Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Ella
If anyone had told me I wasn't in the room, I would have believed them.
Surreal. Impossible to understand, impossible to even act on.
I watch myself from across the room, begging me to reach out to Tristan, to take his pain away, to hold his hand, to kiss him, to sign back, “I love you too,” even though he has not said those exact words.
Why do I have the hunch that’s what he meant in hidden ways?
Twelve days, he said.
I could have bet on two weeks, or even a month.
Time had thinned out between my fingers like sand, and I had lost the ability to tell what time it was underground, if it was night or day, morning or evening.
In twelve days, I had forgotten what it was like to watch the sun kiss the moon goodbye, and how the stars shone like glitter above my bedroom window, offering a constant reminder that beauty, mystery, and inexplicable miracles existed above us, despite the day's hardships.
That somewhere, there was always something shining.
Always someone else looking up at the stars, like me, perhaps from the other side of the world, both of us linked without even knowing. It used to make me feel less alone.
A nurse comes to check on my vitals, breaking our spell, then a doctor, talking too much for my brain to catch it all.
Possible concussion, underweight, exhaustion, no infection on the scar on my shoulder, need to rest, lie down, and stay hydrated.
He recommends therapy as well, a specialist dealing with some sort of after-war syndrome I cannot remember.
He says they need to keep me under observation until tomorrow morning, and that, in the meantime, they can send a nurse to help me shower.
“We won’t need a nurse. I’ll help,” Tristan declares. My doctor rubs his chin.
“Mr. Ashford, I know how invested you are in Ella’s well-being, but…”
“Let me do it.” His face turns toward me, pleading, so unlike every facet I have yet seen of him.
“I can’t stand there doing nothing, Ella.
Let me help.” He winces. “Please.” Both men wait for my consent as I tug at my lower lip, battling the obvious, visible state of my body with what should be a first physical connection with Tristan.
I decide things will be different for us, and so yes, I nod. I will let him help me shower.
“Right, just make sure her shoulder doesn’t touch water. We still need the bandage to remain dry to prevent infection.”
“I’ll make sure of it,” Tristan answers like a soldier. The doctor removes my bandage, pats my skin with a light, approving hum, then covers it with my gown again. A minute later, we are alone, and he is observing me like a hunter facing an undiscovered species in the wild, unsure of my reactions.
“Bathtub,” I sign. He looks at the open door of the white bathroom on the opposite side of the window, clenching his jaw.
“I…” He stops. “You don’t want me to touch you. So…how can I help then?”
His chest rises faster as he runs a hand through his handsome hair.
Right.
Touching is not possible now, but I am not sure I can stand long enough yet. Until now, a nurse has helped me bathe, but it was always short, mainly the passing of a damp washcloth. I have not properly showered since I came here.
“I’m afraid to fall on the ground.”
“I’d catch…” He winces. “Tell me what to do, Ella. Tell me how to help.” Powerless. Is that how he feels? Because so do I. All I know is that I need him, always, that parting from him now would ravage the tiniest spark of safety I am recovering.
“My hair,” I sign. “If I sit in the bathtub and…and you don’t look at…” I wave at my body covered with a hospital gown, flesh wrapped around my bones that I cannot perceive as attractive or desirable now. “If you don’t look at me…do you think you could wash my hair?”
I need him to help me, perhaps not exactly like a boyfriend, maybe closer to a parental figure, which is a lot to ask.
And I have the thought that this is what happens in old age, when a man or a woman tends to a sick spouse, lust and desire long gone, morphing intimacy into care and did you take your meds and let me help you sit.
And I am not sure if I’m not asking too much of a man who could have any woman with a snap of his fingers.
We are not even a couple yet. We have only kissed a few times.
I am asking for the highest form of respect someone in a vulnerable state like mine can ask for. I know how unnatural it is, but my mind is not able or ready for desire, nor lust. Not now. Not after being branded like cattle and held at gunpoint. Am I asking too much?
“Of course,” he mutters. “Of course I’ll wash your hair, sweetheart.
I mean, Ella.” He corrects himself, the endearment slipping away like a knee-jerk reaction.
