Mind to Bend: Chapter 11

Rushing out of the house, I grab the only jacket off the metal hook on the porch as I race to the car. The officer on the phone didn’t say much other than Tim had been in an accident, and it had taken five hours for help to arrive. His life wasn’t in danger, but I should come as soon as possible. He sounded incredibly grim, and I know full well that being alive doesn’t mean you’re not in horrible shape.

I’m doing my damndest to drive through my tears while my ears ring like singing champagne flutes, and the squealing makes it impossible to think. What if something serious happened to Tim after everything I’d done with Shane, everything I wanted? What if Tim died and all my secrets were left untold between us? If religion taught me anything, it was that the admission of guilt is necessary for absolution, and I’m so guilty I could scream.

I’m unsure where the rational part of my brain is as I berate myself for wanting Shane. I don’t take into account how Tim put his hands on me, hurt me, and almost took my life. Instead, I think of Tim, who’s broken right now, and I don’t know how severe his condition is. Tim, who needs me, who always needed me.

The ride takes a lifetime, and as I screech along the rain-slicked streets, I can’t stop crying. I also treat traffic lights as a suggestion and ignore the speed limit. The colossal complex that houses the emergency department is impossible to navigate, and I curse the whole time between finding parking and rushing inside. After showing my ID, the nurse still isn’t running to take me back, and my leg bounces relentlessly as I stand there, refusing to take my seat.

Is God punishing me for what I’ve done? I love Tim. I love him, and I wronged him, and I’m never going to do it again. I’ll end the therapy appointments. I’ll do whatever he wants, anything to keep him from hurting.

The nurse gives me his room number, and the security guard buzzes me in. It doesn’t take long for me to find room one-fifteen, and when I pull back the curtain, I gasp at the sight of him. His mangled arm is bruised to hell. He has no cast but a loose set holding his arm in place. Even without speaking to a doctor, I’m sure he needs surgery. He’s hooked up to an IV, pumping him full of painkillers.

He looks up at me, and he smiles. My heart blossoms like it hasn’t in years. There it is. He wants me, and he needs me. We can work this out.

But then he says, “Sera?” His sky-blue eyes blink in confusion. “I don’t want you. Where’s Katrina?”

Then his lids flutter closed.

I stand there for a long time, watching him in shock—a single question composed of two parts playing on repeat.

Where is Katrina, and why am I here?

I don’t wait for him to wake up before I leave, and I slip out to the parking lot without saying a word to anyone.

Sleep evades me despite my exhaustion, and I wake with the manic energy of the overtired. First, I call the hospital and dial Tim’s extension. Guilt is my primary motivator, and I can’t ignore him when he’s hurt. No one answers, so I wait and dial again, nothing.

My next call should be an easy one, but life isn’t fair.

“Doctor Shane Nelson’s office, Tasha speaking. How may I help you?”

“Hi, Tasha, this is Seraphina Baker.”

“Hi, Seraphina,” her phony chirp raises my hackles.

I explain that Tim has been in an accident and that we need to reschedule.

Her gasp pops uncomfortably in my ears.

“Oh no! Is he okay? What happened?!”

I swallow the much more genuine distress in her tone.

“He’s fine,” I answer, only half lying. “Can we move the appointment to next week?”

If she’s upset by my evasion she doesn’t say anything, and I’m off the phone with her to call Tim again in no time.

No answer.

I don’t see him for the three nights he sleeps there. A doctor calls me regularly to update me about his surgery and progress, and I wonder if Tim asked him to do it because he’s not taking my calls. The doctor said his arm was crushed, the circumstances of which I’d need to ask my husband about. Except I can’t face him.

The nurse calls one last time to tell me I need to pick Tim up at three o’clock the next day. I agree, even though being near him makes my skin crawl. I try to force myself to enjoy my last night of freedom, but I’m anxious and twitchy. I can’t shake the feeling someone is watching me, and I barely manage any sleep.

