Let Him Cry Pt. 01

You should be warned: if you're looking for a quick hit of either romance or sex, this is rather long, about 75,000 words. It travels at a non-blistering pace partly because of the subject matter -- at least in the beginning chapters -- and simply because I wanted to tell a story that took its time more than a short story typically does.

If that's not an obstacle, it's in four parts, but everything's written, so you won't have long waits in between them.

I talk a little about what brought on this tale at the very end, but for now, I'll just say that, despite the category, this isn't really a pure romance. It's more a story about a man's journey that happens to contain a romance as a part of it. He's a little flawed because I like flawed characters, and he has some changes to make. I do promise you, however, that there is a romance if you hang around.

—C

She sits alone by a lamp post
Tryin' to find a thought that's escaped her mind.

It used to be one of my favorite songs. I was mesmerized the first time I heard Darius Rucker sing it at a concert. Every cover, from some band belting it out on the top floor of Tootsie's Orchid Lounge to that guy on The Voice, got right to me. I'd sing along with the refrain, feeling the vicarious sadness, comforted by knowing that the little problems in my life weren't anywhere near as bad as his.

I used to think that way. Once.

Now, all it did was remind me of someone. It was one of Olivia's favorite tunes, but she wasn't going to "Shh!" me and reach over to turn up the volume when it came on the radio anymore. She couldn't. She was dead.

As I stood there in the twilight of a summer day and tried not to listen to the melody coming from the bar behind me, I realized that I was too. At least, in any way that mattered. Numb to everything except reminders; those I avoided.

I reached into the bag I was carrying, unscrewed the top on the mickey of bourbon, and took a long swallow, waiting for the familiar fogging. My car, sitting at the curb, caught my eye. I thought about what it meant: a comfortable ride back to a comfortable condo to sit in a comfortable chair eating some comfort food prepared by one of the women in the building who thought I needed comforting.

Suddenly, I didn't want any of it. I didn't want my car. I didn't want my condo. I didn't want my privileged life here in the burbs. I absolutely didn't want comforting. What I did want disappeared in Florida. The only other thing that seemed remotely ... bearable ... was drunken oblivion some place where no one could speak English and ask me what my story was.

On an impulse, I held down the button on the fob for the necessary three seconds and watched all the windows slide down. I tossed it onto the passenger seat and turned away. I didn't need a car. It would make someone else happy, even if only for a fast bit of cash at a chop shop.

I started walking. South, maybe. I didn't pay attention. I didn't know where I was going. A guy panhandling on the street got my watch when he asked me for the time. At least, I thought that's what he said -- no one asks for a "dime" anymore, do they?

I didn't really notice the people who stepped out of my way, perhaps after seeing my face, or perhaps after seeing me nip at the bottle in the brown bag. I crossed block after block not knowing or caring where I was. If traffic blocked me, I just turned and went in a new direction.

Eventually, a whining intruded itself into my consciousness.

"But, I'm huuuuungry."

I looked over. A young boy, maybe eight years old, was pouting on the end of a bench. Sitting next to him was a woman, her face largely obscured by a hoodie, holding a younger girl on her lap.

"There are some cookies in the bag. You can have a couple. Just settle down."

She was surrounded by four shopping bags, each filled to the brim and not with stuff fresh from the store. Even for someone half-baked, their situation was obvious. I pulled my wallet out of my pocket and tossed the contents -- the $200 from the ATM, minus the fifteen bucks or whatever the whiskey had cost me -- into her lap. She looked up at me, and I saw the surprise on her face, followed by anger. "I don't want your charity—"

I gestured wildly with the brown paper bag, causing her to pull back and put a hand in front of her children. "I'm the one who doesn't want it! You can't where there's no English, and the plane uses plastic." It wasn't even remotely coherent, but a lot of bourbon does that. "It's obvious it could do some good," I muttered.

With that, I turned away and walked across the street. At least, I started to. I heard the squeal of brakes, far too close. The last thought I had before I felt the back of my head explode was: Pretty stupid way to die, Matt.

... There were bright lights, some people talking, then blankness. It happened again. This time I realized that people were asking me questions. I vaguely realized the one talking was a doctor. I tried to make sense of what he was saying and answer. My head hurt. I faded out.

