In the Absence of You (8 page)

“Aishe,” he breathes. It’s a conflicted exhale, one where pleasure mingles with worry for me and for what we’re doing. I understand it well, but his aroused confusion, how he teeters between right and wrong, makes me wet.

“Let’s not do this, baby girl,” he murmurs, his strange endearment igniting all of my fuses. His fingers dig into my hips, holding me still as he rolls into me.

“Why not? We’re good, Emil. I don’t expect anything from you,” I lie.

“You like me,” he says simply, and what does that mean? Does he not like me? Oh he likes me. My G-string under a short-short nightdress is lowered with impatient fingers.

He sits up, crouching under the low ceiling. The bus rocks, and in the darkness, I feel more than see him steady himself on the edge while he looks down on me. He must be making up his mind, because suddenly warm hands clench around my thighs and glide upward. I turn on my back and kick my lingerie off—fast—in case he changes his mind. He can’t change his mind.

Emil doesn’t. A waft of air hits my core first. Even in the dark, he finds my clit instantly and sucks it into his mouth on a hushed moan. My breath hitches, and I bow off the mattress meeting his kisses, licks, his two probing fingers that enter me slowly.

His body settles on top of me while he whispers, “You’re drenched. You want me that bad?” His question, the fingers that slide between my folds, it makes me stop breathing. With my whole body trembling, he needs no other clue; he knows how women react when we climax. Emil hooks a third finger inside of me and rocks in deep, his hand making a slick squishing sound as he works me through my first orgasm.

“Shit, you’re so easy,” he praises. “I could look at you and you’d come.”

I don’t answer, because he’s right—Emil ignites me like no one else.

“My easy girl,” he teases, the rip of a foil pack telling me we’re at the next level. A hot stab in my lower abdomen makes me whimper with need.

“I can make you happy for a little bit, at least. How about this?” He bends my knees back against my shoulders, spreading them wide for deep, effortless access. With a jerk, he shows me that he wants my nightgown gone, so I help him roll it over my breasts. He fills his hands with them, groaning too loudly for this small room full of people. I should shush him, but I’m too blissed out over being here with him.

Emil’s mouth finds mine, kissing and licking his way inside, sucking on my tongue, panting out, “I’m going to take you now, if that’s okay?”

I bob my head hard, frantically. He pushes my knees back again, making sure I’m positioned how he wants me. Then the bulb of his cock probes me, making my channel give and stretch as he enters.

“Ah fuck,” he curses like he’s hurting. I rise off the mattress to meet him, but his weight pushes me down, staying deep and rocking on top of me, applying friction and massage to my darkest, most intimate tissue.

My insides shiver with ecstasy. Every cell in my body is a receptor, alive and absorbent—it’s the love fire—right now, right here, I feel amazing.

“Damn, Aishe. Don’t contract like that. Are you coming again? Oh dirty girl.” His heated talk causes me to spasm around him. “Delicious. How can I have any type of stamina with you?” His dick grows fat inside of me. Then he stills, waiting out his need to climax, and it’s so hot to me my pulse is racing.

Shallow pants shiver at my ear as he holds back. “Christ…”

“Trying to keep it together?” I tease, running my hands over his back, widening my knees to allow him even deeper.

“Shit. Yes.”

Emil manages. Slick with sweat, muscles taut with pent-up need, he takes me through another orgasm. During my fourth, when Emil has me facedown with legs tight together so his penetration feels even bigger, I faintly register Troy getting out of bed and walking to the bathroom. Ashamed yet too far gone to let it sink in that he’s heard us, I can’t hold back my own moan when Emil finally comes, all blubbering ecstasy and filthy words.

The bunk is narrow and the dark hours long, but he doesn’t ask me to leave afterward. I’m delighted, because on the nights he came to me, he would leave as soon as I started to doze off, blaming the uncomfortable sleeping quarters. He spoons me now, our bodies drying together, and when I fall asleep, it’s with his nose nestled beneath my ear.

AISHE

T
he night is impenetrable
until a quiet lament interrupts the silence. The air conditioner blends with the bus’ motor, a soothing dissonance we’re accustomed to, but the lament grows, competing with it.

The sound comes from beyond, from Nadia and Bo’s quarters. It propels my imagination into the woods, to she-wolves in mourning.

“No! No, baby, you’re okay.” I barely catch Bo’s words, muffled through the door of the back lounge, but then he shouts, “Fuck! Fuck. No. Troll!” And Nadia’s howl is so loud she pierces my ears and my heart and makes Emil shoot up straight in our bunk.

I sit up too, and Emil rummages for his clothes from the bottom of his bed. Nadia says something, but through her screams I can’t decode the words. It’s not hard to decipher what she feels—pain in its purest form, grief at its rawest. Oh I have heard that sound before. Please God, let me curl into a ball and hide.

The door slams open, Bo appears, a single lamp illuminating him from behind. “Troll!”

“I’m here. What can I do?” Troll instantly replies, awake, ready. Our bosses, Bo and Troll, our two leaders, they stand between our bunk beds like half-dressed revolver men without guns. They’re on the same side yet facing off. “Tell me.”