The next day I drive over to the hospital, cursing the lack of sleep and being forced to see Tim. I sit in the pickup line for twenty minutes before a nurse wheels him over to the car and helps him inside. She wishes him a speedy recovery and shuts the door, cutting off the fresh air. I immediately notice the smell of perfume on him. Did Katrina come to stay with him? I’m suddenly sure that’s what happened, and I’m having trouble breathing.

“Where were you?” he asks as we’re rounding the same railroad crossing near Shane’s office. The arm falls across the road keeping us in place.

“You didn’t want me there,” I answer, trying to keep the tears out of my voice.

Guilt flashes in his eyes, and he says nothing else about the matter.

“What happened to you?”

“Do you care?” He glances over at me with open spite.

“It’s absurd, not to mention unfair of you to ask me that when I requested your visitor log.”

Of course it’s a bluff, but I need him to know I can fucking smell the woman he’s cheating on me with all over him. I know he has been wrapped up in her these last two days, and the fact he was too hurt to fuck her only makes things worse. He cares for her.

“Someone attacked me from behind, choked me, and parked my truck on my hand,” he says the words bluntly, hoping they’ll shock me.

I gasp and slap my hand over my mouth because they have the desired effect.

“What?”

“Someone attacked me, Sera. Any idea who?” I look over at him, troubled by how paranoid he sounds.

“Of course not, Tim.”

“You wouldn’t lie about that, would you?”

“Never. I would never want to see you hurt.” I steel myself, “But maybe I’m not the only person upset about your lies.”

I doubt he believes me, but he’s so stunned by my accusation that he’s quiet the rest of the way home. I avoid him as best as I can the rest of the day, but I’m so tired I pass out early. By seven o’clock, I’m wrapped in my blanket and restlessly asleep.

A heavy sense of discontent weighs on me when I wake in the morning. At first, I can’t place it, but then I see Tim sleeping beside me. Sweat soaks every inch of my body, and my muscles tense like I’m ready to flee.

I shimmy out of bed, hoping he will remain asleep. The last thing I want is to hear any more of his account on the unbelievable circumstances of his injury.

I grab my shower products and use the bathroom in the hall rather than the one in our bedroom. I need to get away from him, and I need peace. I’m shampooing my hair and thinking about the mess my life is when I hear a noise that I hope is anything but Tim waking in. I’d rather it be a poltergeist or demon at this point.

But of course, there’s only one other being in this house. I still haven’t asked him for more details about him cheating on me, and I’m not sure I want them. The thought of him with someone else makes me feel many uncomfortable things. The idea of him losing his virginity to someone else doesn’t hurt how I imagined it would. I spent years with an over-the-top notion of how we would share the experience. It turns out I didn’t want his cursed virginity anyway.

He’s standing in the open doorway. I pretend not to see him for as long as I can. The conditioner is thoroughly rinsed, and there’s nothing left to wash. Nevertheless, I’m not about to leave here naked in front of him.

“What do you want, Tim? I’m taking a shower.” I snap as I cover my breasts and privates. He can’t see through the frosted glass, but I know he can make out my overall outline.

“You don’t want me to see now!?” he challenges.

“No, I don’t.”

I turn off the water and grab the towel from the rack. Tim might have seen a bare bit of something, but I’m trying not to focus on that. So instead, I wrap the towel tightly around myself before stepping out. His eyes flick to the yellowing bruises around my neck and then back up. He swallows, and I say a silent prayer that he won’t revert to apologizing.

Tim hasn’t mentioned choking me since his accident, and I’m grateful not to be subjected to his sobbing, but I’m worried he’s going to crack. His eyes occasionally flick to the bruises on my neck, and he looks like he’s licked something unpleasant, though I don’t have a clue what that means. At first, he groveled, but now I’m afraid of how close he is to another outburst.

