Drumpftland - Chapter 3

I’m on the ground with a sheet around me when my parents find me. I hear my father say distressed, “My baby, please not my baby,” as he scoops me up in his arms. I hear my mother crying as he says, “If there is a God, please don’t take my sweet baby girl from me.”

People think that atheist don’t pray, but we do. Or at least in my family we do. Just because we don’t think there is a God, doesn’t mean we don’t hope that there is one. We don’t want this to be all that there is either. We hope there’s a heaven as much as we hope there’s not a hell. The Holy Bible with all its many inconsistencies and contradictions isn’t proof there’s a God for us. In my family, we believe Jesus was a real person. That he was probably the first self-actualized person. A self-actualized person speaking at that time would have amazed many people and frighten many others. Perhaps every religion has some part of it right. But here in Drumpftland you practice the religion they tell you to or die.

I hear voices talking. They sound far away. Lights are shined in my eyes, Dr. Walker is looking at me. I reach up and touch his hair. I remember saying, “so pretty,” as I touched it.

I wake up in a hospital bed in a private hospital room. My parents are sleeping squeezed together in a recliner. My poppa and Abuela are in the second recliner. And my granddaddy is curled up on a loveseat he’s too tall to stretch out on.

I’m thirsty so I’m trying to reach a pitcher and a cup as Dr. Walker steps into the room. “Let me get that for you,” and he pours me a cup of water.

I manage a rough raspy, “Thank you.” The water feels wonderful on my throat. But a few swallows later I’m ready to talk and ask Dr. Walker, “How long have I been here?”

“When you weren’t home in time for dinner on Sunday,” Dr. Walker informs me, “your parents left to walk to the Cross’s home. And I think your father planned to give them a piece of his mind. They found you on the sidewalk about half way there. It’s now Tuesday just after four am.”

I nod my understanding as my family gathers around my hospital bed. They’re all smiling delightedly at me.

“Oh she’s going to be fine,” declares my granddaddy with a big cheesy grin.

My mother tells me, “You gave us a good scare. When we found you laying there like that, we thought you were dead. I nearly had a nervous breakdown.”

I squeeze my mother’s hand assuringly, “But I’m still here for you to fuss at. And you can clean my room like you’ve been threatening to and I can’t stop you.”

My mother admits, “I cleaned it yesterday.”

I give her hands an affectionate pat as I respond amused, “Of course you did. Now I won’t be able to find anything.”

My Abuela defends, “Everything out everywhere is not an organizational system.”

I tell her, “But it’s a system that works for me.”

“I get it,” my granddaddy tells me. “Your office here is neat as a pin. But home is where you get to relax.”

“Thank you,” I respond managing a loving smile, “finally somebody understands.”

“Do you remember what happened,” ask Poppa.

I have to think about that for a minute, “I think I remember most of it.”

“You don’t have to talk about it yet,” my mother tells me. “A detective is waiting to talk to you. I’m sure he’ll be by later to ask you questions. We’ll listen while you talk to him. We’re not going to leave you alone with him.”

“And of course we’ll be coming and going until you’re released,” my father informs me.

I yawn tiredly. “I don’t know how I’m possibly sleepy.”

“You need rest to heal,” my Abuela tells me, “So just rest.”

I want to ask some questions about my injuries, but I’m back to sleep before I can ask anything else.

By dinner time I am ready to go home whether they think I should or not and I’m sure most of the nurses would let me walk out if I could. Dr. Walker steps into the room followed by a very buff serious looking man as a very empty bedpan bounces off the wall by the door.

“I hate bedpans,” I state angrily. “I just need some help getting to the bathroom.”

The shocked nurse responds, “But Dr. Washington, they don’t want you getting out of bed yet.”

“I don’t care what they want,” I tell the nurse angrily. “If you’re not going to help me then get the hell out of my way. I’ll crawl to the damn bathroom if I have to.”

“Oh Ava,” says my mother still in her white nurse shoes and hospital whites, “you’re setting a bad example for the other patients.”

“I’m not just another patient,” I respond irritated. “Now are you going to help me or not.”

The serious buff man ask Dr. Walker, “Are you sure he was abusing her and not the other way around?”

Dr. Walker tells him amused, “Doctors make the worst patients. And this is her domain, the clinic, urgent care and hospital. She’s used to being in charge here. Outside of here, she’s submissive to Mr. Cross. But inside here for the last few years, she’s been the boss.”

