Roman's Redemption: Roman: Book II (Roman's Trilogy) Page 7

  “Heather Payne?” My eyes flicker to the overhead florescent light, then land on the bare beige door before it opens. “Bail’s been posted, your family is here. Seems the world thought you were dead. Welcome back to life.” Without making eye contact with the burly bastard, I nod my head and keep my face hidden behind the veil of tangled, dirty blond hair as I step past him from the cell.

  After I’ve changed into clothes and a pair of boots from my old life with Roman that must have been brought to me, I walk into a small room where I’m certain I sign my life away, before being escorted through another door only to be assaulted by the loving arms of all three of my brothers.

  Once the cacophony of ‘Sis, ‘Mac, and ‘Heather’ have calmed, I feel the tension within me begin to uncoil, only to immediately tense again when Roman is standing before me cupping my face as his watery sapphire blue eyes bore into mine, “There she is, there’s the mouse who consumes me, mind, body, and soul, day and night.”

  I can’t speak. Hell, I can’t breathe, I can’t move, I can’t swallow, so instead I go board stiff and immoveable out of default alone.

  When Cody, my oldest brother steps forward to guide me into the protection of his personal space, Roman’s hand tightens around my elbow and his eyes narrow on mine, jarring me from my flat affect, but not enough to put together legitimate speech. “Nahhh… Ummm…” I shake my head, trying to clear my scattered thoughts, “No. I mean don’t. Shit, I mean I’m fine, Cody.” I look up at my brother, pleading with him, “I’m sorry. Roman’s fine. He’s fine, we’re fine. I’m fine.” Mace slaps her forehead with the heel of her hand as I try to gather my damn thoughts and wits. I glance between Roman and Cody before nodding at my brother and looping my hand around Roman’s elbow and smiling, “Let’s just go. I just want to go home. Please? We’ll do this some other day, okay?”

  After he inclines his head, Cody leads my other two brothers through the double glass doors before Roman and I walk through, followed by the burly officer who retrieved me from my jail cell. Andrew marches out after us, straight into a fucking swarm of people with cameras flashing and video recorders recording.

  There are so many voices asking so many questions that when Roman speaks, I hardly make out his words, “My only concern is my wife’s physical and mental well-being, nothing else matters to me or our daughter, thank you for respecting our privacy.” But what I do make out is Mace shoving her way to the forefront a split second to look over our shoulder and smirk at the nearest damn camera before the doors of the SUV slam shut.

  The voices are as low as pages being turned, but as incessant as nails raking across a chalkboard when I awake in a hospital bed, “…great deal of trauma. I assessed the repairs the state’s physicians did and they look to be healing beautifully, I would just like to keep her overnight to make sure she’s administered twenty-four hours of IV antibiotic therapy correctly and monitor her pain management. She’ll be ready for discharge tomorrow, and I’ll only need to see her again to follow up in two weeks.”

  “I understand, Dr. Sanford, but you’re not listening to me or understanding me. I am completely capable of caring for my wife in our home, and considering the circumstances, I believe her plan of care would be most effective if carried out in familiar surroundings.”

  “Is he like this with all your health care providers or just the ones who look at your snootch?”

  “My what?”

  “Snootch. Vagina, cootch.”

  “Oh yeah, of course. What the hell is wrong with me? Of course my split personality calls our vagina a snootch, what the fuck, am I smoking crack or something?”

  “I’m just saying for fuck’s sake, this shit is tiring. Do you realize this is our second time to this rodeo? Where Prince Rome interrogates health care providers in charge of your hospital admission, stay, and discharge? I was under the impression we only converse or acknowledge one another during rape, and/ or assault and/ or battery and/ or torture. That’s all I’m pointing out.”

  “Fine. Noted and documented. Now hush until I’m raped or beaten again, yeah?”

  This may not work. But before I’m able to dissect and examine the how’s and the why’s it won’t work, my three brothers shove their way into the small hospital room, their booming voices bouncing off the walls.

