Vital Sign (12 page)

“How?” I croak.

“That’s the difficult part. I think we all have our own way of getting to that point. I can only speak to my journey.”

I blot the tears that are slipping down my face and
clutch my wet tissue, waiting for Dawn to go on.

“See
, I fought so hard. I blamed everyone. I blamed myself the most. I told Timmy that he could go to the beach alone that day. He use to take a swim and collect shells and sand dollars, trinkets that tourists had lost. That sort of stuff. He’d bring it all to me, just as pleased with his treasures as could be. He always went for walks on the beach just to look. He knew I loved his little gifts and he wanted to please me. I blamed myself for liking the things he would bring me. I thought that maybe if I had acted indifferent to them, maybe he would’ve stopped doing it.” Dawn plucks two more tissues from the box on the buffet and blots away her own tears. “He was a very good swimmer. I never could have known that he wouldn’t come out of the water that day. I blamed Tim Senior, my husband. For what, God only knows,” she ponders, shaking her head from side to side. “I think I just wanted someone else to raise their hand and say, ‘It’s my fault. Blame me.’ That way I could point the finger and assign some type of responsibility, ya know?” Dawn raises her brows at me and I nod, knowing fully what she means. “But there was no one to blame. It was just an accident. He’d had one seizure when he was a toddler and the doctors thought it was a fluke. They did some tests and watched him closely, but it never happened again. The best they can figure is that he may have had a seizure while he was in the water and he drowned because of it. He was a great swimmer. It was the only thing that made sense. Nearly lost my marriage afterwards. I was mean and I pushed away everyone because I didn’t know how to handle that kind of hurt. No one does. Then one day, I realized that I was so scared of losing my memories of Timmy that I was smothering them. I had twisted them up into a mess of blame and regret and what ifs. I was making my life such an ugly mess and that it was the greatest injustice to the beautiful life that Timmy had while he was alive. I owed my son to keep those memories safe and untainted.”  

I cover my mouth with my shaky hand to stifle my soft sobbing. “Dawn—I—I’m so sorry.” I offer my muffled condolences
, the words I hated hearing, from behind my quivering hand. I don’t know what else to say.

Dawn smiles that same sullen little smile and nods her
head gently. “Me too, honey. Me too.”

Silence falls all around us as we both take in our respective losses.

“You know I walk on the beach every morning for my Timmy?” she questions, looking to me with another rueful smile crinkling the edges of her eyes. “Sure do. I walk along and pick up things that I think he woulda picked up. I know that somehow he’s walking right alongside me. I plant my flowers for Timmy too. Brings me peace growing somethin’ pretty for my son.” Dawn smiles wide, giant tears swimming in her green eyes. It’s a forced smile, anyone can see that, but it comes from an endearing, honest place in her heart and I could never thank her enough for sharing her story with me.

Seeing a living
, breathing version of myself gives that little inherently human part of me renewed resolve to cultivate the hope that I’ve run from at just about every turn. It’s past time for me to cultivate and grow something pretty in memory of Jake and everything beautiful that we shared together.

“I lost my husband, Jake. He was murdered,” I numbly offer the synopsis of my loss. I’ve never said it aloud. For reasons unbeknownst to even me
, saying the word “murder” has always been impossible. The word itself spells out just how heinous human beings can be when properly provoked. I’ve never known the reason for that man’s actions that night and I doubt I ever will. The case remains unsolved and I fear it may stay that way. Jeff, Jake’s former partner, gives me updates when they arise, but they’re sparse and seem to grow even fewer and farther between by the day. I’ve resigned myself to not knowing. It’s the only part of my story that I’ve managed to come to terms with. After all, catching the culprit doesn’t bring Jake back. It doesn’t expunge the ache that seems to devour me daily. It doesn’t right the wrong. True to the pattern of criminal behavior, I’m sure that intruder will be tossed in prison one day, if he isn’t already there. I can only hope that the bars of that prison are as closely set and indestructible as the bars that have caged me for two years. Though invisible, my bonds feel like iron shackles that I have felt less than optimistic about being freed from.