The nurse tells the man, “No one wants to be stuck on bedpan duty for a month.”

Dr. Walker motions the nurse out of the room. Then he steps up in front of me. I’m sitting on the edge of the bed. My right foot and ankle are in a splint so I’m afraid if I slip off the bed too fast my legs won’t support me and I’ll hit the floor with an inglorious thud.

He leans over and tells me, “Now put your arms around my neck,” and he helps me off the bed. “Are you steady,” He ask me as I clutch my IV pole.

I nod, “I can make it,” as my father steps into the room.

“You’re supposed to stay in bed,” states my father irritated.

I sneer at him, “I need to pee.”

“Didn’t someone come with a bedpan,” ask my father.
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I tell my father in a very unfriendly tone, “You use the damn bedpan,” as I slowly and cautiously make my way to the bathroom with Dr. Walker’s assistance.

Daddy gives Dr. Walker an irritated look to which Dr. Walker responds, “If I didn’t help her she was going to crawl to the bathroom.”

My mother tells my father, “You know she would do it. She’s every bit as stubborn and head strong as you are.”

I sigh blissfully as my bladder empties into the toilet. I hear my granddad enter the room and ask, “You let her out of bed? She’s not supposed to be out of bed yet.”

“I didn’t let her out of bed,” responds my father defensively. “They let her out of bed.”

Dr. Walker informs my granddad, “She threatened to crawl if she had to, to get to the bathroom.”

My granddad sighs, “And she would have.”

My mother says sarcastically, “Don’t know where she gets that kind of stubbornness from.”

“Oh he’s not that bad,” defends my granddad. “He’s not as stubborn as his mother was. Ava takes after her.”

I wash my hands before exiting the bathroom and slowly make my way back to my hospital bed where Dr. Walker helps me back into bed as my Abuela and poppa come in carrying a couple of large picnic baskets.

“Food,” I say ecstatically. “Abuela, I love you.”

“She’s not supposed to start on solid food until tomorrow morning,” protest my father. “She has two head injuries.”

“She called me and said she’s hungry,” Abuela informs my dad.

Poppa shrugs helplessly, “I know when I can’t win an argument with my wife.”

“I am starving,” I tell my father as Abuela makes me a plate, “and I can’t get any real food around here. I don’t want another damn bowl of green gelatin. Next person that brings me another bowl of gelatin is going to wear it.”

Daddy reminds me, “But you may just vomit it all back up.”

I ask him, “You want to try to bring me another bowl of gelatin?” He folds his arms frustrated and I shrug, “If I vomit, it’s my own fault.”

“Don’t worry Simon,” Abuela assures my father, “I didn’t make her anything heavy, just chicken and rice and rice pudding.”

“Don’t you men have any control over your own women,” ask the buff serious man.

My mother and grandmother laugh hysterically. I laugh too only to hold my ribs and complain, “Oh, it hurts. It hurts.”

“Serves you right for getting out of bed,” states my father.

The buff serious man says to Dr. Walker, “And this is your host family. How are you coping?”

“Actually,” shares Dr. Walker with a pleased smile, “I feel right at home.”

I focus on the serious stranger and look him in his hazel eyes. He has the typical flat top most homeland security have so that much I’m sure of. I ask him flatly, “So who the hell are you and what do you want?”

His eyebrows furrow for a moment. Then he shows me his badge, “I’m Detective Robert Reynolds of Homeland Security.”

I take his badge and look at it. “Sent you in from out of town. Don’t trust the local officers to do their job properly or you’re here to keep things as quiet as possible. Doesn’t matter either way to me. You just need to remember that out there on the streets and while at church I may have to be a quiet and submissive female and those lily white nurses working get to call me ‘nigger whore’ and ‘gold digger’ out there and even during church services, but in here I am the boss and they jump to kiss my red, white and black ass. And if they piss me off too badly out there, they’ll find themselves on bedpan duty for a month in here.”

“But you’re only permitted to work part-time,” points out Detective Reynolds, “How can you possibly run this hospital and its adjoining clinic and urgent care?”

“Population wise,” I inform him, “this is a small district. Small enough for everybody to know everyone. The haves are strangers to the have nots because they choose not to know them. They prefer to pretend the have nots have enough and ignore them unless one looks good enough to have sex with. She may elevate her family for a time playing cute little mistress to a fat old fart with too much money. We provide health care to everyone in the district. We know everyone that lives here and all their dirty little secrets. And as long as you’re on top of things like I am, things are easily managed here.” I direct at my father and grandfathers, “And three somebodies better stay on top of things while I’m incapacitated.”