  When my last reserve is stretched to the limit and I feel like I’m about to scream, Roman’s calm deep voice penetrates the clusterfuck of male voices before silencing them, “Gentlemen, Heather is tired, she’s weak, and she needs rest. Dr. Sanford, if you will not discharge my wife into my care, then point me in the direction of the personnel responsible for the paperwork I need in order to sign her out against medical advice. It’s time Heather returns home to rest.”

  After he finishes addressing the room his gaze settles on me and he smiles. I’m not sure what he expects of me and again, by default I stare blankly at him like a deer caught in headlights. “Mouse, do you need me to get one of the nurses to assist you into some suitable clothing?” I continue gawking at him, but somehow manage a slight shake of my head. “No? Alright then.” He turns before motioning our guests towards the door, “Everyone, step outside and allow my wife a moment of privacy.”

  Roman smiles before closing the door, leaving me alone with clothes from the life I once lived with him, folded and lying on the foot of my bed.

  After a quick rinse off and brushing my teeth, I dress and finger my hair into a loose French braid before gathering my things and packing them into my Louis Vuitton bag. As I’m pulling the strap onto my shoulder there’s a knock before Roman walks in, “Here, let me carry your bag for you, mouse. You all ready?” I nervously tuck the stray strands of hair behind my ears and nod as I make my way towards him and shrug my bag from my shoulder to hand to him.

  He pushes the door open wide enough for both of us to walk through and settles his hand on the small of my back to lead me towards the hospital exit through the throng of media, friends, and family.

  Somewhere between the automatic sliding doors of the hospital and the three SUV’s, Roman and I are separated. Within a few hours on the drive home, I feel myself folding in and tucking my sanity and shrapnel splintered heart around itself before retreating and silently conceding to defeat as Mace slips her big girl garter belt into place. Mace zips up her ass kicking Ariat boots, winks, blows my weak ass a kiss, and takes the wheel.

  I lean back and for once, enjoy the ride.

  Chapter 14

  I know I don’t know the woman before me. I know I buried more than just the wrong woman almost two years ago. It may not have been my wife, but my wife died that day all the same. Her essence, like dew at dawn kissing the petals of honeysuckle, a resin barely seen only when the stars, the clouds, and the climate line up in perfect sync.

  And I don’t have the slightest notion as to how to go about fixing the woman I love.

  In the end, I blame my uncertainty for cauterizing myself from Heather, our daughter, and the emotions- the feelings both evoke on a visceral level. I slide quite easily into the role of optimistic, patient, loving father and husband. All the while feeling my hackles begin to rise at the audacity of Heather’s weak pitifulness that I’m being shoveled spoonful after spoonful by every single motherfucking spectator of me, and my family’s life. I can’t be held responsible for my actions when they incessantly babble on with their advice and opinions.

  Sadly, I see my mouse fading beneath the scrutiny and scandal of the public, and there isn’t a goddamn thing I can fucking do about it.

  “Roman, did you hear me? Dr. Sanford is finished, he said Heather’s follow up went well, do you want to speak with him?”

  I look at Andrew from across my desk, “No, I don’t need to speak to him, just read his notes. He may leave if he’s finished with my wife.”

  “I’ll let him know.” Andrew leaves me alone in my office and I turn my attention back to the files and paperwork on my desk.

  There is only one person I’ve
ever met who has been able to sneak up on me and that person is my daughter, Ivy. Before I realize she’s in my office the top of her dark curly haired head pops up on the opposite side of my desk before her dimpled chin rests on the dark mahogany wood and she smiles. “Hey dare, daddy. You werkin’?”

  “Good evening, Princess Ivy. I am, love, you playin’?” I ask as I motion for her to come around the desk and she answers by flying towards me and lunging herself into my lap.

  “I is playin’ daddy!” She giggles.

  “You are playing, or I am playing. Not ‘is’, princess.”

  “I are playing? I am playing.” She beams.

  “Yes, only to the second statement. What are you playing?” I chuckle.

  And Ivy’s facial expression falters revealing a sadness I didn’t see before. “How long will mommy be bwoken, daddy?”

  Have you ever been decimated with less than ten words? It humbles you, especially when they’re spoken from the mouth of your own child.