“Get us to the hospital. Now!”

Troll doesn’t waste time asking for specifics. He strides out of the bunk area and barks orders at the bus driver, the light of his cell phone gleaming a faded blue square as he types in what he needs.

I’m confused at the same time as I know. Emil jumps to the floor, dips under my bed, and heaves my overnight bag into my lap. I dress. Curtain half-open, I’m unable to take my eyes off the scene in the back lounge. It should be a romantic setup, the sectional turned into a king-sized bed. Comforter and sheets, fluffy pillows—duvets with heart prints on them, courtesy of Nadia—but the surface is too white, so white it allows red stains to spread wide.

“Fuck, we need
water!
Oh shit.” I’ve never seen Bo lose his composure before. He’s on the threshold between Nadia and us, the bathroom beyond, the possibility of water and a washcloth. I’m not sure what he’s thinking.

Nadia is a writhing ball on their bed. With a hand covering her mouth, she draws her knees up to her stomach. Her howls turn to whimpers, choking with each stab of pain.

“I— Damn, I don’t know what to do,” Elias mumbles. Even paler than usual in the dim lighting, he voices everyone’s impotence. The men linger, just off the brink to Nadia’s hell, wanting to help yet unable to step into such a private, feminine sphere.

Bo leaps in, washcloth in hand, the barrier sucking him right back in, because he belongs there too. The lump in my throat grows too big, and in a rush, I think of my mother, of the brother who was never born. My father’s helpless hands in the air. Me on the other side of that threshold, the barrier, a part of my parents’ sadness and yet just not.

“Today would have been your baby brother’s fifteenth birthday, Aishe. He’d have looked like your father.”

He would have. Beautiful and fierce and passionate like him. The last time I was there to hear my mother announce my brother’s birthday was five years ago. Minus twenty-nine days.

He would have looked like Shandor.

Bo’s got Nadia in his arms. He doesn’t mind the blood seeping into his pajamas pants. We shouldn’t be watching, but their agony is too big, too real, too much to look away from when the doors remain open.

“Ah! Fuck, I’m so sorry, baby. They’ll help us. He won’t leave. Okay? I promise. I won’t let him leave so soon.” Bo’s words are meant to comfort. How can they though, when they play with reality?

“But I’m bleeding. He’s bleeding
out
of me, Bo! He
is
leaving. Don’t. You…” She’s mad. Her anger dissipates as he folds her into himself, blood on his cheek and on his hands.

“Goddamn.” Elias trots out of the bunk area and into the front of the bus, starting on coffee. The grinder jumps on the countertop.

Emil is the first to breach the barrier between us. Two steps into the back lounge, hands meeting the ceiling above, he asks, “Was it planned?”

Bo’s head jerks toward him, eyes blazing anger and grief. “What does it matter if he was planned?
Of course
he wasn’t. It happened, and in the eighteen days we’ve known, we’ve never fucking been happier!”

Nadia’s sob slices into my bone marrow.

“Ah shit, Emil. You don’t understand.”

“Bo, it’s me
.
You
know
me. I just ask, okay? T’was only that. I don’t know anything about this shit, and I’m so fucking sorry. I want to be the crazy uncle.”

The bus does sharp turns, sharper than it usually does.

There’s speeding, definite speeding.

Bo holds Nadia. Her sobs are weaker now. No one seems to catch on to how the velvet red of the sheets is too big.

She’s too far gone for practical thoughts. Everyone’s in the front lounge, everyone but Emil in the doorway and Bo on the bed, holding her and hopelessly cradling her belly like he can prevent their loss.

“Bo?” My voice sounds unused. I don’t usually take charge, but when we get to that hospital, we better be ready. The frost of his irises flickers from the pillows to me, meeting my stare.

“Grab your clothes. Take a shower. You’re all…” I stop myself, worried that I’ll upset Nadia more. Her eyes are closed, a deep frown showing her misery. I point at Bo. Point to myself so he knows where to look on his own arms, hands, thighs. There’s so much blood! Bo’s flinch is tempered when he registers the coat of red drying on him.

Oh my heart bleeds too. Maybe it’s not too late? It would be cruel if there were no hope. Those sheets though, the way Nadia slackens in Bo’s arms turns my hope into an undependable wish.

“I’ll take care of her. You brought a washcloth right?” I ask, and his nod confirms it.

“Emil?” I turn to him. He doesn’t leave like the others. He’s here, waiting with us, daunted yet undaunted and wanting to be present for his friends. It makes my fire for him roar taller.

“Yeah.” His voice is husky. He clears it, blue eyes meeting mine.

“I need a bucket of nice, warm water with a spoonful of soap in it that’s not too strong. Get me something mild without perfume.”

He’s already frowning, my demand too specific.

“Just get me warm water in a bucket, okay? Girly body wash on the side, and I’ll mix it myself. And some towels.”

Emil stalks for the door but swings at my last request. “How many towels?”

I’m at Nadia’s side, removing the thin sheet for a better look. I swallow, willing my fear into hibernation. “As many as you can get.”

