up the doors to a larger cabinet beneath the sink to find all sorts filling the space. A dermatologist’s paradise. I pulled at a toiletry bag, pink in color and made up for me, filled with women's essentials, and by doing that, I knocked over the male counterpart.
Ignoring it for a second, I rummaged through the little bag of goodies, finding exactly what I was looking for, and placing it to the side before I cleared up Woodrow's stuff.
Woodrow’s hair comb, which I picked up first made my hands sticky, and I needed to wipe off the gel residue. I didn't want to ruin the dress I was still wearing from yesterday, so I pulled at a facecloth wedged down the side of his plump blue bag, knowing it could be easily washed.
Something else fell to the floor. A small bottle of pills was rolling, only stopped by the threshold spacer, which rolled them back to me.
The oval pills rattled around in their plastic cage as I picked them up. I struggled with the long name, as I had once before. I recognized it from my childhood, though I hadn't, in all these years, learned how to pronounce it.
The pills were addressed to Woodrow, but flashbacks of my mother flooded my memory.
“Come on, baby. Mommy needs some rest.”
Dad guided me from my mother's bed, not bothering to straighten out the blankets where I'd been sitting, because as soon as he took me to the door and closed it, he'd be back, sitting in my spot, his hand in hers.
Only then would he let the tears shed.
His big blue eyes were always glossy these days.
His mom, Grams, was standing in the doorway; she had teary eyes, too. Her hand was stretched out to me, and I reached for it, as my dad's palm flattened to my small back and pushed me forward.
“Will she be okay?” I asked, pulling the tears from Grams' eyes.
Dad didn't answer. Grams didn’t answer. The silence around us was only interrupted by my mother’s struggle to breathe.
“Will she!” seven-year-old me demanded, stomping my foot for a reaction.
“She's going to spend some time with the angels, baby. We'll find her again, I promise.”
Dad kissed me quickly, my squidgy cheeks barely indented with how quick he moved. He had to get away; the tears were coming, and he didn't want me to see the pain he felt when he wouldn't be able to stop them.
“But the pills. . . they can help.” I stared at the small plastic bottle on the bedside table, the ones with the name I'd struggled to read all morning, and I looked back at my dad as he moved to close the door, his head shaking.
My tiny palm pushed against the wood, pleading with him not to shut me out.
“Please,” I whispered into the almost closed off room. “Please, let me in. I want to be with you, and I want to be with Mommy. If she's going to be with the angels, I won't see her again for a long time. I need to see her now.”
In that moment, my dad made a decision that many other parents wouldn't. He let me back in, taking my free hand.
We all walked back to the bed, where my mother lay, wheezing and struggling to breathe, and he let me stay while he fell apart.
While his mother cried, holding only me for support while her son's heart broke as my mother's stopped.
I blinked and blinked again and again and again. My heart raced in my chest, pounding for answers I didn't have. My shaking fingers clasped the pill bottle tighter. My knees vibrated trying to take my weight.
I left the mess where it was, and I rushed from the room.
My left knee ached—having never healed properly from the break Ville caused—as I jumped down the bottom three steps. I swung around the glass banister, it once again, proving its worth.
I heard Woodrow whispering in a raspy drawl, “Quick, get down. She's coming.”
And I saw him gently batting away Bushy Tail, who was, again, sat with his bare ass on the kitchen work surface.
But I didn't care, even as he disrespected the order, staying put, only turning slightly to jump and attack Woodrow's hand in a playful manner.
“I'll clean the table.” Woodrow smiled, staring at me with a chocolate milk moustache that he licked away.
The glass of chocolate milk was in his hand, away from the kitten who had tried to steal it multiple times.
“What are these?” I demanded, holding up the little plastic bottle and shaking it when he didn't answer.
There was a pregnant pause. I heard the “gulp” sound as Woodrow ridded the saliva from his mouth.
“They're pain pills.” He stepped around the island, placing his glass on another countertop.
“They are. They're to help with cancer symptoms!” My anger got the better of me, sending the container through the air.
It bounced off his naked chest, clacking against the cold tiled floor.
Woodrow's eyes left mine, scanning the floor for any pills that dared to escape, potentially poisoning Bushy when he dared to eat them after he’d tire of flicking them around the room.
That wouldn't happen. The lid was on tight.
Woodrow’s eyes, back on me, watched through a silver stare as I vibrated with anger.
Grief filled my eyes, misery transporting the tears to the surface, encouraging them to rush down my face in a single line fashion. But they didn't listen, eager to get out.
“When were you going to tell me!” My high-pitched squall had Bushy fleeing the room, leaving us alone to argue without the sound of his meow interrupting every two damn seconds.
“Were you even going to tell me, or was I just gonna wake up one morning to find you dead because your treatment has stopped working!” I knew that wasn't always the case, and I knew I should have handled this situation better, but my anger got the better of me.
I’d just got him back. The thought of losing him again—
I couldn’t think of that.