  My eyes water and my voice cracks but I shove the words out, “Broken? She’s not broken, angel, why do you say that?”

  Tears spill over her lashes when her eyes meet mine and she shakes her head, “You not looking at her if you don’t see her is bwoken. It’s in her eyes, Daddy, you can tell her heart is bwoke by lookin’ in her eyes.”

  My hand cupping the side of my daughter’s face pulls her to my chest and as I kiss the top of her head I mumble into her ink black curls, “Is that right, baby, that’s what you see when you look at mommy?”

  She answers, “Mmhmm.”

  We stay like this for the longest time. Neither of us move a muscle, or speak a word.

  I can’t say how much time passes, or at what point Ivy falls asleep, but when Andrew comes in its well after dark. “Ms. Dolores arrived about thirty minutes ago. She’s settling in.”

  Nodding, I stand and make my way through the office carrying Ivy and whispering to Andrew when I’m close enough for him to hear, “I’ll go lay her down, if you would tell Dolores the three of us will be meeting in the library after her things are put away.”

  Once I’m upstairs I tuck Ivy in tight, whispering, “Snug as a bug in a warm fuzzy rug.” I kiss her goodnight and wish her sweet dreams before turning on her nightlight and leaving her door ajar. As I look back over my shoulder, my heart swells with pride and shatters with uncertainty.

  As a man, I can’t say for certain the decisions I make are the right ones or are wrong. I only know the decisions I make are ones that needed to be made, a yes or a no, a right turn or a left, but all decisions in the end are a bet or a fold…which all come down to ultimately affecting the ones I hold dearest to my darkened heart.

  The first night Dolores left me alone with Ivy I swore to never try to numb the pain and guilt again with liquor. It’s been difficult and I almost caved more times than I like to admit. If I’m honest, tonight I’m sure I’ll come close to caving again.

  I’ve been staring at the liquor cabinet for over fifteen minutes when Dolores and Andrew walk into the library and sit blocking it from my view. It takes some effort not to bark at them to move.

  “Mr. Payne, how is Ms. Ivy?” Her tone tells me she’s nervous and this knowledge calms me.

  “She’s very well. It’s my wife who concerns me. She’s endured a journey through hell and back and I’m afraid the road to normalcy is further in the future than either of us originally anticipated.” I shake my head in exhaustion looking at nothing though my eyes settle on the table between us. “The authorities have yet to speak to her, her mind frame isn’t able to withstand it. I have a specialist meeting with her here tomorrow, but I doubt there will be anything illuminating.”

  After she clears her throat she asks the question no one has had the guts to mutter, “Do we know who’s to blame? Who’s responsible for what’s happened to the poor child?”

  My eyes pierce hers and I watch as she visibly shutters, “I know exactly who’s responsible. I just pray to whatever god is listening I can get my fucking hands on him before the authorities do.”

  Her eyes dart to her wringing hands in her lap, “Him? Umm…him who, Sir?”

  Without blinking an eye or changing my tone I say, “Sebastian fucking Gorman.”

  And her eyes fly up to mine as her face goes pale white and shock carves her facial features.

  Chapter 15

  “Heather, what is the last thing you remember on September 21st, 2009, the last night you were here, in your home, with your daughter Ivy?”

  I can’t bring myself to look at Dr. Sharp’s concerned face, much less swallow the lump in my throat and answer her question. Her accent is lilted to pure Texan.

  “Heather? Or do you prefer Mac?”

  Her simple question morphs from just that, a simple question, to a life altering identity crisis before her voice is finished speaking it.

  My friend, the man I turned to for companionship, emotional shelter, advice, love, everything…the man I’d handed the role of being the father of the most precious blessing I held closest to my heart, my daughter, called me Mac. Even hearing the three-letter one syllable word now causes shudders to rattle my bones, however the very next memory to wash over me is of my brother, Bobby, tugging on my teddy bear I snuggled up with to sleep as a child and excitedly whispering, “Mac! Mac! Santa came! Come on, get up, get up, I can’t wake up Cody and Rick, so we get first dibs on the stocking candy!”