“He was a police officer
,” I continue. “A man broke into our house one night a little over two years ago and he ended up shooting both of us. Jake didn’t survive. Sometimes I wish I hadn’t either.”

“Oh, sweet girl. Sweet, sweet, girl. Shush. Don’t you say things like
that. I know you feel that way now, but you won’t always feel that way. I’m sure of it.” Dawn hurriedly rounds the small table and pulls me to my feet, wrapping me up in the first hug that I’ve actually completely dissolved into rather than pushed away. “Don’t you give up. Not just yet,” she coos sweetly into my ear.

I wrap my arms around this woman who I now admire for so many more reasons other than her charming motel. Tears pool and stream freely down my face. I do nothing to quell them like I normally would. A tiny bit of me feels like
I’ve been set free by my admission and hearing Dawn’s own painful story. For now, in Dawn’s presence, the weight of my reality seems to be shared between the two of us and it’s a relief.

“Thank you, Dawn. For everything,” I whisper into her ear.

She nods against my shoulder then releases me from her embrace. 

***

Dawn was right. She does make a mean omelet. I ask her secret and she knights me with her spatula then gives up the details.

“Freshest eggs you can get your hands on, sweet cream salted butter, and heavy
whippin’ cream,” she explains. “Long as you have those three, you could dice up a boot to toss in and it would taste like just this side of heaven.” She smiles wide and winks as she slides the buttery goodness onto my plate.

We
eat and chat about food, and tourists, things to do on the island and more food. I hate leaving her to get ready for my day with Zander, but I’m running out of time. Before I even knew it, I had been sitting at her table for nearly three hours talking. I thank Dawn again for everything and hurry back to my room, feeling both anxious and excited.

I scamper to the bathroom
, peeling off my clothes as I go. I flip on the tap and wait impatiently for the water to warm up. Slipping beneath the stream, I grab the soap and lather myself head to toe, using the entire little shampoo bottle that was sitting on the edge of the tub. I make a mental note to find a store sometime today to buy some shampoo and conditioner for the rest of my stay. I have to use a load of the stuff every time I shower just to clean my long hair. I’d ask Dawn for more but I’d need about twenty of those tiny bottles.

By the time I dry off and drag a brush through my wet hair
, it’s half past eleven.

“Shit,” I mutter to myself, hurrying to my suitcase to dig out the rest of my clothes. My
options are limited. I hadn’t packed for more than a couple days. I may need to find clothes today too. Rummaging through what I packed, I pull out a pair of denim capri pants and pair them will a navy blue cotton tank top with pinpoint-sized white flowers on it. It’s simple and practical for whatever Zander has planned today. I wiggle my toes down into navy blue flats with little blue sparkles across the top.

Standing in front of the mirror
and attempting to comb out my long hair is quite the task. It’s wet and tangled, making the process a major pain in my ass. I plug in the little blow dryer tucked in the corner and get to work on drying the mass of long hair. I should really just cut it short. That would solve the problem altogether.

Once I’ve done battle with my hair, combing it straight so that it will hang down my back, I’m on to makeup. My appearance is rather plain to begin with
, so I’ve been good friends with makeup for a long time. My chocolate eyes look a hell of a lot better when they’re rimmed with shadow, liner and mascara. Now, that’s not to say that I do myself up like some street walker, but I’ve always made sure to do myself the favor of getting presentable when it’s necessary, which, according to my mother, is any time you leave your front door. Southern belle charm at its finest.

I’ve never been much for gunky foundation
, so a light dusting of powder it is. My complexion has always been pretty agreeable, so the powder is all I’ve ever needed. I swipe the brush upward across my cheekbones, highlighting them with the subtle pink powder as I go. Digging through my cosmetic bag, I find my lip gloss and my normal lip balm. Holding each of them in opposite hands, I glance between the two, weighing my choices. I opt to smear on the lip balm. The sea breeze has an annoying way of tossing stray strands of my hair across my face, where they tend to stick to my glossed lips like pasta flung against a wall. No thank you.

