Cadaverous Love

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Three Weeks Later

Dallas  ●

I sit in the scratchy blue chair next to Emily's hospital bed. She is sitting up, nose in a book, hair elegantly braided by Morgan. A smile twitches on the corner of my mouth and I feel like I could throw up with sheer relief. She is okay. Her cheeks are rosy and full again, the fat has started to return to her bones, and her eyes are sharp and mischievous. Like she could catch Two-Bit planning a prank before he even opened his mouth.

Bouncing my leg up and down I ask, "you nervous?"

"Nervous?" She cocks her head to one side, "for what?"

"To see if they'll let you out or not."

"No, I'm not nervous. I almost died. I think I can take on just about anything now. A few more weeks here wouldn't hurt, anyways." Her throat bobs at the last part and I'm suddenly not sure I believe her. I am not sure she believes it herself.

I straighten up as the slap of shoes on the tile floor draws closer to the room. Although the door is wide open, the doctor stops and taps on it with one knuckle. I nod.

"Well, Emily," he starts, his voice slow and heavy as he approaches, my stomach lurches in the pauses between his words, "we're finally going to release you. I want to follow up with you in a few weeks. If you start to feel worse before then, just come right into the hospital, okay?"

--

Emily   ●

The sky is pink with the kiss of dusk. Dallas loads our stuff into the back of the truck; clothes, a record player and albums, half-washed tupperware, sweaters, and a bundle of red poinsettias with Darry's name wistfully signed on its greeting card. Dallas's jacket hangs around my shoulders, even though I double-pinky promised I wasn't cold. I guess he could somehow tell that my toes were crossed. He opens the truck door for me and holds my hand as I step in.

"Wow," I smirk, half-sarcastically, "what a gentleman."

He rolls his eyes at me, "well, yanno, gotta try and make up for marrying you drunk and all."

My heart stiffens for a moment. I think about holding the words back, about swallowing them like bile. Then I think about that little girl, cowering on the floor of her closet after a screaming match with her father, lost, and hiding, and hoping someone would find her and stand up for her. There is no one here to stand up for the little girl trapped like a flightless bird in my chest, no one here but me. I owe it to her. I owe it to myself. I deserve better than that. Don't I? So I say the words, despite how mean they feel, despite how I want to plunge into an apology before saying what I need to say, "Not to be an ass or anything," the words feel like cotton in my mouth, "but you've got a long way to go."

He looks over at me as he starts the car, his face drawn, but a proud twinkle in his eye, "I know."

We pull out of the parking lot, Dallas's driving a whole lot gentler than I'm used to, he takes my hand and slips it up to the back of his neck, letting my fingers rest in his hair.

I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding. I want to ask him a million times over, are you mad at me? Do you still love me? But I don't. With the curls at the back of his neck twirled around my fingers, those seem like silly questions. In all of the things I want and don't want, know and don't know - I know that I don't want to die anymore. After being so close to death, you realize all that there is to lose, all that you would leave behind. I still cry often, but mostly in mourning for that little girl who went through so much pain and trouble, who put up with so much shit in the name of loving and being loved. I am sorry to my body, to my cells, my heart, my soul, for the torment I have put it through for so long.

--

"I'm kind of nervous," I tell Dallas as we walk up to the front door.

"'Bout what?" He lifts an eyebrow at me.

"About this," I shrug, "about being here and seeing everyone."

His hand stops half-way to the door knob, "want to wait and sit in the car for a bit to calm your nerves?"

I take a deep breath in and consider, "no," I decide, finally, "I am more anxious to see everyone than I am anxious about seeing them."

"Okay," Dallas says, a half-bewildered expression across his face, "whatever the hell that means." He takes my hand again, lacing our fingers together, "member what you said?" I shake my head. "You almost died, you can face just about anything now. Including coming home to your family."

Home. Family.

The door swings open and Sodapop is immediately in the opening, "Hi, Emily," he chimes.

"Hi," I smile back and before I know it I'm wrapped in a tight hug. I squeeze him back and soon enough there are other arms wrapping around us. My heart thrashes and kicks for a moment, but then I remember to breathe. I breathe in the smell of the house, the food cooking, fresh laundry, and cigarettes. I remember where I am, that I am safe, that I am home.

I am slowly released from the group hug and everyone takes turns greeting me. Darry and Pony wrap me in warm, long, quiet hugs that make me feel like weeping. Steve hesitantly pats me on the head and tells me he's glad to see me all in one piece again. Two-Bit wraps his arm around my neck and plants a kiss on my cheek. He hollers something to Dallas about me being his now and leads me to the couch.

"Well, jeez," Two says, "you'd think you'd just gotten home from war or something." He smiles at me as I sit down, my cheeks hot from all the attention. "Need anything?"

"No, thank you," I shake my head. I finally notice two other figures in the room, Mr. Artie and Mio. They sit together on the carpet, quietly pushing wooden toy trucks across the floor, a one-eyed teddy bear sits not far off. Mr. Artie looks up and smiles at me. I smile back and give him a gentle wave. I am surprised he is here, but it's a safe place for him and Mio to get to know one another.

Darry and Dallas give one another a firm handshake, their battle scars are blue and purple, pink and red, and obviously from one another. I almost plant a firm palm to my forehead that I hadn't realized it sooner, but as they stand shoulder to shoulder, surveying the room like proud meerkats, I recognize that my intervention isn't needed.

"Hello," a little voice pipes up from in front of me.

"Hello," I respond to Mio.

"Thanks," he nearly whispers, putting his small hand into mine. I can feel the nervousness in his tender touch, the odd climb it is learning to trust people again, the way it always feels like falling.

I smile at him and give his hand a squeeze, "You're welcome. But make sure to thank yourself, too. You wouldn't be here without your own bravery." He leaves his hand in mine and nods.

"Mio," I say suddenly, "what do you want?" His eyebrows furrow together and he steals a glance back at Mr. Artie, the pepper-haired and leather-skinned man who sits criss-cross on the carpet, tinkering with the wheels of one of the toy trucks as the conversation carries on around him. "You can have it," I tell Mio. His eyes sparkle at my understanding. "I'll be right here."