“Can you please not mention the bullets?” My eyes well up bringing forth my first sign of tears. I’ve been wondering when those would make an appearance. Quite frankly I’ve handled this better than most people would, in my opinion, so I’m allowed a small breakdown and a few tears.
“Hey, it’s okay.” Bennett wraps his arm around my shoulders and pulls me closer. “He’s going to be okay.”
“No, he isn’t.” There was a man shot in my bakery and he lost buckets of blood on my floor. You don’t have to be an ER nurse or have combat training to know his odds aren’t good. I wipe away a tear before it falls.
Bennett sighs. “Pearl stayed at the bakery to make sure everything was okay and talk to the police, but they will probably ask you questions too.”
The bakery and police questions are the least of my concerns. “Is Pearl okay?” A fresh wave of guilt washes over me when I realize I hadn’t stopped to think of her all.
The spunky older woman is oftentimes the only customer Tabitha and I have in the early afternoon hours after the midday rush. It gives us time to chat and get to know one another. The woman has more stories than a library and, while I’m not sure all of them are true, she’s one of my favorite people in this new city. The last few weeks have made her a surrogate grandma.
Bennett laughs and it echoes off the waiting room walls, the ill-timed sound something they likely rarely hear. “You should see her. That old lady is good in a crisis. She’s telling everyone what to do.”
He doesn’t make me feel a bit better. Pearl is out there somewhere taking control of the situation while I’m in a hospital waiting room crying, which is doing no one any good. “I’m sorry about crying.” I wipe under my eyes with the backs of my hands.
“Anessa, after what happened you’re allowed to cry.” He squeezes me tighter.
“No one else is crying,” I hiccup over the words in between sobs.
“I have combat experience and a penis. As for Pearl, I have no evidence, but that woman has seen shit in her day.” He takes one of my hands in his. “Hippies. You never know.”
Bennett stands from the chair and tugs on the hands he has looped together with his. “Come on.”
“Where are we going?” I ask but allow him to pull me from the chair before he answers. I don’t have the strength to resist.
“You need to wash your hands.” He says it is so matter-of-factly I don’t question further. I must look absolutely horrible, but I’ve not allowed my eyes to take in anything besides my dirty apron. It’s nice to give him my trust and let him handle the situation. This time.
Bennett practically carries me through the waiting room. I lean all my weight against his broad shoulders and let my feet shuffle me past the dirty carpet on to the hospital lobby tile flooring.
“Sir, your car.” A short hospital employee stands from her spot behind the dark wooden information desk.
Bennett doesn’t stop or even look in her direction. “Tow it.” We walk toward a heavy wooden door with a blue sign attached to the front, the person in pants not a dress. “Get me some towels,” he barks back at the receptionist.
Bennett stretches a long arm, pushing open the door so our steps don’t slow. He keeps me tucked next to him until we stop in front of a long row of urinals to face the sinks directly across the room.
“This is the men’s bathroom,” I whisper leaning into him and catching a whiff of his spicy cologne.
He doesn’t pay a second of attention to my statement but turns both handles of the sink, adjusting the water temperature.
“Bennett, I can’t be in here.”
He gently guides my hands under the flow of water. “See what happens to the first guy who says something.”
There’s a few minutes of peace as I rub my hands together under the warm water while Bennett takes care of me. He peels the apron away from my body and rubs soap over my hands. The water turns from blood red to clear again as the men’s bathroom door opens. The small hospital employee peeks in, passing over two large towels to Bennett.
“Get me a pair of scrubs too.” His gruffness doesn’t allow room for questions.
“What size?”
“What size does she look?”
The door closes and Bennett signals to keep rubbing my palms together even though the water is clear. “I don’t need scrubs.”
“Yeah, babe, you do,” he says shutting off the water and wrapping my hands in one of the towels to dry them.
My crying has slowly decreased over the last few minutes and I take my first few breaths without gasping for air as he pats my fingers dry. The door to the bathroom opens again and Bennett grabs a light blue pair of scrub pants.
“Do you need my help or do you think you can change yourself?” he asks, not handing over the pants.