All three of them start talking and nodding at once insisting, “Don’t worry. We’ve got it under control.”

I inform Detective Reynolds, “They let me take the administrative and hospital management courses so I could assist in running our health care center. After all I’m only permitted to work part-time and like yourself they weren’t expecting me to run things. But within six months of starting here I was running the whole shebang.”

Detective Reynolds gives my father a what were you thinking look to which my father responds, “She’s better at it than us. Plus pediatrics is never over worked. She has more time for it than us.”

Detective Reynolds shakes his head in disbelief. I tell him, “You weren’t sent here to judge us. You were sent here to do a job.” I toss his badge to him, “Now do your job.”

Detective Reynolds takes a deep breath, pulls out an electronic note pad and refers to it, “Dr. Eugene Washington?”

“Yes, that’s me, detective,” answers my granddad.

“You lost your wife some years ago,” states Reynolds.

Granddad nods affirmatively, “My beautiful Veronica was raped and murdered in this quiet little district when Ava was three. They never arrested anyone. But within six months after her **** and murder, several men relocated to other districts.”

Detective Reynolds nods as he looks at his digital pad. “Yes. Three of those men were arrested and executed for murder in their new districts. And a fourth was arrested and executed for the **** and murder of a child. It was determined that the local homeland security officers and detectives failed to do their jobs properly here while investigating your wife’s murder allowing her murders to get away and murder again. Thus, I am here because we don’t trust local security officers to do their jobs properly.”

Granddad says, “I bet the murdered women were white and the child was white too.”

Reynolds mouth sets in a grim line but admits, “Yes that’s true.” Then he pushes forward, “Do you think this incident could possibly be connected to your wife’s murder?”

Granddad shakes his head, “No, I don’t believe so. This appears to be some sort of domestic matter.”

“Mrs. Lupe Reed?”

“Yes detective,” answers my Abuela.

“Are your parents deceased,” asks Reynolds.

“I don’t know,” answers Abuela. “They were deported back to Mexico for being illegals when our daughter Irena was a little girl. And we’re a closed country now. Nothing is imported in nor exported out. I have no way of contacting them. And they have no way of contacting me if they’re still alive.”

“But you weren’t deported,” questions Reynolds.

Abuela shakes her head, “I’m an anchor baby. I was born here and I married another citizen. Plus, I’m a nurse practitioner. That gives me value here.”

He consults his digital pad and turns to me, “Dr. Ava Washington.”

I respond with a drab, “Yep.”

He ask me, “How long have you known Mr. Bryant Cross?”

I answer, “Since kindergarten.”

“Would you say you and he are close?”

“Since I am his only friend,” I inform Reynolds, “I would say yes, we’re close.”

“Do you have a lot of friends?”

“No, not outside my family I don’t,” I answer.

He ask me, “Is Mr. Cross close to his family?”

I inform him, “No, they’re not a close family. But they manage to tolerate each other.”

“Do you think they love each other?”

I nod my head slightly, “Yes they love each other. They just don’t like each other.”

“Do they like you?”

I nod with a slight bobble, “They seem to like me better than they like each other.”

“Do they permit you to speak freely in their home?”

I inform him, “Yes I may speak freely in their home. I am already regarded as a member of the family and they are anxious to have me as an official member of the family.”

Reynolds request of me, “Tell me about the Crosses.”

I take a moment to collect my thoughts, “Mr. Cross is a hard worker. He and Mrs. Cross have that in common. He is very much about running our district smoothly and well. And she is very much about making their family look like it’s running well, which is very much a full-time job.

Blake is their oldest and their smartest. He has been carefully and meticulously groomed to follow in his father’s footsteps. He’s sharp. He’s sociable. He’s athletic and friendly. But you have to be on your toes with him. He reads people expertly. He can tell by facial expressions and body language what’s going on in someone’s head. And he’s not above using what he knows about you to manipulate you.

Bronson is their middle child. And he’s their dumb one. He’s a dumb blond with light brown hair. He’s very friendly, very outgoing and very athletic. People mistake the stupid things that fall out of his mouth for jokes. They think he’s just being funny. They don’t realize he’s just that stupid. He made it through school because hopeful girls did his homework and young women hoping to become his wife did his homework and papers for his university courses. But he does have excellent recall that allows him to remember facts and pass tests on his own. He doesn’t understand the answers. He just knows how he’s supposed to answer. Blake can see Bronson’s life clearly. Bronson will marry and divorce a few times and squeak by and be well liked because he’s naturally friendly and outgoing and people mistake his stupidity for humor.