... I came to with the grandmother of all headaches.

"Hello again, Mr. Brennan. The doctor should be in shortly to talk to you."

I was able to figure out "nurse" from what she had on, but I must have looked blank otherwise.

"Are you having trouble remembering yesterday?"

I started to nod my head and found out that that was a seriously bad mistake. "Yes," I croaked.

She handed me a small paper cup of water. "Wet your mouth. Well, you were brought in as a case of John Doe versus bus. The good news is that the driver was able to swerve enough that he didn't run over you. The bad news is that the mirror of the bus caught your head. The doctor will give you the details, but you've sustained a concussion, and we have you under observation."

"If I was a John Doe, how do you know my name?"

There was a brief flicker of amusement across her face. "A woman came in with your wallet." I started to look around, but she shook her head. "She's not here and won't turn it over to anyone but you. She says she doesn't trust anyone." She seemed more amused than offended by that. "She was gracious enough to let us copy your insurance card."

She rearranged my blanket and moved my water slightly closer. "You have a catheter in" -- I suddenly became aware of that unpleasant sensation to add to my aching head and neck -- "so don't try to stand up. Press the call button if you need something."

An hour later, the doctor came in. The long and short of it was that I was lucky to be alive due to the bus driver's reflexes, had a large number of stitches in my scalp but miraculously no fractures, lots of soft tissue trauma in the neck and shoulders, bruising at various places about the rest of my body, and a doozy of a concussion.

"You can expect some side effects including dizziness and some coordination problems. The memory loss isn't unexpected. All of those should be temporary. You'll probably want to sleep a fair amount. Alcohol and recreational drugs are out. Physical activity other than light walking is out for a week, probably two.

"We're going to keep you overnight for observation but, unfortunately, not much beyond that due to insurance guidelines. However, in cases like yours, I think having someone monitor you for a couple of days is a good idea. Is there someone at home who could keep an eye on things?"

I suppressed the stab that brought and answered, "No, I live alone."

He nodded and said, "Well, I know it's a bit of an intrusion, but I recommend you give it some thought for a couple of days even if you have to pay for it out of pocket. Concussions can be tricky things, especially the balance issue." I told him I'd think about it, and he finished with some information about follow-ups.

That afternoon, I got my wallet back. Right as visiting hours started, a woman in sweatpants and a hoodie stuck her head in the room. It was hard to tell her age; she could have been anywhere from thirty to a decade older.

"This is yours," she said, holding out my wallet. I took it from her outstretched hand as she continued, "You were holding it when you got hit. I picked it up 'cause I knew someone would clip it."

I wasn't sure what to say beyond, "Thank you. I guess you know my name. What's yours?"

"Tatyanna Rogers."

"Thank you, Tatyanna."

I opened the wallet. "It's all there!" she said quickly.

"Actually, it's more than all there. I vaguely remember giving you this," I said, pulling out the cash.

"And I said I didn't want your charity," she shot back with a frown. "I gotta bounce. My kids are waiting in the hall."

"You can bring them in."

She shook her head. "No. I gotta bounce."

"Wait, one sec." I pulled a business card out of the wallet. "I owe you. Call me at the cell number on this if you ever need to collect on that."

She was pretty much what I expected when I heard the name Caitlyn McCarthy: red hair, fair skin, blue eyes, freckles, my age or thereabouts ... like my Brennan-side grandmother fifty years younger. Although, you wouldn't know that by looking at me, all sandy hair and skin that actually tans. My blue eyes were about the only thing I got from my dad's side.

"Ms. McCarthy?" I'm not sure why there was a questioning note in my voice when I opened the door. Who else would be standing there, wearing pale green scrubs and wheeling an overnight bag?

When I'd called the agency the hospital suggested, they'd asked whether I wanted a series of shift workers to sit in or, if I had a spare bedroom, a single full-timer for the two days. I opted for the latter since it meant fewer people I had to meet. I hadn't planned on making the call, but a couple of almost-falls, starting with getting out of the Uber -- I'd thought the cane was just a hospital placebo -- changed my mind. Now, faced with a stranger in my home, I wasn't so certain about my decision.