Please, call me sweetheart, I want to say, but everything is still too blurry in my head for us to exist yet.
I glance at the open door. Inside are a bathtub, a toilet, and a sink.
The medical bathtub has a door that can open, and I am grateful for it.
I look down at the floor, hoping my knees will not give out.
Before my bare feet touch the soft, plasticky blue linoleum, Tristan calls me.
“Clap your hands when you’re ready for me.
” His eyes are on me, and it is hard to ignore his overwhelming presence, or my stomach waking up to his attention.
Focus. One step after the other. Recovery, recovery, and then, and then I will live normally.
A rectangular mirror, as large as the length of my arms spread out, greets me above the sink, and I watch in disgust the consequences of what twelve days of captivity have done to me.
If you had told me that someone’s appearance could change in twelve days, I would not have believed it.
My finger lands on my cheek. It’s better, but still too hollow.
Dark under-eyes, dry lips, and my hair–God, my hair is a tangled mess, as if a family of crows made it their home.
So long for taking my natural appearance for granted.
Where is the softness I used to see reflected back at me?
Will I ever feel like me again? Tristan appears in the doorframe, his muscular arm resting near it.
“Don’t,” he groans. “You’re beautiful.” I shake my head, shrugging, because at least I am alive, right?
Is he lying, or does he truly find beauty in this erased woman in the mirror?
I make my way to the bathtub, open the small door, and stand there as I start to peel off my hospital gown, a wrapped dress held by a single knot at my hip.
My fingers untie the clean white knot, and the fabric falls.
The air brushes my skin, and Tristan's presence behind me reassures me.
No one will hurt me. No one will try to watch me if I do not want them to.
I kneel, then sit completely, my back to him as I face the faucet, a framed picture of a beach above us, calm and ethereal, so far from my current mindset.
Inhaling deeply, I clap my hands twice, hoping he will not run away, and that my body will not reject his touch, even if it is only my hair.
I hear his steps, softer now. Glancing back, I notice he no longer has shoes, only black socks.
Kneeling outside of the tub, he turns the faucet on.
“Is it okay?” he asks with a hoarse voice, hand under the tap, testing the temperature as the bathtub fills.
My body comes alive when he turns to me with a blank face, his jaw clenching hard, focusing on the white porcelain of the tub, like I asked, and the sole fact makes me want to cry.
Because when I saw him in his photo frame at his office the first night we met, I never thought he had that much empathy.
He did not seem able to care like that, and still, I was wrong.
Because he is proving a point with a capital P, and all I can do is swallow my tears so as not to ruin everything again.
I nibble at my lip, realizing I am covering the sides of my chest by curling my arms around my knees.
What is the point of trusting him if I still hide myself like a terrified captive?
Tristan is doing so much right now. I have to show him that I trust him, that I am letting my guard down, so I let my arms drop as water runs over my digits, then fingers, then hands.
I missed this. The comfort of cleanness.
I will never take it for granted ever again.
“Here.” He holds a bottle of soap with a cotton flower on it, opens the lid, and pours it into the palm I offer.
Why does everything seem so new, like I have been born again?
The little things I used to take for granted, like water and soap, blow my mind, like luxuries.
The sole sound of water accompanies us like a soundtrack.
Still kneeling near me, I can hear his breathing, as if he is trying to keep himself in check, to breathe normally after a sprint.
Pain and silence and longing all stand in the corner, watching us, their presence loud and impossible to ignore.
“Can…can I?” Tristan asks, his voice like a balm to my ongoing train of thought.
So it still works. His voice still calms me.
This has not changed. I give a little dip of the head, glancing at him behind a curtain of my black hair.
“Wait.” He stands smoothly, turns to the sink, and grabs something.
Plastic cup. Right. Then he kneels again, sinking the cup in the water behind me and holding it midair.
“I’m gonna start. Just snap your fingers if you want me to stop, and I’ll stop immediately.
” Water pours over my hair, washing away the hurt like paint disappearing into a drain.
He repeats the action a few times as I let my head fall slightly down to help him.
Taking the shower gel, he pours it into his hand as I brace for impact.