Bryant…” I feel my eyes well up with tears. “Bryant is having a hard life. He is a square peg and his family is a round hole pounding him with a hammer trying to make him fit. They want him to be like Blake and Bronson, friendly, outgoing, athletic, able to give inspiring speeches and toasts. Instead, he’s dyslexic and thoughtful. But people mistake his thoughtfulness, his taking his time to consider his answer, as slow witted and dumb. If it involves reading and writing, because of his dyslexia he struggles terribly with it. He’s mechanically inclined. That’s where his strength is. But they are trying to make him a Cross, make him fit into that round hole no matter what it takes. His parents don’t understand him and are frustrated with him. They just don’t get that he’s never going to be a Cross the way they believe he should be. They can’t accept his natural inclination is to be Joe the Mechanic and there is nothing wrong with being Joe the Mechanic. His brothers often tease him mercilessly. And I think he’s finally cracking under the pressure.”

“You know his family well,” states Reynolds.

I nod agreeingly, “But they don’t know me half as well as I know them and they don’t really know my family at all. They have us sit with them at church on Sunday, but they’ve never had us all over for dinner nor accepted having dinner with us. They just know the basics. That we’re all good hard working people.”

Reynolds request, “Tell me about the incident at church last Sunday.”

I respond, “I know these people. I know they like to gossip. You can’t tell me a couple dozen people haven’t told you a couple dozen versions of it already.”

“True,” he confirms with a nod, “but I want to hear about it from you.”

I breathe in deeply through my nose, “When Pastor Cross ask Dr. Walker to stand so everyone could get a look at him and meet our new doctor, I naturally looked over at him too. Dr. Walker smiled at me and I automatically smiled back. Bryant just snapped. He hopped up and smacked me full force and ordered me not to smile at Dr. Walker. He was always a little possessive and insecure, but since I finished my degree and began working he’s been very, very insecure and needy.”

“Was he physically abusive before that,” inquires Reynolds.

I shake my head, “No, he wasn’t. Before I started working he was a little possessive, but I was looking forward to being his wife.”

“But you don’t look forward to it now,” Reynolds stating more than asking.

But I confirm, “No. I’m afraid he’s begun a habit he can’t break. That I’m just going to go from being a battered fiancé to being a battered wife.”

“Why do you think he’s so insecure,” ask Reynolds.

I share, “He’s acutely aware that there are a number of men in our district that while saying one thing out in public in front of the women and at church, privately feel different. Things have been whispered to me and to him. He worries that I’ll be raped and murdered like my grandmother was. And it frustrates him that I don’t listen to him and won’t quit my job like he wants me to. I love my job, I don’t want to quit my job.”

“What kind of things have been said to you and him,” ask Reynolds.

I ask because I’ld rather not repeat any of that filth, “You really don’t want to hear any of that sick crap do you?”

He responds with a firm nod, “I asked.”

“Alright,” I agree but not happily so, “To me: ‘Bet you’re a sweet little fuck. I’ld like to fuck your tight little hole bloody. I bet that fine ass of yours sure gives a good bounce when your asshole’s being fucked.’ To him I once overheard, ‘You don’t fuck no one but her, her hole must be incredibly tight.’ And I hope you’ve heard enough because I think if I tell you one more my father will faint.”

Reynolds puts a hand up in surrender, “That’s fine. So did the rest of church on Sunday go well?”

I shrug, “It was typical for what it’s been like the last couple of years. Bryant made it known he wasn’t happy about Dr. Walker joining our household. And I think Bryant only dropped one F-bomb that morning. That’s very good for him. Peggy-Sue nearly got smacked in the mouth by Bryant for hissing at me. But nothing too out of the ordinary happened. And I rode home with Bryant and his family and Bryant was supposed to have me home in time for dinner.”

“Anything out of the ordinary happen before the altercation between you and Bryant Cross,” ask Reynolds.

“Not that I recall,” I shrug. “As I was helping Mrs. Cross with lunch his brothers teased him. Mrs. Cross noted our families are overdue for getting to know each other. They asked me some questions about myself and my family they hadn’t ever asked before. Bryant asked me if I had prior knowledge of Dr. Walker joining our household, but I didn’t… There was some kind of argument or disagreement…” I can’t tell the man everything. I mean I could and I probably should. Damn my head hurts.

