Page 46 of It’s Only Love

Mike

He’s fine. Dennis assured me he was fine.

His car was totaled, but he’s fine. Still, as I blast through the door to the emergency room, all sorts of dreadful scenarios are playing on repeat in my head.

When you think of it, the word ‘ fine ’ says absolutely nothing about a person’s condition.

One person’s fine can mean another person’s…

I don’t know. My mind is running around in circles with images of Dennis with blood trickling into his eyes from a gash in his forehead, his body all twisted and broken, as the doctors cart him off for surgery. I need to see him before I believe it.

I’m a panting mess when I stand in front of the tired-looking night receptionist in the ER admissions. She regards me with a rehearsed serious expression, but I want her to be more concerned, dammit. This is Dennis we’re talking about. But I guess this is just another night on the job for her.

My words come out in a rush as I look around the waiting area. “Dennis Holbrook. He was brought in about forty minutes ago.” I swallow, the next part nearly killing me. “Car accident. He’s my… he’s my boyfriend.”

The receptionist nods, then begins tapping on her computer, before smiling politely at me.

“They’ve taken him down for diagnostics, so if you’ll just take a seat in the waiting area, sir.

” Diagnostics. What the hell does that mean exactly?

She must read my bewildered expression, because she adds, “X-rays and a CT scan of his head, sir. If you’ll please take a seat, we’ll come get you once there’s any news. ”

“Thank you.” I drag myself over to the waiting area.

It’s deserted aside from the janitor sweeping the floors and a man half asleep in a chair.

There’s a TV suspended from the wall showing some random soap, but the sound isn’t on.

It seems like all the noise has congregated inside my head instead.

I slump down in a chair, leaning my elbows on my knees, as I try to calm myself down, but it’s useless.

I wish Jon and Sarah were here, but there’s no sign of them.

They’re probably already inside with Dennis since he called them first. He didn’t give me much information over the phone, other than that he’d hit his head and probably sprained his ankle while climbing out of the ditch.

He was waiting for the police and EMT to arrive and ended the call once they did.

I shouldn’t have let him drive alone at night.

I should’ve gone with him. I’m sure that if I’d asked Jon, he’d have been fine with me taking the day off.

The roads in these parts can get pretty unpredictable and challenging, especially when the weather is wet and misty, as it was last night. I should’ve been there, dammit.

A headache is building between my brows, like white-hot stabs of pain.

I inhale through my nose, trying to focus on my breathing.

I squeeze my eyes tight, but that’s a mistake because now I’m bombarded by even more vivid and terrifying images.

In my mind, Dennis is in a hospital bed, tubes attached to his bruised and bloodied face, and snaking out of his wrists.

His head is wrapped in bandages, blood seeping through at the front.

His beautiful face is all beaten up and swollen, his bottom lip split open, cakes of dried blood on his chin and neck.

A machine is beeping, numbers blinking on the screen.

I have no idea what they mean, if they’re good or bad, but it feels like they’re counting down toward something…

I sit up with a jerk. The janitor is standing right in front of me, his hand resting on my shoulder. “Son, there’s a coffee machine in the corner over there. I’d be lying if I said that the coffee’s even half-decent, but it takes the edge off.” He smiles at me, then pushes his cart toward the exit.

“Thanks,” I mumble, rubbing my face. The idea of coffee makes my insides turn, my stomach protesting from being awake in the middle of the night.

I lean back in the chair, carding my fingers through my hair, as I look up at the ceiling.

There’s a large, yellowish stain to the left, probably from past water damage.

I try to focus on the shape and my breathing, but the stain keeps changing shape and size, making my head swim.

I shut my eyes again, and Dennis is still in the hospital bed.

His eyes are closed, and the skin surrounding them is shades of purple and blue.

I walk closer, reaching for him. He looks so small and fragile, cuts scattered across his face, intermingling with his freckles.

The machine keeps beeping and counting, and it’s driving me crazy.

I need to touch him, to feel with my own fingers against his skin that he’s real.

That he’s okay. I won’t believe it until I feel him warm and alive.

Safe. But in my mind, Dennis changes as I move closer.

My head hurts, my eyes sting, and the image of Dennis morphs into something else, someone else, before my very eyes.

The shape is larger and broader. It’s not Dennis anymore.