"Caitlyn, please. And I'd rather call you Matthew unless you object. I find it's easier on a first-name basis."

Somewhat disconcerted, I took her outstretched hand automatically. "I prefer Matt."

I started to let go immediately, as had become my habit, but she ignored my effort and guided my hand toward her right, her left hand settling on my upper arm to turn me enough that she could peer up at the side of my head. "There's a spot of blood. Let's get you seated, and I'll have a look."

A short while later, I had a new bandage and was holding a glass of water as she handed me some pills. "You know no aspirin, right?"

"Yeah."

"Okay, where do I sleep?"

She came out from unpacking her stuff and settled into a chair by the window with an iPad. "You're good?" she asked. She paused a moment to see if I was going to respond with more than the fractional nod. "Go ahead with whatever you would normally do. I'm fine. If you need anything, just ask."

I fidgeted around, awkward with the silent presence across the room. I reached for the remote but set it down again without turning on the TV. It was too early for a game to be on, and daytime television held zero appeal for me. The second time she glanced at me, I got up and went into the kitchen. I wasn't hungry but I could straighten things up. The problem was, I had barely been home since the last time I cleaned the kitchen.

"I need to get some air. I'm going downstairs."

She nodded approvingly as she saw me gather up the cane. "Don't try to do too much right away. Maybe just once around the courtyard. Use the elevator to get down, not the stairs. I'll check on you in a few if you're not back."

I tried to keep my face impassive at the instructions -- I had to live with this woman for the next forty-eight hours -- but I felt the stab up the right side of my head as my jaw muscles tightened. I took the elevator because the previous evening had made me cautious about the stairs. However, in a fit of rebellion, I didn't stop at one circuit. I was halfway around a second time when a wobble in my balance forced me to catch myself abruptly on the cane. I was sweating with pain and unsteady on my feet when I saw her coming out into the courtyard. If she'd smirked, our business relationship would have ended right then and there.

"Sit down on the bench here," she said calmly. She sat down at the other end. "When I was twenty, I injured a ligament in my knee playing field hockey. I didn't pay much attention to the people who told me the joint would be unstable until it healed. The pain faded and, since I was indestructible like everyone that age" -- she smiled, inviting me to find our younger selves humorous -- "I went out and played tennis. Whamo! I ended up in a faceplant and got this." She pointed to a minuscule scar on her temple.

"And the point is that I should listen to you?"

"And the point is that it's human nature for the mind to write checks the body can't cash. Give it a day or two, Matt. You'll be amazed at how quickly things improve."

For the last several months, my evenings had consisted of one of two things. Either one of the Comfort Corps -- I called them that in my mind -- would come by bearing food, "just looking in to see how you're doing," or I'd have a few nips of bourbon and watch old movies on Netflix until I fell asleep. I was dozing in the chair when I heard the knock. I guess it was a Comfort Corps night. While I was trying to decide if I had the energy to get up and answer, I heard snippets of a quiet conversation, the other side muffled out in the hall.

I heard the door close, and Caitlyn came back alone.

"Oh," Caitlyn said when she returned to the room, "I thought you were asleep. I asked them to come back tomorrow or the next day."

"Who was it?"

"They didn't say, and I didn't ask."

"And here I thought this building didn't have a doorman." Her eyebrows went up at the cantankerous tone of my voice.

It was another restless night trying not to bump my head, murmuring, "I'm fine," when the door opened quietly several times.

The next day was a long, agonizing repeat. I decided on a walk to get away. Caitlyn weighed in with, "A short walk won't hurt, but I suggest you stop as soon as you feel the first discomfort. Don't wait until it really hurts." My expression must have indicated my feelings about that because she added, "I'm not trying to nanny you. You're injured and I'm a nurse. Do what you want, but I'm just trying to help."

That was reasonable when I thought about it fairly. I followed her recommendation, making sure I didn't walk far enough to require rescue, exasperated by the figure that appeared in the window overlooking the courtyard several times.

I spent the rest of the afternoon half-drowsing, idly choosing movies from the Recommended For You list and rejecting them after a few minutes. Finally, I flipped over to the Classics section and settled in to watch Inherit the Wind. I loved the classics -- especially, these days, those without a romance in them.