But Daddy helps me out unintentionally with, “Don’t push it. You’ve got two different knots on your head. If you don’t remember everything that’s okay. It may come back to you later.”

“I just remember Mrs. Cross was so upset she started drinking wine straight from the bottle. And Bryant was so upset he didn’t want to eat lunch with his family so I made a tray to take up to his room. Blake and Bronson made it into the room before Bryant could shut and lock the door.”

“What did they want,” ask Reynolds.

“Besides me,” I respond, “Blake wanted to talk with Bryant.”

“About what,” ask Reynolds.

“Me,” I answer. Then I explain, “Blake told Bryant that he believes my family is so fed up with Bryant that he thinks they’ve begun looking for someone to marry me out from under Bryant.”

“Did that upset Bryant,” asks Reynolds.

I nod, “He gave me a panicked shake. That’s how I got the fingertip bruises on my arms. But all I could tell Bryant was they haven’t discussed such a thing with me. But Blake has a plan.”

Reynolds ask, “What’s Blake’s plan?”

I inform him, “For Bryant to step aside so he can marry me. And he promised to continue to share me with Bryant even after I’m his wife.”

“So Bryant’s been sharing you with his brothers,” states Reynolds.

I tell him, “He really didn’t get much of a choice in the matter. Bryant is only older than me by a couple of months. But I went through puberty before him and Bryant didn’t go through puberty for another two years. But Blake managed to trick me into playing Find the Pussy in the Dark. He led me to believe he had a kitten hidden in a large walk in closet. And I was still a gullible kid. After I went in to look for it, he shut the door behind himself trapping me in the dark closet with him. By the time Bryant went through puberty, Blake had been having sex with me for two years. Bryant was upset when he found out. But Blake manipulated him into sharing me. And when Bronson found out he didn’t want to be left out. Bronson’s opportunistic when it comes to getting laid and gets laid every chance he can get. With a maid at home, a woman or girl at church, he does it every chance he gets with anyone who’s willing. Blake was like that at first too. Diddling the maids and girls at school and church too. But for around a decade now, Blake has only been having sex with me and Bryant has only ever been with me.”

“Is Blake in love with you too,” ask my mom.

I shrug, “He says he is. And if I look at his behavior he seems to be telling the truth. And now he thinks Bryant is losing me. So he wants Bryant to step aside so he can marry me and they don’t lose me.”

“Blake’s a clever devil,” states my granddad.

“Scary clever,” states my poppa.

“How does Bryant feel about Blake’s plan,” ask Reynolds.

I shake my head, “He doesn’t like it, not one little bit. And since Blake’s the one that’s supposed to follow in their father’s footsteps, Bryant doesn’t think Mr. Cross will allow him to marry a nonwhite woman. But Bryant agreed to think about it.”

“What else happened,” ask Reynolds.

“After Blake and Bronson satisfied themselves they left the room. Bryant and I were finally alone. We were lying in bed together talking, he asked me what I thought of Blake’s plan and I had to acknowledge that Blake is really good at reading people and that he’s certainly right about my family not being happy with him. Then he asked me something I felt was a loaded question. Something about him not giving me any choices. I acknowledged he had never asked me to be his girlfriend and had never proposed. But I admitted if he had asked I would have said yes. But I also admitted I would break up with him if I could over his losing his temper with me. But he wasn’t mad. He acknowledged that I was stuck with him and I told him I only felt stuck when he’s mistreating me and most of the time I’m happy with him. He said something about not being a good fiancé and not being a good husband or father and failing to protect me. He finally compared me to a bird in a cage singing sweetly.” I shake my head because it’s fuzzy, “He said something about setting me free and started choking me. He was crying as he said, ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know how else to set you free.’ I got my hand on a root beer bottle on the nightstand and hit him in the head with it. He grabbed his head in pain and I tumbled off the bed away from him gasping for air. Then he was kicking me. Kicking me and yelling, ‘Let me set you free.’ Then he was sitting on me choking me again.” I wipe away some tears, “I realized I still had the root beer bottle in my hand. I hadn’t let go of it. And this time I hit him with everything I had. The bottle broke and he fell unconscious.” I sob as I ask, “Is he alright? Nobody will talk to me about him.”