With one more scrutinizing check in the mirror, I go to the foot of the bed to sit and wait, knowing that I look my best. I could use a fresh coat of nail polish
and maybe a pedicure, but I hadn’t expected to be spending time with Zander. I most certainly hadn’t anticipated
wanting
to spend time with him. Yet, here I am. Wanting—
needing
—more time with him. The fucked up firestorm of emotions going on inside of me is something that I have no desire to decipher and dissect. Sometimes ignorance is bliss and right now I want to ignore the fact that I don’t feel guilty for wanting Zander more than anything else.

A knock at my door gives me a start and I glance at the alarm clock on the nightstand.

Right on time
.

I peer through
the peephole and see Zander waiting casually. I unlock the door and swing it open. He’s divine. I don’t think I can sum it up any better than that. He is everything sinfully good and forbidden packaged up neatly in a tall, lean frame.

He looks at me, taking his time as his eyes drag over me from head to toe. “Not so smart today, Sadie.”

“What?” My eyes widen a little showing my confusion.

Zander’s eyes glance to my free hand
. “No mace.”

I lower my head
looking to my empty hand. “I’m not scared of you,” I admit, inwardly wondering exactly what that means to me.

“Are you sure?”
Zander’s voice has taken on a sultry, husky tone.

“Yeah,” I breathe.

“Maybe you should be.” An unmistakable look of regret fills Zander’s eyes, making me curious where it has come from. Seeing that look on his handsome face makes me want to make it better. It makes me want to pull him to me, to wrap myself around him and vow on my life to guard him from all the bad that the world has to offer. I’d like to think that my instinct to protect Zander is rooted in my instinct to protect Jake, but even I can’t convince myself of that. That reflex to guard him is equal parts history and future.

Being a police officer came with its job hazards. Some were far worse than others. Some were the types that left my sweet husband restless and locked within the confines of his mind with the awful things that his line of work sometimes forced his eyes to see. I couldn’t help him
un-see
all the dreadfulness, but I did what I could.

I stood guard like only a woman knows how.
I wasn’t brooding or territorial. I wasn’t pushy or incessant. No. I was tender and attentive. I watched and I waited. I held Jake to me when life leeched the spark from his eyes. I kissed his forehead when he needed a gentle touch to remind him that the world may have more bad than good, but I was his good. I’d always be his good. And when times came where no words nor actions were needed, I stood vigilant, my silent presence beside him a testament to what I vowed on our wedding day. It seemed to be all he needed. It seemed to soothe whatever worried him. It was all he wanted and keeping his head and heart safe was all
I
wanted. I kept that heart safe before, Zander’s heart, when it was Jake’s, and my reflexes haven’t changed. If anything, they’ve intensified.

“I’m not.” I shrug. My eyes drop and I find myself focusing on a tiny pebble on the walkway. I toss my own words around in my head.

Not scared of him
.

I’m not. Not at all. I’m only scared of what I feel for him. I’m scared of having something worth losing…again.
I’m scared of this urge deep inside of me that wants to stand vigil for Zander like I did for Jake. But beyond that—I’m so utterly at peace near him. Somehow the air seems thinner and it’s easier to draw breath into my lungs. My muscles relax, reminding me of just how tense I usually am. Most telling is the weight that I’m so used to carrying. That weight, that force that drove me into the water in the first place—with Zander, that burden is all but forgotten. I find my mind, my body, my grief, and my meager existence getting lost in him.

I can feel Zander step close to me, his index finger catching me just beneath my chin. I find myself leaning into him. It’s so natural and involuntary I could sw
ear that I’ve leaned on him all my life. I could swear it’s just like leaning into Jake. Despite knowing better, I allow my eyes to close and I pretend for just one second—one moment—that in some capacity, I have them both. I guess I kind of do.