Devil on Your Back (15 page)

I WAKE
with a start to find the TV has turned itself to sleep mode. The last program I watched started at eleven, and I know the television takes three hours to turn off. My heart races, and I panic.
Where is she?

Rubbing my eyes with one hand, I head into the kitchen and check the answer machine. Relief floods me at the little red light flashing jovially with the number four showing beside it. I hit play, and smile as I hear her first drunken message left shortly before two am.

“I love you baby! We’re staying out another hour; don’t panic.”

I chuckle.
Fifteen minutes later . . .

“I love you bay-bee! Thank you for this night out.”

Ten minutes ago . . .

“Vince, it’s Candy. I tried ringing first. You need to call me.”

Nausea swims in my gut, and acid rises up my throat as I squint at the display, like I believe changing my perspective will alter the fact I even have such a message. I rub my eyes and push the button to take me to the next message. Sweat beads on my neck as I listen to the machine spiel off what time the message was left. My legs tingle, and my toes grow numb. Something isn’t right—my gut instinct screams so.

“Vince, something’s happened, and I need to talk to you. Sit tight. We’re on our way to your place.”

Why is Candy calling me? Doesn’t she have someone else who can help her out? My head swims and, determined that this has nothing to do with Julia, I push off the counter and head for our room. Perhaps she came home and didn’t want to wake me? That’s it, yeah. Of course that’s what went down. I’ll just ask her what happened to Candy, and everything will be all—

Our room is empty.

Swallowing thickly, I backtrack to the kitchen. With a shaky hand, I press through the options, and listen to the five-second nightmare again. Two questions echo on repeat in my mind as I replay the answer-machine message over and over, certain I can hear Julia in the background if I just listen hard enough . . .

Why am I listening to Candy? Where’s my wife?

What the fuck has happened?

• • • • •

TWENTY MINUTES
later, Candy peers over my shoulder from her position on the porch while I stand in the doorway. “Where’s Alice? Is he asleep?”

The grip I have on the doorframe is the only thing stopping my arm from shaking out of control. The adrenalin’s coursed through me from the minute I listened to her message, telling me to sit tight.

I don’t sit tight.

I don’t even sit.

How can I sit?

“Get inside, Candy. It’s freezing out.”

She walks in, followed by the brunette I recognize from Julia’s old workplace. For the time being her name eludes me. And for some unexplained reason, that little omission bothers me. I wait before I shut the door behind them, scanning the dark front yard in case Julia’s jogging to catch up. There’s no sign of life other than a police cruiser, which idles at the curb.
Where the fuck is my wife?

“Candy. What’s going on?” I try to keep my emotions in check, but my voice cracks on the last word as I shut the door.

“Something happened while we were waiting for a taxi, Vince. I . . .”

The message she left half an hour ago replays in my mind. For the first time, I notice what a mess her face is—black is smeared under her eyes, and subtle lines run through her makeup, down her cheeks. I glance at the brunette, and see a puffiness softening her expression. I don’t make it to the armchair beside me before my legs give out.

“Shit, Vince.” Candy drops to the floor in front of me, but I can’t look at her. I can’t look at the signs of how bad her news is going to be.

I can’t look at the truth.

Instead, I stare at the pattern on our sofa, and count the spirals around the diamonds. “What happened?” My voice is high and needy.

“A guy mugged her, Vince. We were standing outside the place, there were people in front of us, and . . . and he . . .” She breaks down, tears coursing her face.

My brain startles like a deer in the lights, and then immediately works to save itself. The details of last night get shelved—put aside to work on at a later date. I declutter. I simplify.

My gaze drifts to the brunette. “What’s your name?”

“Sara.”

I nod. “Would you like a drink?” I ask, standing on shaky legs. My mind is a mess. I’m fucking cracking.

“Vince.” Candy rests her hand on my arm, and the touch both comforts and repulses me, shocking me into the now once more. My eyes flick between the connection and her face, causing her to quickly drop her hand.

Where is Julia?
The question I keep asking, although I’m certain deep down I know the answer already. “How bad is it?” I ask instead.

Not that she needs to tell me. I’d be a fucking idiot not to see it. Tears crest my cheekbones and run in rivers until I can’t clearly see her pitiful eyes looking at me while she gets up off the floor. I drop my chin and cover my face with my hands, ashamed these two women have to see me like this. Men don’t cry—not unless they’re broken.

But I am broken.

“She—” Candy chokes up. “She didn’t make it, Vince. Oh God, I am so fucking sorry.” Her voice breaks down to something resembling a moan.

“Where is she?” I bark out. “Why is she fucking alone?” My rough voice shakes the still night and adds tension to a situation already on a knife’s edge.

Candy reels back at my outburst. “She’s at the hospital. We came to get you as soon as the police arrived.” She sniffs, wiping her eyes. “I’m going to watch Alice. Sara will return with you to the hospital,” she says in a level voice. “There’s an officer outside, waiting.”

“I can drive,” I growl. Anger charges my limbs, and I move to find the keys with such haste both women step back. “She’s my wife. I can get to her.”

“No, Vince,” Sara whispers, hands raised. “You need to let it process. Let the cop drive you.”

Tears still flow, and I realize I’m fisting my hands so hard, a cramp has set in. “Why are we standing around?” I ask, striding to the door. “Let’s go.”