Reynolds informs me, “He’s alright. But he’s not really talking to anyone. He woke up Monday morning. He believes he killed you. All he’s said so far is ‘I strangled my fiancé, Dr. Ava Washington. I wish to be executed immediately.’”

“Is anyone going to tell him I’m alive,” I ask.

“We’ll tell him,” assures Reynolds. “We’re just still piecing things together. Do you remember how you got out of the Cross house?”

I inform him, “I pushed Bryant off of me. I checked his pulse. He was breathing and his pulse was strong and steady. I was partially twisted up in the flat sheet so I held on to it. And I just wanted to go home. I started down the front stairs, tripped and fell down them. I may have laid unconscious at the bottom of the stairs for a few minutes. I just remember trying to focus on the front doors and they were fuzzy. But I had to go home. So I pulled myself up, limped to the front doors, let myself out and limped down the driveway. All I could think was I wanted to go home. I need to get home. I held on to that damned sheet as I limped and when I was about half way home, I tripped again. I heard my father’s voice. I heard my mother crying. There were bright lights hurting my eyes. I touched Dr. Walker’s pretty hair. And then I woke up here around four am this morning.”

Reynolds reminds me, “You said you were limping after you fell down the stairs. Do you remember if you we limping before you fell down the stairs?”

I have to think about it for a minute, “Slightly. I think that’s why I fell down the stairs. But it was worse after I fell down the stairs.”

“The sidewalks uneven,” states my dad in realization.

“What’s that Dr. Washington,” ask Detective Reynolds.

My dad explains, “Where I found her the side walk is uneven. People trip there all the time. They usually catch themselves before they actually fall and just keep going. But she was injured and disoriented. So when she tripped there on the uneven sidewalk she went down.”

Detective Reynolds nods his understanding, “I think I have everything I need for now. But I may have more questions later.”

I ask Reynolds, “So how many steroids does it take to get that swollen.”

He looks down at himself and admits, “Okay, maybe I’ve overdone it a little. But it’s supposed to make the bad guys think twice about trying to fight me.”

I tell him, “I’m sure it works.”

He shakes his head with an amused grin, “Have a good night folks.”

And we all call good night as he leaves.

I’ve never been hospitalized before save the first few days of my life after I was born. And being a doctor who’s accustomed to giving orders and directions, I’m a horrible patient who’s not following her orders. I’m no fan of the bland hospital food. But luckily I have my beautiful Abuela to bring me good food. I’m going to live and my family knowing that they can’t all be in the room with me twenty-four, seven have adjusted their schedules so they can take turns visiting me so that I’m never alone in my hospital room. And on my second conscious day in the hospital, I get visitors.

I wasn’t expecting visitors. After all, the only close friend I have outside my family is Bryant if you count him. But my first visitors are other currently hospitalized patients and patients in for treatments bringing me their charts to check over for them.

“Mr. Peters everything looks perfectly in order,” I assure the elderly gentleman. “I wouldn’t do anything any differently than Dr. Walker.” I hand him his chart, “Just relax and get some rest.”

He rolls his wheel chair out of my hospital room door past Dr. Walker who’s smiling amused. Dr. Walker ask me, “How am I doing Doctor?”

I tell him pleased, “Very well. Thus far I’m very happy with your work and I don’t think I’m going to need to retrain you.”

Dr. Walker chuckles, “I’m glad to hear that.”

“This is the room,” says a man’s voice.

“Pastor Cross,” I say surprised as he steps into my hospital room.

“We heard you regained consciousness yesterday,” shares Pastor Cross as Pastor Wimbly rushes past him to me.

Pastor Wimbly is in tears as he hugs me and covers my face in kisses. I wipe his tears from his wizen face as I tell him, “Don’t cry Wimbly. I’m going to make a full recovery. They may let me go home in another day or two.”

“I’ll let you visit,” Dr. Walker tells Pastor Cross before exiting the room.

Pastor Wimbly kisses my fingers, “If only I were a younger man. I’m too old to make you a proper husband.”

“Oh Wimbly,” I tell him from my heart, “I think you would make any woman a fine husband.”

Pastor Cross lifts my chin to have a good look at my face. He doesn’t look pleased. “List your injuries for me please Ava.”

“Two head contusions, stitches here, black eye, bruised ribs, one rib fractured on this side and two fractured on this side. My right foot is broken and my right ankle strained. And I have quite a lot of bruises and a few places with stitches here and there.”

“The bruises on your neck,” ask Pastor Wimbly concerned.

