“Probably feels good to be out of that hospital, huh?” he asked as we entered my bedroom.
“Yeah. I was getting sick of the Jell-O.”
He chuckled and helped me sit on the edge my bed. “You hungry? Thirsty?”
“I’m good right now, but thanks.”
“Okay.” He took a step back, shifting on his feet. “Oh, before I forget.” Reaching into his back pocket, he pulled out a cellphone with a white and pink case, then handed it to me. I smiled at him. “They looked, but said they didn’t find much of anything. They were going to return it tomorrow, but I went up to the station and grabbed it today. Phone’s all yours again.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
He turned for the door. “If you need anything, text me or your mom. We don’t want you walking up and down the stairs until you’re feeling better.”
“I will.”
He lingered, like he always did when he had more to say. Finally, he manned up to his feelings and faced me, then marched my way. He collected me into his arms, holding onto the back of my head while kissing the top of it. It was sudden, but it was comforting, and I clung to his arms.
“I was scared as hell, Kandy,” he confessed. “I know it may seem like I was more angry than anything, but I wasn’t. I was terrified. I saw all that blood and thought I was going to lose you.”
The rims of my eyes burned. “I’m here, Dad. It’s okay.”
“I know.” He kissed the top of my head again. “You’re here now, where you belong. Anything you need, I’ll get it for you.” He pulled back, but held my face in his hands, his eyes red-rimmed and damp. “Get some rest, okay?”
“Kay.”
Finally pulling away, he walked to the door, but this time didn’t stop or linger. He walked right out, cracking the door behind him. I took a look around my room—the Justin Timberlake poster on the wall to my left, and the collage board on the wall behind me, covered with photos of me and Frankie, my parents, and even a few of my parents, me, and Cane when we used to have dinner. I focused on each picture of Cane, and in each one he had that subtle smile and spark in his eyes, like he was content with where he was. I was certain he didn’t feel that way anymore.
I heard murmuring outside my door and turned to hear better.
“Think she’ll be okay?” Mom whispered.
“She’ll be fine,” Dad assured her. “Just give her some space and time.”
“What if Cane wants to see her again?” Her voice was full of concern.
“He’s not setting foot in my house,” Dad grumbled, then the whispering drifted as they went downstairs.
I laid down on my side, staring ahead at the window across from me as a tear slid over the bridge of my nose. I didn’t deserve this place. My parents were out there, willing to do literally anything for me, and I’d chosen Cane over them, not even realizing what all he was capable of or all he had in store.
Dumb and naive, that’s what I was. I’d jumped the gun and now I was suffering the consequences of my actions. I brought a pillow in front of me and pressed my face into it, stifling my sobs. I wanted to wail, but also didn’t want my parents to hear me.
What was my life now? What was my purpose? I no longer had school, I didn’t have a job, and the man I loved seemed like a complete stranger, with a life that was built on lies.
I wish I could say that time would ease my pain, but it didn’t. Each day was worse than before. I had dreams about Cane. Nightmares about the stabbing. I even had a dream that transitioned into a nightmare, only this time, Cane was the one holding the knife. I woke up screaming for help every night, and Mom would rush into the room to hold me until I fell asleep again. I felt awful, not only for what I was going through, but for what my parents had to go through because of my irrational, hasty decisions. If I hadn’t walked out on them that night, this never would have happened.
Eventually, I became numb to it all—the nightmares, the guilt. The medicine I took would knock me out cold, so I took more and more of it. It also made me lose my appetite, so the dinner Mom would bring to my room, on my favorite blue tray, would remain untouched. She noticed, I’m sure. I saw the way she looked at me when she came in each morning to take the old food out.
Per doctor’s orders, Dad helped me walk back and forth through the hallway to restore my strength. After a few days, he’d help me walk up and down the stairs, just so my body could get used to the activity again. Eventually, walking up and down the stairs wasn’t so bad, I just had to do it slowly. Mom wanted me to start coming down for dinner and I did, but I couldn’t help staring at the empty seat at the end of the table—the seat that was only a few inches away, where he used to smile and laugh and tease me. My chest tightened, and I looked up, realizing Mom was staring right at me.