Bo hugs his girl tight. Unable to let go, he kisses her, sliding bloody hands over bloody skin. “Don’t fall asleep, okay? Don’t. We’ll be at the doctor’s soon. He’ll make us all feel better. I love you. I love you.”

Nadia has stopped whimpering.

“Bo. Go shower,” I plead as Troll barks, “We’re there in ten minutes. The ER’s waiting and ready to take her right in.”

“I can’t leave her.” Embrace frozen around her, his eyes stay on Nadia.

“You want to be there for her. Get ready! I’ll take care of her until you’re back. Nothing I can’t handle will happen in the next ten minutes.”

It’s a lie—it’s a lie—

But he obeys like a big, little boy who trusts someone because there is no choice.

For a second, the skin stretching over Bo’s ribs hypnotizes me. He’s so skinny, pale, but he’s never been more alive than now as he flings clothes over his arm and pounds down to the shower, slamming the door closed to get ready for their aftermath.

I won’t be the one to run into the hospital with her. I’ll go in later, I’m sure, with Emil and the others. I’ll wait patiently to learn the news. But right now, I’ll let my pink skirt and top drink her blood without restraint. The least of our worries are scraps of fabric I bought in some place I can’t recall.

Emil arrives, drops to his haunches before Nadia’s face. She’s yellow, not white, and it scares my vision blurry.

I blink, looking up at Emil. His stare is a reflection of mine. “Clean her up,” he reminds me. Between the two of us, we pull aside the comforter and sheets. We remove a sheer baby doll lingerie I’m sure was sexy before it soaked red up to the ribbons beneath her breasts.

I pull her small panties off while Emil finds a maxi pad and a pair of my backup grandma panties I bought in case of extreme flooding. He returns, wringing the washcloth again and passing it to me so I can clean her off before we dress her.

She moans quietly as Emil threads my panties up her legs. We wait until we can lift her hips and accommodate her against the new pad and underwear.

“Ah damn,” he huffs, closing his eyes. His arms hang along his sides, fists clenching before they relax.

It must be a lot to take in for any man.

Bo’s here. He appears so quickly, so quietly, I don’t notice until he’s tall over us, watching me pull Nadia’s head into my lap. We’ve dressed her in a white T-shirt, maybe Bo’s. I’ve pulled a skirt up her legs, because there is no use in forcing her into jeans and boots for the ER. They will strip her down anyway.

Bo’s hair is wet, dripping dark and smelling of wild herbs. He’s fixated on his girl, asking, “How is she?”

“We’re almost at the hospital,” I answer, because it’s the best answer I can give. Nadia. Is not doing well.

“She’s alive, man. She’ll be fine,” Emil says to his brother-in-arms, his friend since preschool in Sweden. It’s always Emil looking to Bo for advice. Now my heart rips into wet fragments at the sight of Bo searching Emil’s eyes for hope.

“She’s alive,” Bo repeats, dressed in black slacks. A white shirt. A black jacket. It’s not a dress jacket, and he’s not wearing a tie, but I want to scream at him to please not jinx this:
“Drop your funeral outfit. Get into your regular rocker getup.”

“Yeah, man. Don’t even worry. ER doctors kick ass. They’ll fix her up.” Emil’s hand grips Bo’s arm, squeezing.

Once we’re parked at the back of the hospital, the ER personnel barges onto the bus, efficient and white, clean hands clutching and lifting. I stand to the side, sucking in oxygen and watching as Nadia’s limp body arches backwards, long hair draping to the knee of a male nurse before he’s got her on the stretcher. Between him and another man, they get her off the bus in seconds flat.

I’m impressed, scared to death, my heart raging for Nadia and Bo’s little to-be family, for the dawn of tomorrow. What will happen to them?

Medicine today is amazing, I tell myself. They perform miracles every day.

Bo leaves with her. The bus remains in the parking lot of the hospital, the three-thirty morning light eating in through our windows, reminding us how we should be asleep. Emil is quiet. He needs my support now, so he pulls me down on his lap in the captain’s chair he’s appropriated in the front lounge.

“I’ve called a cleaning crew,” Troll mumbles, pitch uncharacteristically low. He’s here for us, rock-steady during all emergencies. No crisis is too small for him to worry about. None too big to handle. If they’re big, like now, no one is calmer than Troll.

An anxious laugh teases my lungs at the thought of life, of how everything will move on, remain what it is around the crazy bubble Bo and Nadia and their unborn baby are in.

“Coffee?” Troy asks, safari eyes on me first, then on Emil.

“Ja, why not,” Emil answers, his first Swedish word slipping out in months. “Holy shit.”

Elias nods, agreeing. Phosphorescent in the early morning light, he makes me think of real-life albinos. Or vampires. Because he’s as flawless as one.

Again, I want to laugh; my mind doesn’t quit. It races all over the place, and isn’t it the sickest thing when life-twisting events occur and all one wants to do is laugh?

“I’m never having kids,” Elias proclaims. Troy doesn’t speak up, but the glimmer in his eyes as he performs the subtlest eye-roll makes it easy to read his mind:
You’re full of it, Elias.

EMIL

I hate hospitals.
Whenever I tell someone that, they ask, “Oooh, what happened to you?”