I inform them, “He tried to strangle me.”

“Did you two have an argument,” ask Pastor Wimbly.

I shake my head, “No. No argument. No disagreement. He just decided to set me free.”

“Set you free,” questions Pastor Cross in disbelief.

I shrug, “That’s what he kept saying. I think he had a psychotic break.”

Pastor Cross nods agreeingly, “He has been having a hard time for quite some time. You and your family have been amazingly tolerant.”

I tell Pastor Cross, “He’s been unhappy for so long. I was hoping he’ld pull through it. But he seems to have forgotten what it’s like to be happy. Have they let you see him? I don’t want him treated badly.”

“They haven’t let anyone see him since they took him into custody,” shares Pastor Cross. “But they’re going to let family see him today. That includes me. When they found him they thought you had both been attacked by intruders.” Pastor Cross shakes his head sadly, “Except when he regained consciousness Monday morning he confessed to your murder and requested immediate execution. To my knowledge he hasn’t struggled or put up a fight of any kind. But he’s not talking to anyone either. He just keeps requesting to be executed.”

Pastor Wimbly says to Pastor Cross, “Whatever’s gone wrong inside his head, he still loves her and want to be with her. He thinks she’s dead so he’s asking to be executed so he can be with her.”

I squeeze Pastor Wimbly’s hand, “I think you’re right.”

Most young women would be turned off by Pastor Wimbly’s wizen face. But I think he’s adorably cute. I can see the devastatingly handsome young man he once was. Pastor Cross looks at the way we’re holding hands with soft understanding in his eyes.

Pastor Cross informs me, “There have been complaints that you have never been included in the rotation with the other young women to provide service for the clergy. But you’ve been servicing Pastor Wimbly haven’t you?”

I blush as I nod yes, “I was a little uncomfortable with it at first. I knew Bryant wouldn’t like it. He’s been stuck sharing me with his older brothers since I went through puberty. The last thing he would ever want is to share me with one more man. That’s the biggest reason why he’s been in such a hurry to marry me. So he can tell his brothers no because I’m his wife. But Wimbly is no chore. He often comforts me when I’m very upset.”

Pastor Cross tells Wimbly, “And here we all thought you weren’t seeking service with the young women because you were no longer able to perform.”

I giggle, “Wimbly is not having any trouble performing.”

Pastor Wimbly adds, “I just don’t like any of those rude mean selfish little bitches.”

Pastor Cross and I are both shocked silent for a moment. Then I state amused, “Wimbly, I can’t believe you said that.”

Pastor Wimbly shrugs, “They’re lost and they don’t want to be found. I know the sermons and lessons are wasted on them. They want heaven to be an entitlement instead of something that’s earned through good works. They’re so willfully stupid they don’t even realize I told them they’re all going to hell last Sunday.”

“You told them they’re going to hell during your last lesson,” questions Pastor Cross shocked.

“Not directly,” I defend.

Pastor Wimbly informs Pastor Cross, “Ava answered a question of mine perfectly and got called a ‘gold digging nigger whore.’ And that was followed by niggers don’t go to heaven, not even if they’re good ones. I explained that skin color has nothing to do with it. That it’s how you live your life that determines if you’re going to heaven or hell, not your skin. Then I got asked why God created them.” He rolls his old grey eyes, “They simply choose to ignore that God’s first people were people of color and nowhere in the Bible does it say only white people go to heaven. They ignore that scientists discovered white people evolved from people of color. That pale skin is a genetic mutation. They insist on believing that being pigmently challenged makes them superior. So I simply told them that their chosen mental illness in this area will keep them out of heaven. There are no exemptions from loving thy neighbor and loving thy enemy.”

I tell Pastor Cross, “They think he’s going senile and it was just him going on in an old crazy person rant. They never listen to what he’s saying.”

Pastor Cross takes a deep breath and sighs sadly with a heavy heart. “I know exactly how you feel Pastor Wimbly. It’s why many of the clergy aren’t in a hurry to lead Sunday services or teach Sunday school lessons. They feel like they’re beating their heads against a brick wall. And I hate that word, that damn N-word. I’m sure there’s a special place in hell for the man that came up with that word. And that mind set we’re battling is making it next to impossible to find young men who are appropriate for sharing the word of God. But we can’t give up. We may be reaching more than we think. I’ve seen little ones abandon their parents to go sit in Ava’s lap and hold her hand.”

Pastor Wimbly nods agreeingly, “You’re right. I know you’re right.”