I need more than anything in this world to hug my wife, and tell her it’ll be okay.

• • • • •

ANTISEPTIC BURNS
my nose, and I follow Sara through the sterile halls like a zombie. For all intents and purposes I may as well be—my spirit has left this body behind. I’m a shell, so fucking empty that I can’t remember who exactly I was before this happened. I may as well be a totally new man.

A man without a wife.

The thought disgusts me, and denial quickly sets in. I haven’t even seen her lifeless form yet. Maybe this is some sort of out-of-body experience, and I’m going to wake up from a dream having the strange sense of what it’s like to lose the woman I love, yet look over to see her still asleep beside me.
Yeah, that’s it.

Sara talks with a nurse and gestures toward me. Kind eyes look my way as I check out the waiting room we’re in. It’s small, closed-off, and unforgiving. A man could lose his mind in here.

I think I already have.

“Sir?” The nurse garners my attention. “I’m sorry, but can I please get you to step over this way? We need to complete a quick form and confirm your identity before I can let you through.”

I nod, no words wanting to form. I understand—they must get all sorts through here. She’s only following protocol.

I produce my wallet and show her my driver’s license. She takes the details, fills out a few lines, and checks some boxes. The nurse slips the paper my way and hands me a pen.

“Could you please sign here to say that you are indeed the deceased’s next of kin? I’m very sorry for your loss.”

The deceased.

It’s the first time I’ve heard it formalized like that.

“I’ll have somebody escort you both through,” she says softly to Sara as I sign my wife’s life away—literally. “The grief counselor will meet you shortly, as well.”

“Can I be with my wife now?” I ask. My head feels heavy, as if it doesn’t balance on my shoulders properly.

“This way.” A male orderly holds his arm out.

My body moves towards him of its own accord. Sure as fuck, it ain’t me telling it to do it. I’m still stuck on those two words.

The deceased.

The orderly pushes through a pair of swing doors and then swipes his security pass at the next set before they open automatically. Sara links her hand in mine and gives it a squeeze. My fucking broken tears start again, and yet I still haven’t seen her. We stop outside a nurse’s station, and the orderly whispers to an older woman behind the desk. She walks out to greet us, and the orderly hands over, disappearing back the way we came.

The nurse walks ahead, leading us down a corridor that has doors staggered on either side. I’m sure any one of the twenty million signs around this fucking place would tell me where we are, but hell, I can barely talk, let alone read. What difference is a ward number going to make anyway?

The nurse stops outside a pale blue door, and depresses the handle, pushing it wide open for us. “If you need anything, I’ll be at the station. I’ll give you a moment alone,” she says, ducking her head and clasping her hands before her.

I step into the room and look around the place, avoiding the bed. It’s clean, and light; cream walls and stark white linens. I half-heartedly count the blooms in the small posy they’ve placed on the nightstand. It seems surreal that this is the last place I’ll see my Julia. Nothing in here is us—nothing is our home, nothing is our life together. A part of me wants to walk away and preserve the memories I have of who we are,
who we were.

Sara squeezes my hand. “When you’re ready, Vince. Don’t rush yourself.”

I can’t move. I’m not sure if I want to throw up, pass out, or cry uncontrollably. I know I need to do this to let the grieving process start, that I have to show myself that this is real—there are no lies here.

“Would you like to sit for a moment?” Sara gestures towards a striped chair that’s positioned on the opposite side of the bed. I still can’t bring myself to look directly at the body under the covers.

Instead, I glance down at Sara’s glassy eyes and say the stupidest fucking thing of my life. “I remember you now. You worked on the front desk, and you came to our engagement party.”

She twitches a smile, and I know I’ve made the poor woman feel awkward.

I don’t know what I feel.

My chest shudders with the enormity of the breath I draw, and I walk toward the bed. Sara holds her position near the door as I come to a stop by a pale, straightened arm. I stare at that familiar limb, using my peripheral to check over the rest of the body, not certain I want to fully face the truth I’ll find.

Swallowing away the excessive saliva I’m cursed with, I look through a blur of weak-man’s tears at her face. The room swims. My hands find purchase on the side of the bed, and I brace myself to stay upright. Sara steps forward to support me, placing her arm around my waist. It’s a gesture of solidarity more than anything. She couldn’t hold me; I’m a big guy.

“Julia?” I croak.

Her pale face looks so angelic, so at rest. But her light is gone. Nowhere is there any trace of the woman that left me a few hours ago. Not a sign of the joy she could bring to a room.

Nothing.

“How did it happen?” I ask.

Sara sighs, and her eyes run quickly over Julia’s body. She doesn’t need to answer.

I peel the bedding back, and gingerly ease the hospital gown aside. A ragged moan escapes seeing the red marks that stain her flesh. They’ve bathed her, and prepared her, but nothing can hide the bruising over her abdomen; it accentuates every puncture wound that dots her torso.

“She was stabbed?” I strangle out.

Sara nods.

It’s too much. Knowing my baby died in so much pain tears a hole in me that can never be repaired. I cry out in agony, and collapse to my knees, my hands still on the side of the bed. Sara rubs my back while I wail at the loss—at never having my beautiful Julia smile at me ever again, at never hearing her laugh with Alice.

At having to tell Alice what happened to Mommy.

Sobs rip from my chest and choke me up from that moment forward. My voice is lost—taken from me with the future I never planned on giving up. Stolen.