It’s my dad, and when I reach out and touch his hand, his skin is cold as ice.

“Mike!” Someone calls my name at the same time as I bolt from the chair.

Jon comes jogging toward me, suddenly looking ten years older.

He’s smiling, though, and his lips are moving, but I can’t make anything out, like right out of a silent movie.

The beeping sound gets louder inside my head, and now it mingles with my mother’s screaming, too.

I feel like I’m going to pass out if I don’t get out of here right now.

Dark spots dance before my eyes, and my chest tightens.

I have no air, because Dennis is my air, and I don’t have him. Not really.

Jon reaches for my shoulder, his lips still moving, but I no longer see him. I dart past him as I murmur, “I gotta move my car.”

“Mike!” he calls after me. “Son, where are you going?”

I’m running now toward the exit. I can’t do this. Not again. Not ever again. Dennis might be okay for now, but what about next time? I just can’t.

I can’t remember how or when I got home.

My brain feels fuzzy. Everything is blurring.

An overwhelming sense of loss occupies my body, and I just want to sleep and never wake up.

I don’t want to be in a world where Dennis doesn’t exist. It just hurts too much.

But even if I managed to drag myself upstairs, I don’t think I would be able to fall asleep.

I wish Willow were here, but she’s at Dennis’.

I wish I could just bury my face in the soft fur around her neck, breathe her in, and then when I wake up, it would still be Sunday and I’d tell Dennis, “Don’t go. Don’t leave. Don’t leave me.”

When Mom joins me in the kitchen, looking bleary-eyed and confused, it’s starting to get light outside, and the birds are singing.

“Sweetie?” Her familiar voice wraps comfortably around me, and suddenly it becomes impossible to hold back the tears I’ve managed to stave off so far. “Michael, what’s wrong?” She steps toward me, and I look up at her, tears trickling down my cheeks.

I open my mouth to say something, but I can’t.

All that comes out is this pitiful, garbled sound.

I just shake my head and bury my face in my hands.

She pulls a chair from the table and sits down in front of me.

Her voice is quiet with a slight tremble when she speaks.

“Michael, please say something. You’re scaring me.

What happened?” I sob into my hands, my shoulders shaking, and she just pulls me against her, wrapping her arms around me, rocking me from side to side.

Her familiar scent envelops me, but even her closeness doesn’t soothe me.

The tears won’t stop, and neither do the images in my head, a blur of Dennis and Dad, both dead and gone.

“It’s okay,” Mom soothes. “You’re okay. Whatever it is, sweet boy, we’ll figure it out. It’ll be okay.”

“It won’t,” I croak against her neck. “It won’t ever be okay, Mom. He’s gone.” She freezes, but doesn’t let go of me.

“Who? Who’s gone, sweetie?”

“Dad,” I choke on the simple syllable, and I don’t recognize the sound of my own voice as I cry against her. “Dad’s gone, Mom. I miss him so much,” I cry.

“I miss him, too.” She presses a kiss against my temple.

“Every day. But having you, a constant reminder of him, makes it easier.” She sighs, stroking her fingers in soothing movements up and down my back.

“Having you, Michael, makes it better. Some days…” She hesitates.

“Some days, when you walk in the door, looking so much like him, I almost forget. Not him, but the pain of losing him.”

I push away from her, her touch suddenly suffocating. I remember the days, weeks, and months after Dad died. They were awful, like my house was no longer a home but just a shell, and that Mom wasn’t my mom anymore, but just the ghost of a person.

“I can’t do this,” I say, standing up.

She gets up too, and I notice that she’s still in her pajamas. “Michael… ”

“What time is it?”

“It’s not even five.”

“I gotta get to work.”

“Mike, sweetie….”

“I gotta go.”

“Michael, stop.” There’s a rare insistence in her voice as she reaches out her hand and keeps me from leaving the kitchen. “What happened? Tell me. You’re not going anywhere until you tell me.”

“First Dad, and now Dennis…” I can’t finish the sentence. I don’t have enough air in my lungs to finish that sentence. I lick my lips as I inhale through my nose. “Dennis was in an… accident,” I whisper. “A car accident.”

“Oh no. Is he okay?” Mom has me back in an embrace so fast, and I just cling to her, my legs threatening to buckle beneath me.

“No,” I rasp. “I don’t know. I… I just left.”