Tears gathered in her eyes. She swayed, her knees weakening, but he brought her to him with one hard yank just as they gave way. She crumpled over his lap. He lifted her, turned her in his arms with an effort that strained his back, because she was like a drunk, dead weight. He was aware of other hands helping him to position her, steadying him in the chair, but his full attention remained on her.
Her eyes held all the ancient sorrows of the world, from the very first time one soul had dealt pain to another. But he saw more, too. A flicker, as if she was trying to order things in her mind, get a grip. Giving her that breathing space was important. So were signs of normalcy.
He stroked her hair away from her face, reminding her of the brushing. She’d liked it, had leaned into it. She’d responded to it, physically and emotionally.
He kept doing that until he saw her remember that, use it to bring herself back, one painstaking thought at a time, a chain she was forming and linking together in her mind, like that bracelet he’d made for her. Watching that struggle happen, seeing how agonizingly hard it was for her, reminded him of another quote his mother used.
Do not lose heart. Though our outer self is wasting away, our inner self is being renewed day by day.
She’d used that quote to help him. At the time, he hadn’t been that appreciative, grieving the loss of half his body. His inner strength hadn’t meant shit to him. However, he could give Daralyn that quote, without the wasting away bit. As he spoke the words, her hands were on his chest, fingers twitching. Her head was against his shoulder, so he pressed his face to her forehead, then kissed it. “I’m here,” he said quietly. “And you’re amazing and wonderful. Don’t lose heart.”
His own was breaking. He might not be the right person for her, but fuck, he didn’t know who was. So he’d make himself a vow, here and now and always, to stand by her, help her find what she needed. Give her whatever she needed, even if ultimately it meant she left him behind in the dust.
He’d taken offense when he’d thought his mother had implied he was a waystation. But truth? If that was what he ended up being, and he could help her heal enough that she found a lasting happiness, that was what he’d do.
Then he’d just push himself in front of a truck and die. If not happy, he’d at least be certain he’d done something worth doing.
She’d settled, simply resting in his arms, quiet. Her eyes had closed. Her body was doing little convulsive jerks from nerves, but her legs had relaxed against the hold of his arm around them.
His tunnel vision receded enough for him to realize that Thomas was at his elbow. Marcus was squatting by Rory’s feet, his hand resting on Daralyn’s back, adding to Rory’s strength. When Rory looked into Marcus’s face, he was startled to see something there he’d never seen before.
Nerves.
“I’m sorry, Rory,” he said. “I told you to forge ahead. Maybe that wasn’t the right thing.”
For the past few days, a theory about Daralyn’s state of mind had been playing in Rory’s mind like a shy kid lurking in the shadows, afraid of being exposed to ridicule if it made itself known. But seeing the man who never doubted himself apologizing in the face of Daralyn’s chaotic response clicked something into place.
Rory knew her. He stood in a spot in her soul they hadn’t visited. His theory was right. Daralyn herself had given him the confirmation, with that biblical quote.
Those first couple weeks after his accident, there’d been some hope, that when the swelling went down, he’d get more mobility back. Even the possibility of walking again. Then they’d known for sure. There was no going back, no recovery. No walking again, even with braces. Not unless some major breakthrough happened in technology or spinal surgery.
Hearing that it wasn't a matter of being determined enough, willing to do enough exercises, that this was permanent, had been one of the hardest things in his life to hear. It was then he’d begun to realize the full scope of all he’d lost. He’d had to set fire to the house that was his life to rise from the ashes, create something new.
This had been that moment for her. That was why his gut refused to give in to his heart, let him think he’d fucked up. The surfeit of pleasure, of bliss in a lover’s arms, ironically a good moment pointed toward the future, not the past, had brought the past flooding in. A reminder of all that had been lost, and taken from her. But also an indication of what possibilities lay ahead.
Grief was an ending, right before the door to the beginning. So, no. He wasn’t going to do her the disservice of beating himself up, thinking he’d pushed her the wrong way, triggered something irreparable. He wasn’t going to push her back into that box because of his own guilt.
He held her closer. She wasn’t violent anymore, though she kept beating a light tattoo against his shoulder with her closed fist. Her head remained on the opposite shoulder, seeming like it was too heavy for her to hold it up. When he adjusted to obtain a better look at her face, tears were running down it like raindrops on glass, smooth and easy. Going the way of gravity, soaking into the earth of the past, but not salting it against the future. Just the opposite. He had to believe that.
And just like his family had for him, he had to believe it for her, too, no matter how dark and lost she felt right now.
He met Marcus’s anguished look, and briefly moved his own hand to touch his brother-in-law’s on Daralyn’s back, a reassurance. Surprise passed through Marcus’s gaze, reflected in Thomas’s when they exchanged a look.
“It’s okay,” Rory murmured. “Everything’s all right. Sometimes the world just makes you so mad, you have to lose it, and the closest thing to tear apart is yourself.”
Thomas nodded, covering Marcus’s hand so they all three had their hands on her, reassuring her. “Thanks for being here,” Rory said.
Out of all of it, that was the hardest thing for him to say, since he wanted to always be the first one to protect her. But they’d had his back, as well as hers, and that was more important.
He glanced back across the driveway and yard to her house. Since the porch light next to the still-open door was on, he’d be chasing moths out of the house for the rest of the night. “If one of you can carry her over there, let’s get her to bed.”
He hated having to relinquish her, but he’d need both hands to cross the yard. He wouldn’t let pride get her dumped on the ground.
“I’m okay,” Daralyn said unexpectedly. She pushed slowly out of their hold and stood, swaying. Her fingers clung to his briefly, before her hand slipped away. She didn’t look at any of them. Instead she tucked the robe around her, crossed her arms over her body and moved back toward the house at a tentative walk, her head down.
Rory didn’t want to be far behind her, but he shot Thomas and Marcus an acknowledging glance. “I’m going to put her to bed, stay with her. She’ll be all right. We’re all right.”
Thomas brushed a hand over Rory’s shoulder, brotherly affection. “Check yourself over good. You’ve got some scratches on your arms.”
Shit. The last thing he wanted tonight was an injury to his legs that would require tending. Hopefully he hadn’t hit anything on his topple from the chair.
“I hear you, Mom,” he said, amiable about it. “Stop looking so worried.”