Ugly(78)

“O-okay, y-you believe him,” he says as he shrugs his shoulders. “E-everyone used to b-believe my m-mom, too.”

“Your mom?” I question.

“My m-mom w-was b-beaten b-by my st-st-stepf-father, until he k-killed her.”

Wait. This feels like déjà vu. My mind is swirling as I sit up in bed, waiting for Max to say more. I want to ask him what happened to his mom, but I know it’s insensitive of me to do so.

“Um.” I look around the room trying to focus on something else. I notice I’m in a private room, and again something’s not adding up. “Why am I in a private room?” I look around once more before turning and having my eyes land on an inquisitive Max.

“You r-really d-don’t know?”

“Know what?”

“It d-doesn’t m-m-matter then.”

We again sit in silence. The room is quiet, but my mind isn’t. It’s screaming at me that certain things just aren’t adding up. It’s like I’m fighting my way out of a dark forest and I have no light to guide me. I decide to just let that go, because eventually the answers will come to me. “Can I ask you a question, without sounding rude?”

Max smiles and I see his tall frame relax. “N-nothing you say c-could ever be r-rude.”

I try and formulate the question as tactfully as I can. “Why is your stutter sometimes more prominent than other times?”

A corner of his mouth rises, and he blinks slowly as he brings both his hands up and rests them on his head. “The m-more comfortable I am w-with someone, the l-less I st-st-stut-stutter.”

This of course leads me to my next question, “Are you nervous around me?”

This question has him chuckling. “Y-you make m-me most n-nervous.”

“Hmmm,” I answer as I carelessly run my hand through my hair. The moment my fingers touch the bandage where the slash is, I wince in pain.

“Are you alright?” he asks as he protectively leaps up and leans toward me.

I lower my hand and gaze at Max. His caring nature is confusing to me. “I’m okay,” I say as I watch him settle back into his seat. “Why do I make you nervous?”

“Y-you r-remind me of my m-mom.” I feel myself scrunch my nose at his response, and it must be quite obvious because he hastily adds, “I mean the way sh-she w-was around him,” he says, emphasizing ‘him’. He gets lost for a moment, perhaps talking about his mom and what she went through is still difficult and traumatizing. I can only imagine what a battered woman would go through, let alone the son who witnessed it. “I-I h-have to go,” Max announces as he abruptly stands and heads toward the door.

“Did I do something wrong?” I ask, shaken and concerned I’ve made him feel as if he has to flee.

He stops before he puts his hand on the handle. Turning to look at me he says in a low, soothing tone, “No, Lily. You could never do anything wrong.” His words are perfect. Max leaves without waiting for a response from me.

What’s going on? Why does it feel like he’s walked out and is never going to return? Why does the thought of his absence make my stomach knot in uneasiness?

Before I even realize, the door opens again and a burly lady comes through, carrying a food tray. “Here you go, darling,” she says, as she places it on the table beside me without even looking at me.

“Thank you,” I answer and wonder who ordered what for me.

She leaves quietly and I take the plastic cover off the plate and start to eat the bland hospital food. As I’m picking at it, the door opens again and Trent waltzes in. “You’re awake. Good. Spoke to the doctor on shift, and I swear, the guy is an idiot. Where he studied, I have no idea.” He rolls his eyes and sits in the chair Max was in. “Anyway, don’t eat too much. You don’t want to end up like a fat pig.” He pointedly looks at my half-eaten plate of food and then takes his phone out of his pocket.

I slow my eating and place the fork on the plate. “What did the doctor say?”

“He said if you eat and keep it all down, I’ll be able to bring you home tomorrow.”

“Well that’s good.”

Trent dials someone, and holds a finger up to me as he starts talking into his phone. “Hi, it’s me.” He listens for a few seconds. “Yeah, I can’t. Maybe on the weekend.” He listens again. “Okay, bye.”

“Who was that?” I ask.

“Someone from work wants me to help ‘em move. No big deal, I said I couldn’t.”

“Who’s ‘them’?”

“You don’t know them, so don’t worry about it. Anyway, you’ll come home tomorrow, just don’t freak out because of the blood in the kitchen.”