Lex(145)
“Do you want to listen to Patsy?” I ask, pulling of the driveway.
“Yes, please.” Her sweet innocent voice helps relieve a bit of the guilt and pain. I hate doing this. I hate making this drive. You think that after six weeks you’d start to feel like some sort of normal. Like you’d wake up one morning and the sorrow would lessen just enough to let you breathe. Praying a day would go by when you’re not crying yourself to sleep. But it hasn’t. It seems to worsen as time passes and more guilt poisons my soul.
Driving through the gates of Memorial Park, I hold my breath, inching the car forward until we pull into our spot. The spot Emma and I have parked in every day for the past five weeks. It’s the weekend now so we came earlier than usual. The sun is still high in the cloudless sky and it’s a balmy sixty-five degrees out.
I open my car door and she climbs out from the backseat, proudly carrying a handful of white daisies. Walking to the same place we visit every day, Emma sits down on the grass in front of him, resting the daisies in a pile on the ground beside her.
“I brought you some flowers today, Uncle Lincoln.” She sweetly explains in her tiny voice.
Swallowing hard, I slowly make the last bit of distance and sit on the bench. I wink at Emma, and feign a smile. It’s nearly impossible. I hate being here. I hate this raw sewage feeling boiling in the pit of my stomach. Why can’t I get past this?
“Stop looking so sad today, my girl.” Lincoln’s hand comes over and rests on my thigh and I sigh, letting go of all the raw tension building in me.
“She cried all night, again.” Emma states and I shamefully turn my head, unable to look at either of them.
“Lex, come here.” He coaxes and I can’t. “Lex, you have to come to me.” I don’t want to.
“Lex.” His warning, militant infused Dom tone takes charge and I listen, not looking but scooting so my hip meets his.
His warm, comforting arm rests over my shoulder, side hugging me.
“This wasn’t your fault, Lex, none of it was. Stop blaming yourself.”
He tells me this every day I come to see him, and every day I tell myself I will believe what he says. Then I get in the car, I go home, and the sadness consumes me once more.
Six weeks ago, Melissa came to take Emma from me. Six weeks ago, I refused to let her. Six weeks ago, I stood up to a woman with a loaded shotgun. Six weeks ago, both of the most important men in my life came to save me. Six weeks ago Lincoln, lost both of his legs above the knee down, when he jumped in front of a bullet that was meant for me. He’s been in Memorial Park hospital ever since. In recovery, healing, and trying to gain mobility. Doctor’s said that in another few months they will try to fit him for prosthetic legs. He doesn’t blame me for trying to save my life. But I do. I blame myself for every bit of it. If I had taken the gunfire, he would still have his legs. I might be dead, but I thought I would have died long ago. And to die, knowing that I have felt true love with the man I know is my soul mate. I would have died a happy woman.
I woke up in the hospital two days after the incident. Gage with a bandaged neck sat by my hospital bed, holding my hand. After the initial shot, Melissa had fired off two more rounds out of her semi-automatic shotgun. The first shot hit the window that was intended for me. The second and third was also intended for me, but hit Lincoln in the legs instead of the chest when Gage tackled her. A few buckshot BBs grazed Gage’s neck as it went rogue leaving the shotgun, producing enough blood loss for him to pass out, missing his carotid by mere millimeters. I had a concussion from Lincoln knocking me over and landing on top of me in a pile of glass. The glass shard in my back wedged its way about an inch into my body, producing heavy amounts of blood loss and my feet were torn up pretty bad. I’ve never seen so much blood in my life like I did that day, and it haunts me in my dreams. Not even when Brian nearly killed me all those times did I see that much blood.
When I woke up in the hospital that Wednesday, I was sure Lincoln was dead. I thought I had heard his heart slow down and his breathing nearly diminish when the cops and the paramedics arrived. I only faintly remember being lifted off him before I passed out again. The tough man he is, proves he’s a survivor, seems as though we all are. Time and time again, I overcame the odds. I’m not sure how any of us did it this time though. We got lucky, as I see it.
I didn’t sustain any lasting medical trauma. Gage will be fine. Already added a tattoo to the low-lying scar on his neck of a small old school heart, around one top lobe of the heart is a princess crown and off the opposite side of the heart is an angel wing. Inside of the heart, done in script, is the date Emma called me mommy for the first time, it’s beautifully done. All of Gage’s tattoos are. His entire body is like a giant artistic masterpiece. It’s hot. And the new tattoo, the only one on his neck, peeks half out when he wears his dress shirt and tie, leaving exposed tattoos only on his wrists and tops of his hands and now his neck. I’ve learned the tattoos on the tops of his hands are to conceal even more cigarette burns and a curling iron burn rendered by his mother of course.