“Nothing has to happen, Finch. You know that. And you know it’s not your fault. And that it’s not you she’s attacking, specifically.”
I nod. I do know. But it doesn’t make it any better.
“We should go,” Tag says gently.
I stare down at my mother. She looks old and frail. And soft. And kind. She looks like my mother. Not like some crazed mental patient.
Tag takes my hand in his and gives it a squeeze. I jerk my eyes up to his, and his green eyes meet mine. He appraises me closely. So closely that my skin gets too tight and I try to tug my hand out of his. But he holds me tightly and pulls me toward the door. When it closes behind us, I stop to look through the tiny window and I watch as the nurse bustles around, cleaning and straightening up the mess my mom just made.
I’m still breathing hard. I shouldn’t be. I take in a deep breath and blow it out through my lips. I’m ready to leave. So ready. I should have listened when they said she was having a rough day. I shouldn’t have tried to visit. It’s my own fault she just tried to stab me.
Tag pauses in the hallway and pulls me to a stop beside him. He leans back against the wall, his knees bent so he can look into my eyes a little more deeply. He’s much taller than I am. Much, much taller.
He lifts our bound hands in between us and straightens out his fingers. My palm rests along his, and his fingers tangle up with mine. He just holds me like that. I try to pull back, but he doesn’t say anything and he doesn’t let go.
“Seriously?”
“Shh,” he says. “Be quiet for a second. I want to try something.”
“You’re not going to pray over me, are you?”
“Not right this second. Unless you want me to. And if you do, I will. But no.” He breathes in and out slowly, and I realize he’s matched his breaths to mine. He looks into my eyes. My breath stops, but he keeps breathing in and out slowly, and I match his pace. “Someone taught me this when I was younger. When my uncle would beat the ever-living crap out of me and I’d get so upset I hyperventilated every time he came into a room.”
“I’m not hyperventilating.”
“I think I might be, though.” He chuckles.
He breathes in and out, staring into my eyes, and I feel myself relaxing. But then he jerks my arm and I fall against him, bracing my hands on his chest to catch myself. “What the fuck was that?” I ask as I push back.
He doesn’t let me go, though. He pulls me against him and wraps his arms around me, holding me close. I am stiff as a board, but he’s soft and warm and he feels so strong. “Just for a minute,” he whispers. “Sixty seconds.” He starts to count softly. “One. Two. Three…”
His words are almost as warm as his body. He’s holding me tightly, and I let myself melt into him, just for a second. I lay the side of my face over his heart and listen to the steady thump of it, relaxing into him. When he realizes he doesn’t have to hold me so tightly, he lifts a hand and drags it up and down my back in soft, gentle sweeps. I burrow in closer to him.
“Thirty. Thirty-one. Thirty-two…”
When he gets to sixty, I’m nearly boneless and I wobble on my unsteady legs like a newborn colt when he sets me back from him. He grabs my elbows and looks down at me. “Okay?”
Well, I was until he held me. Now I just feel…strange. I feel like someone has taken my insides and put them right below the surface of my skin.“Your mom is mentally ill?” he asks.
I nod.
“Has she always been violent?”
I don’t want to answer, but my mouth has decided it has a mind of its own. The traitor. “Yes.” Now that it’s out there, I rush to explain. “She wasn’t always like this. Sometimes she was awesome. She cooked, and played with me, and we went on adventures.” I don’t know why I feel like he should know all this. Or why I want to tell him. “But then her up days became so much less frequent than her down days.” And her lows were really low. “Now she’s here, where they can control her meds.” And keep her from trying to kill people. Like me.
He starts to walk me down the hallway, but stops in front of a bathroom door. It’s the kind with only one room, and he goes inside. He motions for me to follow him.
“What?” I ask.
“Can I check your shoulder?”
“Why?” I look down at my arm. I’m not bleeding.
“Your mother just stabbed you with a pen.”
“Oh.” I forgot about that in the melee. And the subsequent calm after the storm. I unzip my hoodie and pull the shoulder back.
“She got you pretty good,” he says. His fingertips tickle a slow path over my shoulder and I shiver.
“I’ve had worse.”
“I’m sure you have.”
I look up at him. He wets a paper towel and wipes away the sticky ooze that has seeped from the small wound.
“It didn’t go very deep,” he says.
I snort. “That’s what she said.”
His cheeks redden, but a smile tugs at the corners of his lips. “Why do you do that?” he asks, shaking his head.
“Do what?”
“Deflect with humor when someone tries to care for you.”
“Dude, you’ve known me for half a second,” I remind him, my ire rising.
“Tell it to someone who has never been inside you,” he says slowly, looking into my eyes.