"You know the doctor suggested you stay away from anything requiring focused concentration?"

I flipped the screen off rather than argue.

By dinner time, I was antsy and moved into the kitchen to figure out something. Before I could do more than peer into the refrigerator, the doorbell rang.

"Angela, Matt," I said, trying to summon a semblance of affability.

"We heard you were hurt, Mattoo." There it was. Her husband grinned behind her. Angela was a couple of years younger than I was chronologically, but sometimes I wondered about emotionally. Witness the fact that she still found it amusing that her husband and I shared a first name, and "Matt Two" had become "Mattoo". She laid her hand on my arm and peered at my bandages, making little clucking sounds of distress. I resisted the urge to squirm away.

Matt stepped forward and swept up his wife, the pressure of his arm around her shoulders pulling her hand from me, drawing her past, and murmuring, "I'm sure it's not as bad as it looks." He was older, quieter, obviously smitten with the prom queen he had married. They were good people, and in another time, I had liked them a lot. Now, though, she thought it important to make sure I was okay on a regular basis, far too regular for my desire not to think about certain things.

He held out bags to me. "We brought some dinner in case you weren't up to it."

Ten minutes later, the four of us were sitting around the table eating Chinese takeout. Caitlyn had tried to beg off with, "I'm just here to keep an eye on you," but I wasn't having any of that. Maybe Angela and Matt will focus on the stranger instead of me, I thought. Things went well for about ten minutes.

"You're coming to our cookout, right?" Angela asked.

"What cookout?"

"The block party we do every year, silly."

"I'm not sure."

"You'll have fun."

I shrugged, knowing she was wrong. I'd be reticent around any strangers who were there since I found it hard to talk to new people. And those who knew me would lead with some variation on, "So, how are you holding up?"

"Come on, you know you can't resist my lemon shrimp."

Matt set his hand on her forearm. "He'll think about it, hon."

She turned to him in reproach. "But we always have such fun! Remember that year when I tripped with the Jell-O and—"

I don't have any real recollection of the next few seconds beyond the mental images that flashed into my head: Liv sitting on a deck chair, laughing so hard her beer was spilling over her leg ... followed in rapid succession by one of her sitting wanly in the same chair a year later, a shawl around her shoulders despite the warm August day. I found myself in my bedroom, the door closed behind me, shaking. I could hear them talking.

"What did I say? I'm so sorry!" Angela wailed.

"Hon, it's okay. You didn't say anything wrong."

"Angela," Caitlyn chipped in, "it wasn't something you said. You have to understand: one of the symptoms of a concussion is that sometimes people get irritated or upset for no reason. It's not you."

"I have to go apologize."

"No, hon." Matt's voice was calm but firm. "I think it's best that we just leave him alone. He's hurt pretty badly, and it will take him some time to heal." Was there a double meaning to his words? A minute later I heard the door close.

I stayed in my room for about fifteen minutes but, unfortunately, I found that I was now wide awake and getting cabin fever. Caitlyn nodded in greeting when I came back out but didn't say anything.

"Is that true what you said about irritability?" I asked.

"Yes. It's a side effect some people have. Talk to your doctor about it."

I gave my fractional nod and maneuvered into my easy chair, but I couldn't sit still and wandered into the kitchen. I picked up the bottle of Maker's Mark and looked at it. From behind me, I heard, "You know, you're not supposed to have alcohol."

"Yeah. You going to tattle?"

She snorted. "I'm working for you. There's no one to tattle to."

"It won't kill me, will it?"

"Probably not," she said. "But it slows recuperation, inhibits memory recovery, that type of thing."

I poured the drink. She didn't say anything. I took it over to my chair and sat down. Ten minutes later, I still hadn't touched it.

"Are you going to drink it?" Her tone wasn't nasty or challenging, more like she was honestly curious.

I shook my head.

"Why do you want to drink?"

"Any number of reasons."

"That's not helpful, Matt."

"Is that what you're trying to be?"

"Yes."

I was emotionally and physically exhausted and, suddenly, honesty struck me as the easiest way out of a conversation that was making me uncomfortable. "Because I lost my wife and I haven't gotten over it."