Shattered bones…

This situation is very different from the one with his father, back when we were eighteen, but the injuries are so similar I don’t want to be around him for fear of further making him associate me with pain. Crushed bones and me, the two things seem to go hand in hand. No wonder he doesn’t want me.

I wouldn’t want the cause of all my pain either.

“Tim, how much can you reject a person before they don’t want you to see them naked?” I sound nearly as exhausted as I feel.

Tim is rapidly becoming the cause of more of my pain, and I want him less than I ever have. I haven’t actually wanted to have sex with him since… That little voice reminds me that I haven’t grown self-respect after all this time. I’m just not interested anymore because someone else has my attention.

“I’m not going to keep rejecting you, Sera.”

I don’t react in any way.

Thankfully, he leaves the room and lets me dress. The man is so hot and cold I wonder if he does it on purpose to keep me desperate. My rational brain knows he will keep rejecting me, but my heart can’t help hoping that was a promise he intended to keep. Does he know how pitiful he’s made me?

I already had planned to go to our group therapy session alone that afternoon, but I don’t tell Tim until I shout from the hall that I’m running errands. Although I’m not lying since I will run errands while I’m out, I need to talk to someone outside this bubble. However, I don’t need to dig deep to admit to myself it’s not someone I want to talk to, but Shane. I must be losing my mind with the oppression in this damn house.

I drive across town, and nervous butterflies assault my stomach. I need Shane to be the rock that Tim won’t or can’t be. I need someone to be strong for me. Tim has been so touchy I can’t breathe around him, never mind sharing my burdens and pain. I’ve never had anyone to comfort me, but my craving now is so intense I can’t stand it.

I don’t have any other scarves, and I’m not about to buy one to cover what Tim did. I don’t work and haven’t been out enough to make friends since we moved. So what does it matter if people see what he did to me? Maybe I want them to.

I go to the grocery store once or twice a week, but I don’t even need to go to the bank. No one in this city knows me by my name other than Tim, Shane, and his secretary, and whether or not she remembers it when she’s not reading her appointment log is iffy. So no one is going to notice the bruises other than them.

What if something happened to me? Would anyone even look?

I drive in a daze, unsure of what’s happening to me, but I feel myself slipping into something dark. I’m not sad or hurt but numb, and somehow that’s so much worse. I need someone to see it before it’s too late. Part of me knows that if Tim wants to hurt me again, I’m going to let him. After, I’ll make excuses and hide it again until he kills me because I let him.

Letting the bruises show is a middle finger to Tim and that weak version of myself. But rather than some warrior growing strong enough to defeat the weakling who would lie for Tim, the two parts of me meld into something like cornstarch slurry, a Newtonian substance, neither liquid nor solid.

I pull off the highway into the parking lot, find a spot near the building, make my way up to Shane’s floor and greet Tasha with a manic smile—I’m still irritated by the woman’s presence.

That feeling intensifies when I say, “Good afternoon,” and her eyes flit to my neck, wide in alarm.

My husband doesn’t look like a catch now, does he?

She clears her throat.

“Hi, Seraphina. How are you doing?”

There’s a note of concern, and I think this bitch might have remembered where she works and how she’s supposed to be supportive toward patients instead of gawking at their hot husbands.

A hot husband who cheated on me, choked me, and can’t get hard for me!

I’m shocked by the venom in my thoughts, and I blink as I try to answer her. She’s seen the bruises and my bizarre hesitation.

“I’m great,” I reply. At a different time, the false brightness in my tone would have made me cringe, but today, I’m dead inside.

She forces a smile, and it’s not even close to authentic. Instead, her gaze runs over me, and I wish I knew what she sees.

“Okay, well, you can head right back. Shane is ready for you.”

She hasn’t even called him, and I wonder if he told her he was ready before I got here or if she can’t stand the awkwardness of having me at her desk any longer. Either way, I don’t care. I’m leaving part of myself on the industrial gray carpet beneath her feet, and although I can feel it’s monumental, I don’t understand what it means.