Watch Over You (5 page)

Devan stayed by the door, but she waved him in. “You can stay in here tonight,” she said. There was a spare bed in the room too. No one ever used it. She did sometimes when sleeping in her own bed was too much, but then she preferred the sofa when she was overcome with loneliness and Eric’s absence.

She opened the closet with Eric’s things in. Seeing them pulled at something inside of her, but she pushed it away and turned back to Devan. “Jeans okay?” She started pulling things out before he could answer. She found some jeans, a t-shirt and a sweater. There was a bag at the back packed with things like ties and socks. There were also shoes at the bottom, so many of them hardly worn. Eric wore trainers all the time. He even wore them with his pyjamas instead of house slippers, much to Tara’s annoyance. She took out a couple of pairs of socks for him.

“These should all be okay. Do you want to jump in for a shower first? Maybe warm up?”

“Sure,” he said before Tara could scold herself for being so pushy.

He strode around the bed and stopped at a painting on the wall. He pulled off his hat. His hair was wet and stuck down to his head. Although it looked dark now, she could tell it was blonde. So many emotions seemed to cross his face. She wished she could read his mind. He reached up and she was afraid he would touch it, but he didn’t. Instead, he hovered his fingers over it and traced invisible lines.

“I painted that,” she said. “Well, with my husband’s help. He was the artist, not me.

“It’s wonderful.”

“He liked to paint.”

The painting itself was nothing, but the memories that went with it were what was valuable. She remembered each stroke, every word he had spoken to
her as she painted. She remembered the feel of his breath against her ear as he leant over her shoulder. She smiled at the memory of turning around and putting paint on his nose.

“You always talk about him in past tense,” Devan commented, moving away from the painting. Her voice caught and her throat tightened. She put the clothes down on the bottom edge of the bed. “I’ll go and turn the shower on for you; there are towels under the sink. If you want me to get your clothes washed, just throw them right outside the door and I’ll get them started.” Then, she left the room and went to the bathroom.

She waited at the top of the stairs for Devan to go into the bathroom and remove his clothes. She tried to cast the memory of Eric from her mind, but it was too late. She had opened the box and could hear his laughter ringing in her ears. She could feel the warmth of the day and all she had to do was turn around and step back into that memory and she could be there. Something inside her wept with the loss and it was only when Devan opened the door slightly to lean his arm out and hand his clothes to her that she managed to push the memory away. Steam rolled out around him. She took his clothes and he closed the door, neither of them speaking.

He obviously hadn’t realised he’d not emptied his pockets as some papers fell out. She bent to pick them up, but it was a photograph that caught her eye. It was faded and old and wasn’t very clear. Her eyes widened and she gasped. That was impossible. The photo was of her.

He played the evening over in his mind as he lay there in the dark, although he tried not to. Overanalysing things was never a good idea but something was wrong. He tried to force his mind to think of other things - past things, boring things. Anything that wasn’t Tara, but he couldn’t do it. His mind was set on drifting back to her, seeing her face, listening to the sound of her voice, remembering how it felt just to be in the same room as her. He was so nervous when he had gone down the stairs after his shower. He’d checked himself in the mirror. Dressed in clean clothes and looking halfway towards human, he had still felt strange. Maybe it was just that – the fact that he looked different.

He rolled over onto his side and stared out of the window. He hadn’t bothered to close the blinds. The night was clear; the rain had stopped and all the clouds had dissipated. The moon shone brightly in the silver-specked night sky, its light filtering in through the open slats. With the slightest movement, motes of dust sprang up and danced around in the moonbeam
.
He was restless and the night was never ending. He knew Tara was sleeping but he couldn’t follow suit. It had been so long since he had slept he wondered if it was possible to forget how to do it.

The bed was comfortable as he lay there. Still, unease curled up inside his chest, uninvited, filling him with lead. Pulling the blanket up around him, he groaned and rolled onto his back again. He stared up at the ceiling, his mind venturing back to Tara and the evening once more.

It had got so strained at one point, he even had to ask her if she was okay. He traced the events of the day to see what he had done but he could think of nothing. She had been
off
since he went for a shower. Perhaps she had changed her mind about him being there.

This wasn’t what he had expected at all. Actually, he didn’t know what he had expected. He was starving inside, and not for food. Longing crawled along his skin, leaving emptiness in its wake.

“Shit,” he muttered. He sat up, causing the blanket to pool around his waist, leaving the top of him exposed. “How am I supposed to do this?” He leant forward and rested his hands against his own chest, allowing himself to take in big breaths. He thought he was ready, but seeing her was making him fall apart. He fingered a scar absentmindedly as he sat there. It went diagonally from left to right down his chest.
Would any of it ever go away?

He didn’t know what he was doing. In that moment, as he sat in the dark, he felt more lost than ever. He pressed the balls of his hands against his eyes and rubbed to try to calm some of the chaos in his mind. Slipping out of bed, he didn’t bother to put anything on his feet before leaving the room. He paused in the hallway. She was in there, in that room, behind that door. The sound of her voice echoed through his mind. Shaking his head at his thoughts, he made himself walk down the stairs. He didn’t turn on any lights as he went through the house to the kitchen. He didn’t need to.

Everything in the kitchen had been put away. The countertops were empty, the sink devoid of dishes, and the light on the washing machine blinked to signal that it was finished. Tara had cleaned up before going to bed. Everything shone. Had he fallen asleep? He couldn’t remember. It didn’t feel like it. He opened one of the cupboards expecting there to be glasses, only to find baking ingredients, folded half bags of flour, caster sugar, tubs of cooking cherries and mixed peel, all out of date.

