Page 27 of Echoes in the Storm
No. Instead, the army returned a shell of a man to her. One who sounded like his father: bitter and jaded. One who looked like the boy she loved, but acted nothing like the Duke she’d held tight when he’d broken the news to her that his turn to deploy had come.
“I thought perhaps we could take some walks on the beach. Ease you into regular exercise again.”
His chest heaved with a sigh, the hospital sheet doing nothing to disguise the steel rods that they had inserted into his leg to keep the femur steady while his skin healed enough to withstand surgery.
“Let’s get through one day at a time, okay, Mum?”
“Okay.” Mariana reached out and took her son’s hand, offering comfort the only way she knew how. Her words didn’t matter to him anymore, her actions redundant when he showed no interest in the special arrangements she’d made so his recovery at home would be as pleasant as possible.
No. The only thing that still got through to her boy, that still made his breathing slow and his lips lose the permanent scowl, was her touch.
The simple tune slipped from her lips without a second thought as Mariana hummed the notes to “Somewhere Over the Rainbow”. She tore her gaze from the turning leaves on the oaks outside and smiled as her son’s brow smoothed, and his lips twitched in and out of a smile—minute, but enough that a mother could still tell.
Recovery had just begun, but in her heart she knew that all she had to do was hold tight and everything would be okay.
One day,herDuke would come home.
Duke
War wages within me as I stand in the middle of Cammie’s living room, my elbow propped in my hand while I rub my fingers over the growing stubble on my jaw.
She said to kick back, relax, and do nothing while she was at work. But this woman knows nothing about me, and if she did, she’d realise how ludicrous that sort of suggestion was.
Idle hands are the devil’s workshop.
Her décor is simple, understated. Yet, the longer I’ve spent with her, the more I’ve come to know one crucial thing about Cammie: she’s no more of a neat freak than I am a social butterfly.
She hides her shit well, literallyandmetaphorically. Open her cupboards and you’re greeted with piles of seemingly useless junk, hoarded and treasured, yet not precious enough to be on display or utilised. Open her mind and I’m sure you’d find the same, a mess of a woman who can’t let go of things that hold no purpose anymore.
I shouldn’t.She’ll flip a switch if I do, but the thought of sitting around watching television all day has me looking for the nearest bridge to jump off.
Just a little—she won’t mind too much.
I delay the inevitable by heading to the fridge and pulling out a Pop Top bottle filled with apple and blackcurrant juice. Sipping the sweet drink, I wander through the living room to the hall, figuring I may as well take the opportunity to venture farther than the three rooms she’s already shared with me. Maybe then I’ll find something to do, some task I can keep occupied with that’ll help her out, show my thanks for her hospitality?
There was something panicked behind her eyes when she left for work this morning.“Help yourself to anything in the kitchen. Chill out in front of the TV. Maybe go for a walk.”Almost as though she was trying to direct me.
She seemed determined to give me suggestions on how to fill my time, to the point where it’s reignited my curiosity about how exactly this woman came to be living on her own, save for a closet full of child-size skeletons and ghosts.
The last of the drink slurps through the Pop Top with a loud gurgle as I veer left in the hallway and head toward the bedrooms. Cammie’s is the one on the left, adjacent to the living room. I figured that out the first night.
Her door is open just a crack, not quite enough to see what’s on the other side, but enough that I get the idea her room is decorated much like the rest of the house: void of colour.
Pulsing the empty drink bottle in my hand, I concentrate on the crackle of the plastic as I crush the container in, let it out, and repeat. The sound grounds me, bringing my fledgling paranoia into check as I stand outside her door, wondering where to go next.
Cammie doesn’t strike me as the type to take advantage of another person, but the walls she holds around her definitely set me on edge. People who avoid the truth are those who are afraid of what reality will bring.
I know. I deflect and redirect with the best of them, steering conversation away from anything that skims too close to the heart of who I am.
I head toward the room at the front of the house. It’s closed off; the heavy timber door is stained an ominous dark walnut. To the left is the spare room, completely empty save for a dozen or so packed boxes of odds and ends. Past that is the bathroom, and then the laundry and toilet. I mentally map the house in my mind.
The front room has to be another bedroom.
Walk away, Duke.
My hand burns to open that door. Fuck, does it burn. But she’s shut the room off for a reason, and if there was a spare bed in there I’m sure I would have seen her open it before now.
I make my way back through to the kitchen to bin the empty juice bottle. The lid on the trashcan rings out as it slams shut, yet my focus is on the car that makes its way up the driveway.