Already Gone - By John Rector Page 0,3

sure to have the two of you down for a visit. You can see for yourself.”

No one says anything else until we get to Doug’s car.

“I’ll talk to Anne Carlson about rescheduling the meeting,” Doug says. “She won’t mind, considering the situation.”

“I don’t want to reschedule.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t want everyone making a big deal out of this.”

“It is a big deal,” Diane says. “Take some time before you jump back into things.”

“I don’t need time off. I want to move on. As far as I’m concerned, this never happened.”

“But it did happen. You can’t just pretend it didn’t.”

“I’m not pretending, but I’m not going to let it stop my life either.” I look at Doug. “I appreciate it, but I’ll be fine.”

“Your call.” Doug unlocks the car door and gets inside. “If you change your mind, let me know. Anne Carlson and I go way back. She’ll understand.”

I tell him I will.

Diane and I step back and watch him pull out of the hospital parking lot and drive away. We walk to our car, and when we get there, I notice she’s crying.

“You okay?”

She nods and fakes a smile. “I just feel so bad for you. You didn’t deserve this.”

“It could’ve been a lot worse.”

This doesn’t make her feel better, but I can’t think of anything else to say that might, so I put my good arm around her shoulder and pull her close. She leans into me until the tears stop, and then we get in the car and drive home in silence.

Halfway there, I feel my hand start to pulse under the bandage, and I realize the morphine is wearing off. The pain is still far away, but I know it won’t be for long.

I take it as a warning.

Things are about to get worse.

– 3 –

The package arrives with the morning mail.

It’s small, about the size of a coffee can, and covered in packing tape. I pick it up off the porch and set it on the kitchen counter.

“Another gift?” Diane asks. “Who’s it from?”

“No idea.” I hold it up and turn it from side to side. We’ve been getting a few late gifts since the wedding, but this one’s different. There’s no card and no return address, just our last name written on the plain white wrapping. “How the hell am I supposed to open it?”

Diane takes out a pair of scissors from one of the drawers and says, “Let me try.”

“I can do it.”

She looks at my bandaged hand and pulls the scissors away. “You should let me. It’ll be easier if I—”

“I’m not a goddamn child, Diane. I can do it.” My voice comes out harsher than I’d intended, and I stop myself. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…”

This isn’t the first time I’ve snapped at her in the past few days. Since the attack, all I’ve done is lie around the house and work my way through the bottle of Vicodin they gave me at the hospital. The pills help with the pain, but they don’t do a thing for the constant itch grinding up from the spot where my finger used to be.

It makes it tough to stay in a good mood.

Diane says she understands, but that doesn’t make me feel good about it.

“I am sorry,” I say.

Diane sets the scissors on the counter and walks out of the kitchen and into the living room, away from me.

I don’t blame her.

I look down at the scissors, then at the bandage on my hand. I feel the anger building in my chest, and I push it away the best I can.

It’s getting harder to do each time.

When I think I have it under control, I pick up the scissors and set them on top of the package, then go to the closet by the front door and grab my coat.

Diane comes around the corner. “Are you leaving?”

“Going for a walk,” I say. “I need to get out of the house for a while, get some fresh air, clear my head.”

She steps closer and puts her hand on my arm, then leans in and kisses me, soft. When she pulls away, her eyes never leave mine, and as always, I lose myself a little inside them.

“Don’t beat yourself up,” she says. “With all that’s happened, everything you’re feeling is completely natural.”

I nod, but I don’t buy into the “victim’s trauma” theory, at least not in my case. All I want to do is move on, go back to the way things were before. Sometimes I