The glasses he found were in the next cabinet. He took one and filled it with tap water. He hadn’t realised the enormity of his thirst until the water hit his throat. It clawed inside as if it was trying to choke him. He chugged down the water until he was breathless, but even then his thirst wasn’t sated. He poured another and another until it all hit his stomach like a cold heavy ball. He retched, not getting time to catch his breath as the wave of nausea had him leaning over the sink. He vomited until not just the water was gone, but everything else he had consumed that day. He knew he shouldn’t have indulged at the time. When he swilled the
sink out, he wasn’t blind to see the streaks of red mixed in with the remnants from his stomach.

He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and examined the spittle there. It had red through it too. He cast his eyes out of the window and up to the sky. “God damn it, don’t I ever get a break?” He knew he was searching for answers that would never come. He coughed into his hand and feared for a moment that he would retch again. Even the palm of his hand was speckled in red.

He rinsed his hands under the running tap, cupped them and splashed water over his face. Pulling off a piece of kitchen towel, he dried his face. His thirst was still there, but he wasn’t going to risk another drink. Tossing the used paper towel in the rubbish bin, he went back upstairs.

He didn’t go to his room, though. He needed to, but the ache inside made him step to the left, towards Tara’s bedroom, instead of straight. Gripping the sides of the doorframe, he held on for all he had. He shut his eyes like an addict trying to get clean and resist the next
hit. He leant his head against the door and it slipped open. She hadn’t closed the door properly and he grabbed it before it swung all the way open.. Tara was lying in her bed, facing him, but she was sleeping. Her long hair was loose behind her on the pillow. She stirred and then brought her hand up to rub at her nose in sleep. His stomach clenched tight inside with fear that she might wake and find him there. He continued to stare at her, though, entranced. She was right there. He couldn’t believe it. Maybe if he fell asleep then, it would all vanish, or maybe he was asleep. He wanted to go to her so badly, to run his fingers through her silky hair, wipe away the frown that marred her forehead. He almost did. He wanted to wake her up to see her smile, hear her talk, even if it was just to tell him to get lost. He didn’t care.

He’d fought for her for five weeks. Five weeks that felt like forever. Each time she’d come to where he was, he’d tried to reach her. Each time they had stopped him and dragged him away. Held like a prisoner. Each time he had escaped once more and waited. He always found her. His fear grew each time, though. What if this
time was the last? She’d gone to the coffee shop, but he didn’t dare to. He feared that if he did, they’d take him away again - or her. It killed him to watch her. She always seemed to arrive at the same time every weekend. Then, she would sit with coffee and a book. He was pretty sure too that it was the same book. She didn’t seem to ever get farther than a couple of pages before she gave up and put it down. A couple of times he had almost gone in. He had thought about it. Imagined walking in, playing it cool, pretending that he hadn’t seen her or didn’t recognise her. One of the times he had entered the coffee shop, she had had her book up and was going through one of her attempts to read. He’d darted in, but then lost his nerve and ducked into the men’s room. They had found him anyway and dragged him back like before, but there was nothing they could do that was going to keep him from her. They could lock him up all they wanted; he would always find a way.

She stirred in her sleep again and he scrambled back out of view and stood as still as he could, listening for any sound or indication that she was getting out of bed or knew he was there. When none came, he crept
forwards, took one last look at her and then pulled the door back to how he had found it.

He went back to bed but he knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep. Instead, he lay there, waiting.

Tara bolted upright in bed, and for a few seconds, the disorientation of sleep remained and she didn’t know where she was or even what day it was. She heard the sound of the tractor in the field just out to the side of her house and slowly regained her bearings.

She listened for the other sounds of the house, but there were none. The clock on the night stand told her it was just after seven in the morning. She had slept right through the night; it had been a long time. She hadn’t been able to sleep really since Eric had passed. It was ironic in a way; sleep was the one place where she could find solace, yet it was the one thing that was denied every single night.

Being so early, she thought that it would be safe to dash to the bathroom. She got out of bed, wearing only bed shorts and a tank top and headed out of her room. Except, she didn’t make it that far. In her haste, she didn’t notice the spare bedroom door open or Devan
coming out. She crashed into him, planting herself firmly against a wall of muscle. He had to grab her to save her from falling, gripping her arms to balance her. They ended up holding each other in an awkward embrace. It had been a long time since she had been in a man’s arms, even if it was accidental. His body was warm and solid against hers. She could feel the rise and fall of his chest and when he looked down at her, backing away was the last thing she wanted to do. She was drawn into him and the entire world vanished.

“I didn’t hear you coming out.” The sound of her own breathlessness shocked her. Was that her voice?

“I was just going to use the bathroom,” he said. He ran a hand up along her arm and electricity shot through her, humming steadily between them. She wasn’t sure he had meant to do it or that he was even aware of having done it.

She shut her eyes and found her centre to ground herself. Using that, she let her arms drop from his waist and shuffled away from him. “You’re my guest, you use the bathroom first”, she blurted, motioning to
the bathroom nervously. She hurried back to her room, closing the door firmly behind her before collapsing against it with a shaky sigh.

Her mind drifted to the picture she had found. She hadn’t asked him about it. She had just put it back with his things and then put them on the table for him to pick up when he was done. He had to have wondered if she had looked? She tried to bring to mind the image on the photograph. Perhaps it hadn’t been her and she was simply overreacting. She thought about it. If she’d had a photograph of him in her pocket and there was a risk he’d seen it, she’d be so upset and edgy now that it would be obvious. Yet, his demeanour hadn’t changed at all. There was no sign of worry or concern on his face whatsoever. He had merely thanked her when he picked them up. And besides, the picture wasn’t clear. It might not have been her at all. She had been the one stalking him, right? Not the other way around. She scolded herself for being so paranoid. It had been her who had practically dragged him into her car and home. The woman in the photo was simply someone who resembled her. What a ridiculous notion to have even
considered any other option. Her mind was just working overtime - as usual.