Feeling around the glass banister, I swayed to another door.
I found Woodrow on a four-poster bed, his eyes closed, the voile curtains blowing in the breeze from the open balcony doors. I could see from here, the bunch of daisies out there, blowing in the wind.
Bushy Tail was cuddled atop Woodrow’s jeans, resting somewhere near the waistband, arms stretched out and doing paddy-paws on Woodrow’s naked stomach.
My eyes stalled on a part of Woodrow’s body. He sunk in below his ribs, the lack of a full meal showing.
The strain on his face told me sleep didn't come easy, but his little companion, constantly making noise by purring and meowing, told me the slumber was deep.
I pulled back the blankets, and tucked them up to my chest.
I didn't bother to look around the room for pajamas. My dress was comfortable enough to sleep in, and I was too tired for a clothing hunt. Even if it wouldn’t have been much of a hunt.
Two doors were opposite me, one on each side of a giant TV that was taking up most of the wall. One door was open, revealing hints of the ensuite bathroom beyond. The other was surely a walk-in closet, and even as the excitement of that realization dawned on me, I stayed in bed.
I snuggled down on my side, and watched the rise and fall of Woodrow's chest, trying to read the inked words that covered him. But the dark room didn’t allow that.
But it did allow for peace, knowing that we were here. . . together. Safe.
I reached for his hand, cold at his side, and I covered it with my warmth. I closed my eyes, knowing I wouldn't have to daydream tonight.
Because some days, reality was better.
I woke with a full bladder that couldn't be ignored, and found myself rushing from the empty bed to theensuite.
After the longest pee in history—serves me right for not going before bed—I washed my hands and wiped them on a small hand towel. I looked at the room behind me in the mirror. The shower glass wasn't steamed, the blush-colored bath mat wasn't wet. I realized Woodrow hadn't taken the time to shower, not unless he did it in another room not to wake me.
My eyes moved from the room to my face. My skin was dryer than usual, making my scars ache as I yawned.
I opened the mirrored cabinet in search of some moisturizer. I flicked through some vitamins and day and night creams—something, I'd come back to if I had no other options.
I closed the cabinet and dropped to my knees, the white tiles cold on my skin as my legs pressed against them.
I opened up the doors to a larger cabinet beneath the sink to find all sorts filling the space. A dermatologist’s paradise. I pulled at a toiletry bag, pink in color and made up for me, filled with women's essentials, and by doing that, I knocked over the male counterpart.
Ignoring it for a second, I rummaged through the little bag of goodies, finding exactly what I was looking for, and placing it to the side before I cleared up Woodrow's stuff.
Woodrow’s hair comb, which I picked up first made my hands sticky, and I needed to wipe off the gel residue. I didn't want to ruin the dress I was still wearing from yesterday, so I pulled at a facecloth wedged down the side of his plump blue bag, knowing it could be easily washed.
Something else fell to the floor. A small bottle of pills was rolling, only stopped by the threshold spacer, which rolled them back to me.
The oval pills rattled around in their plastic cage as I picked them up. I struggled with the long name, as I had once before. I recognized it from my childhood, though I hadn't, in all these years, learned how to pronounce it.
The pills were addressed to Woodrow, but flashbacks of my mother flooded my memory.
“Come on, baby. Mommy needs some rest.”
Dad guided me from my mother's bed, not bothering to straighten out the blankets where I'd been sitting, because as soon as he took me to the door andclosed it, he'd be back, sitting in my spot, his hand in hers.
Only then would he let the tears shed.
His big blue eyes were always glossy these days.
His mom, Grams, was standing in the doorway; she had teary eyes, too. Her hand was stretched out to me, and I reached for it, as my dad's palm flattened to my small back and pushed me forward.
“Will she be okay?” I asked, pulling the tears from Grams' eyes.
Dad didn't answer. Grams didn’t answer. The silence around us was only interrupted by my mother’s struggle to breathe.
