Sunday scribblings post-Prompt "Soothe"
Soothe
When I get the phone call, I check the number. As soon as I see who's calling, I get up and go to another room to answer it. When I don't come back after a few minutes, he comes to find me and hears me ending the call with a terse “Yeah, fine, whatever.” Then, I hang up the phone and dump it unceremoniously onto the table with a loud clatter and rest my head in my hands for a few seconds.
Then, I announce, “I'm going to take a shower.”
The hot water feels good. I work shampoo through my hair and rinse it back out, then lather up the net puff with body wash. I'm just standing under the spray when I hear the bathroom door open. Immediately, I tense and brace myself. He doesn't even hesitate before he opens the shower door and asks, softly, “Hey, Sweetheart, what the hell was that?”
My stomach sinks because there is no way that I can ignore the question and there's no way for me to hide how I feel about it, either. When I turn around, all the evidence on my face points directly at me crying. His eyes get wide because he's known for a long time that crying about things just isn't my style.
“Yeah, okay,” he says, “when you get out of there, let's go for a ride, okay? You don't have to tell me what's going on, yet, but-let me just get you away from here for a little while, okay?”
I nod. I turn away from him just long enough to turn off the water and when I turn back around he's holding up a towel for me. The purple terrycloth is soft against my skin. He stays close to me, unwilling to let me out of his sight. Part of me wants to request that he just back off and leave me alone, but the rest of me is so angry that I can't seem to figure out a way to loose the words. Even if I did, I would only succeed in distressing him at best and, at worst, hurting him because he's a convenient target who just happens to be right there.
I dig out my Captain America shirt. It's one of those soft washed t-shirts that looks like I'm wearing another long-sleeved t-shirt under it. Then, I think better of having a big red and white target on my chest and go for the Batman logo shirt instead. I emerge dressed in the shirt and jeans and my oiled leather work boots. My hair is pulled back and tucked down inside my shirt so it won't tangle while we ride. He hands me my dark blue denim jacket from the peg in the hall and I grab my helmet from the shelf.
He's in jeans and a t-shirt, but he's put on his motorcycle jacket. It's brown leather with wear marks produced by years of use and miles of road. I can't count the number of times people have asked him where he bought it, thinking it's somehow been artificially distressed to its lived-in look. The motorcycle fires on the first kick and he rolls it backwards out of the garage. Once it's turned, I climb on the back.
The day is beautiful for a ride. The sun is high overhead in a clear, blue sky. A handful of straggling cloud wisps dot the horizon, but they don't carry even a hint of threat. It's just cold enough to need a jacket but not so cold that we'll be freezing. As far as I know, he doesn't have any destination in mind. I'm okay with that. What I want is just the steady rumble of the engine underneath us and the road and some time to think.
I just let my cheek rest against his jacket, right along his spine. The sun has warmed the leather enough that it feels good against my skin. It smells like autumn and riding and, most of all, him. I try to get my mind to stay on good things, this ride, him, writing, anything else but that stupid phone call. It doesn't work, so I give up and let myself stew while the song of tires on asphalt plays around us. I keep my arms around him, hoping that he will anchor me in here and in now, where I should be so physically far removed by all of the drama that they're trying to pull me into that I should just be able to ignore it all and rise above it. But, of course, the emotional bonds of family can be so easy to manipulate sometimes. This is another sharp, shining example of why I hate head games and why, as I've said before, that I don't play “chess”.
He's seen firsthand what kinds of games they like playing and the complete garbage they like to pull. He also knows that I'm dead serious when I state with complete confidence that the head games that I know how to play because I've seen them happen and been subjected to them would blow most people out of the water. They are world-class and practically on a Machiavellian level. I absolutely despise being treated that way and, what's more, I absolutely loathe treating other people that way. It hurts them and, for some, it ends up destroying them. While I may joke about Cthulu Destroyer of Worlds, I don't aspire to be one of the Great Old Ones. I don't want to be a soul-crusher or an obliterator of spirits. Mostly, I just want them to leave me out of all their petty crap and let me stay as far away from all of their manufactured drama as much as humanly possible.
There is a brief moment where I toy with the idea of changing my phone number. Then, I realize how impractical that would be. There's also that stubborn streak in me that makes me want to prove to them that they can't get to me. Changing my phone number means admitting that my fortress is not as siege proof as I had believed.
We ride to no particular destination until the sun starts to set. Then, he unerringly steers us back home, easing us into the driveway and the garage with confident grace. The silence that greets us when he turns off the bike is almost deafening. He lets me get off first, then swings his leg up and back over, so his feet are firmly planted on the concrete floor of the stall. Once he puts the kickstand down, he turns back to me while he tugs off his helmet. If mine had a faceplate, I'm sure that it would be a far more effective barrier than it is. He just watches me. I take off my helmet and put it back before going into the house to unlace my boots and hang my jacket. He stays at my heels, letting me know without saying a word that I'm not alone.
He pads along behind me to the living room and stands there, eyeing me, while I pull out a DVD from the shelf and put it into the player. As soon as it's clear that I fully intend to watch “The Losers” tonight, he settles onto the couch in his loose-limbed, king of our domain sprawl on the couch. I study him briefly until I come to a decision.
It takes him by surprise, a little when I lie down on the couch beside him with my head against his thigh. He looks down at me, brow furrowed in concern, a quick bite to the inside of his lower lip betraying the questions running through his mind that he knows better than to ask. I don't say a word. I'm still not ready to talk. One of his big, long-fingered hands starts stroking over my hair and I let him. He nods, once, to show me he understands. We stay there, in our living room, and watch the movie. Later on, I'll probably explain what happened, but it might not be for days. He's okay with that, though, because he has to be. He knows that I would never let just anyone have the opportunity to try and soothe me, especially the way that he does.