“Sometimes I wonder how I survived before you came along,” he says with a small chuckle as he pushes the serving dish toward me. “What’d you do today?”
I hate when he asks me this. “Same old.”
He doesn’t pry. He knows. Before he moved in, we discussed my circumstances. I thought it would be best to answer any questions he might have before he so much as signed anything. It isn’t normal for a thirty-year-old woman to be living in a massive house all by herself, spending her days doing a whole lot of nothing but staring out windows and watching the comings and goings of the neighborhood like it’s her job.
Fortunately one of Niall’s best traits is his compassion, and he wholeheartedly understood my plight, even offering to make referrals and recommendations, as if he instantly wanted to be a part of my care and recovery.
In that regard, I consider myself lucky.
Niall and I exchange friendly glances as we chew. There’s an unspoken understanding I have with him that I’ve never had with anyone else, and while our friendship might be young and born of convenience, in a lot of ways I feel as though I’ve known him my entire life.
I wish he could have known me before—when I had a robust social life, a phone that never stopped chiming and buzzing morning, noon, and night, an enviable vacation schedule, a whole myriad of interesting things to talk about, and a perpetual smile on my face.
I’m convinced somewhere, deep down, that version of me is still in there. I’m still working on digging her out from beneath the pile of psychological rubble and emotional ash. I haven’t given up—it’s just taking longer than I expected.
We finish the rest of our dinner in mutual silence. He can’t tell me too much about his day due to patient confidentiality, so usually whenever we do talk, there’s a lot of generalizing, a lot of inside jokes between him and the other doctors that I politely laugh along at, but tonight we enjoy the close of the day with full bellies, status quo contentment, and quietude.
Niall is finished first, and he carries his plate to the kitchen sink. A second later, I hear the water running, and by the time I join him with my dirty dishes, I see he’s filled half of the sink with warm, soapy water. His long arms are covered in rubber gloves, and he dunks a sponge under the bubbled surface before grabbing another plate.
“You don’t have to do that,” I say.
It’s the same old song and dance. Anytime I cook, he insists on cleaning, and I pretend like he doesn’t have to despite the fact that I’m beyond grateful.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he says.
I watch the gifted hands that save lives scrub pots and pans and fork tines, the muscles of his strong shoulders flexing as he moves about.
A moment later, I grab a dry rag from a drawer and begin wiping down the clean dishes before putting them away.
We make a good team, Niall and I.
When we’re finished, he slips the gloves off and drapes them side by side next to the sink, nice and neat.
“Going to head up now,” he says, hands on his narrow hips. I glance at the clock on the microwave. It’s still early, but I bury my disappointment behind a pleasant mask. “I’ll be in my study if you need me.”
A couple of months ago, Niall asked if he could convert one of the spare bedrooms upstairs into a study, and I watched as he filled the room with a cognac leather chesterfield sofa, a bookcase filled with classics and medical textbooks, and a mahogany desk topped with one of those green banker’s lamps.
I’ve told him time and again that he’s more than welcome to join me in the back parlor for TV in the evenings, that he’s not obligated to remain solely on the second floor when he’s home, but he says this is how he unwinds after a long day: he retreats to his study, shuts the door, and does his own thing.
“Good night,” I tell him, watching him disappear from view.
Trekking to my room, I change into gray flannel pajama pants and a jersey-soft T-shirt before returning to the kitchen to make my nightly cup of chamomile lavender tea and take my three milligrams of melatonin.
Most nights, I have to chase sleep with a butterfly net. I can’t do the strong stuff—I’ve lost entire days with some of the prescription sleep medications, and the over-the-counter options always leave me groggy the next day. This combination is the only thing I’ve found that’s equal parts gentle and effective, and the majority of the time it keeps the night terrors at bay.
After carrying my teakettle to the sink, I position the top below the waterspout and twist the hot water knob, losing myself in a little reverie as I wait for it to fill. In my mind’s eye, I’m somewhere else. Saint Thomas, to be specific. Two years ago, my girlfriends and I did an eight-day trip filled with sun, sand, and bright little umbrella drinks in oversized cocktail glasses.
It’s funny. We were so close then, the four of us. But ever since the assault, they’ve faded from my life without so much as an explanation.
That seems to be a theme in my life . . . people leaving without explanation.
Before my friends, it was my mother. One day we were at the park, enjoying melting ice-cream cones. The next day she was dropping me off at my grandparents’ house with a promise to return.
She never did come back.
I remove my thoughts from the past and bring myself to the present, realizing my kettle is spilling over. I remove it from the stream before glancing up at the window above the faucet. I fully expect to be greeted with my own reflection, only there’s a tall figure standing behind me.
Shrieking, I drop the heavy kettle into the sink and jerk back. Two arms wrap around me, followed by a shushing in my ear.
“It’s just me,” Niall says.
His warmth envelops me for another moment longer before he lets me go.
I press a palm against my fluttering chest. “I didn’t hear you coming.”
“I’m so sorry.” His arms lift at his sides. “Guess I’m used to being a quiet walker at work. You okay?”
Lines spread across his forehead, and he places a hand on my shoulder. He feels awful for scaring me, I can tell.
“Yeah, yeah.” I nod before turning back to the pool of spilled water on my counter.
“Let me get that.” He moves quickly, wiping up the mess and taking the kettle to the stove. The man lives—literally lives—to take care of people. “You have a seat in the back parlor. I’ll bring you your tea in a minute.”
I let him do his thing because I don’t want to be one of those annoying, overly polite people. In the back parlor, I grab the TV remote and tune in to some evening news program, hoping to subtly show off my intellectual side even though I’d very much love to partake in some mindless housewives’ reality show right about now.
I’m all about mental escape these days.
A few minutes later, Niall is standing in the doorway of the back parlor, a rose-print china teacup resting on a saucer in his firm hands.
“And here you are.” He places it on the coffee table before me.
“You’re the best.” I gather my throw blanket and situate it over my legs. “You want to hang out for a bit? I’m just watching this special about climate change. Fascinating stuff.”
I’m lying, which I don’t normally make a habit of, but sometimes I crave his company. Anyone’s company, really. Loneliness has become a residual side effect since my attack. And occasionally desperation is a side effect of that loneliness.