  I’ve been home for almost a week now, and as the days swiftly come and go, I sense my husband’s disappointment mounting. I also witness my daughter withdrawing from me, becoming more and more afraid of being alone in my presence, and it sends my mind into an even deeper refuge within myself.

  What kind of mother can’t participate in a tea party hosted by her own daughter? What kind of wife isn’t able to attend a formal, or hell, an informal dinner? What kind of woman lets herself become the one asking these pathetic questions I’m asking?

  If I had to name this multi-faceted yet fractured woman, what would I call her?

  My voice is as uncertain as it is shaky, “I don’t know, I don’t care, call me whatever.”

  Her hazel green eyes clash with mine as she crosses her legs before brushing her hands down her black pencil skirt and pins me to my seat with a lift of her eyebrow, “Don’t care? Call you whatever?” She inhales before showing her irritation with an exasperated sigh, “Which name causes you happiness when heard, which causes anxiety?”

  Anger, white hot with fury ignites within me before blazing through my veins so quickly my words are growled through gritted teeth, “What the fuck did I say? I don’t give a damn what you call me. Heather, Mac, Mace, Ms. Mackenzie, Mrs. Payne, call me any of the above and I’ll respond, okay?”

  I narrow my eyes on hers before taking the woman before me in, detail by detail.

  Her wavy, honey-colored hair falls from being tucked behind her ears before she composes her ill-portraying facial features to smile serenely. I know none of this is her fault. I know she’s only here to help and do her job, but all I really want to do is run away. Pack all my things and just run, never looking back.

  Dr. Sharp, a renowned specialist in counseling for dissociative or identity disorders, verbally sounds out her every word. “I’ll ask once more, which name do you feel most comfortable with me using?”

  “Heather.”

  “Alright, Heather. What is the last thing you remember on September 21st, 2009?”

  “I’d come down stairs for a glass of milk. I don’t usually drink milk, but during my pregnancy and while I was nursing I craved it, needing a full glass of milk before bed. I rinsed out my glass and set it in the dishwasher before making my way back to my room to go to bed. When I walked into the living room I saw Roman. I was startled because I wasn’t expecting to see him and I hadn’t seen him in a good while. I-I didn’t, I mean I couldn’t,” Shit. What can I say? “There was an argument between the two of us, I-I…umm, I can’t,” Shit. Shit.
Shit. More damn lies. “I don’t recall what the argument was about, it’s odd, the only thing I remember is seeing the light from the fireplace flickering across his features, I remember being angry, I remember being sad,” I look up into Dr. Sharp’s eyes, “And I don’t remember anything else after that. It’s like my mind just goes blank.”

  She nods as she writes whatever shrinks write on a legal pad before looking back at me, “Heather, in order for us to get to the root of the problem, trust and truth must be established in this phase of your counseling therapy, whatever you tell me will not be repeated, okay?”

  “I understand.”

  “Good, now I’ll ask again, what is the last thing you remember on September 21st, 2009?”

  “Dr. Sharp, my answer remains the same.”

  After jotting down more notes she looks up and smiles, “Okay, what is the next thing you recall?”

  “I woke up. I was in a room I’d never seen before. It was dark, so I could only make out dark and light contrasting objects.” I don’t know what to do, I don’t know what to say, I’m freaking the fuck out and I feel the panic attack swelling and growing inside me. My heart is racing and a cold sweaty sheen breaks out across my brow and the nape of my neck.

  Then, suddenly from nowhere…peace. Everything is calm. I feel like I’m swinging on a swing in the park, back and forth. It’s perfect stillness.

  “I gotcha baby girl, go play on the rainbows and swing sets for a while, mmkay?”

  “…Heather?”

  “I’m sorry, the boredom in here is stifling. You know what I think? I think we should bring my loving husband in here, don’t you? Two birds, one stone. Cure the crazy bitch suffering an identity crisis and some good ole’ fashion marriage counseling. It’s perfect! Rome! Where ya at, babe? You’re needed in aisle crazy fucking town.”

  Will this get me an ass whooping, definitely. Stitches? Probably. A visit to an OR to reset bones, followed up with a few casts? Not without a fight and mark my every damn word when I say: I’m dragging him down with me.