Pastor Cross checks the time, “We need to get going. They’ll be bringing Ava lunch soon and I need to be ready to visit Bryant. I’m hoping I’ll find the right words to help him.”

Pastor Wimbly nods agreeingly to Pastor Cross. Then he gently touches my hair and face. He tenderly kisses me good-bye, “Hope to see you again soon.”

I tell him with a warm loving smile, “You will.”

Pastor Cross lets Pastor Wimbly exit ahead of him. He pauses in the door to tell me, “I will note your service to Pastor Wimbly. And I will note that you’re not appropriate for providing service with the other young women. Your service to Pastor Wimbly is more than enough.” Then he leaves.

Abuela brings me lunch. Dr. Walker eats with us. I like him. His personality is very much like my granddad’s personality, gentle and kind, thoughtful and patient. He has a tendency to be soft spoken which makes you listen more intently. He’s the first new person to the district that wasn’t born here since before I was born. So some will be leery of him. Some will never accept him because he’s not a white man and he understands that clearly.

The medications make me sleep for a couple of hours after lunch. Arguing outside my hospital room door wakes me up. The door is barely open a crack and I distinctly hear my father yell, “No. I don’t want any of you near my daughter.”

I recognized Mrs. Cross’s voice, “Listen, I know you don’t know us and that’s our fault. We’ve deliberately kept you at a distance. And we don’t know Ava as well as we should. We are a broken dysfunctional mess. I don’t like my sons, but I love them. And I don’t know what came over Bryant because he loves her. He’s begging to be executed because he’s sure he killed her. She’s part of our family.”

“Just ask her if she’ll see us,” request Mr. Cross. “If she says no she doesn’t want to see us, we’ll leave.”

My dad reminds Mr. and Mrs. Cross angrily, “It’s my decision. I’m her father. I don’t need to ask her anything.”

I finally call out, “What’s going on out there?”

“Damn it,” exclaims my father mad.

“Ava,” calls Mrs. Cross, “we’re here to see you.”

“Dad, it’s alright. Let them in.”

My dad steps in the door blocking their path, “Are you sure about this?”

I nod, “Yeah, Dad. It’s fine. If it makes you feel better, you can stay in the room with us.”

My dad steps all the way into the room and opens the door for them. He makes an enter motion with his hand unhappily. Blake and Bronson rush in a head of their parents, but stop shocked just a couple of feet from my bed. Bronson’s eyes are wide with shocked disbelief as he covers his open mouth with both of his hands. Blake’s eyes well over with tears. Mrs. Cross being a woman lets out a shocked sob. Mr. Cross’s eyes well up but he’s got it under control. My dad sits on the loveseat with an angry frustrate plop. Bryant began losing his temper with me and slapping me around four years ago. The slapping has very slowly increased in frequency, but it’s usually not full force. Usually the worst is my cheek is pink for a day. Yet over the past year I’ve worn a bruise shaped hand print several times, occasionally accompanied by a split lip. But Bryant never actually beat me before, so his parents and brothers are shocked.

Blake comes all the way to my hospital bed first. He takes my small hand and brings it to his lips. Then he holds it to his cheek with his eyes closed for a few moments. He tells me sincerely, “I’m so sorry. I know Bryant’s been troubled the last few years. But I didn’t think asking him to step aside so I can marry you would send him over the edge.”

I tell Blake, “I don’t think that’s what did it,” as Bronson goes around to the other side of my bed where he grabs the doctor’s stool and sits on it next to my bed. I’m short so there’s plenty of room across the foot of my bed where Mr. and Mrs. Cross each sit on a corner.

“Why would you do that,” Mrs. Cross asks Blake.

“Because he’s losing her,” explains Blake. “I can see her family is fed up with Blake and his unpredictable temper.”

“Lost,” states my father. “He’s lost her. He’s never going to marry my daughter. None of you are. I’ld marry her to Pastor Wimbly if it wouldn’t leave her a young beautiful widow and vulnerable all over again.”

Mr. Cross reminds Blake, “You’re my oldest. You’re slated to follow in my footsteps. I can’t allow you to marry Ava anyway.”

Blake says to his father with narrowed serious eyes, “Insurance policies,” which puts a frustrated look on Mr. Cross’s face.

“Blake, I didn’t know you were in love with Ava,” states Mrs. Cross surprised.

Blake responds to her irritated, “It’s hard to know anything when your head is stuck inside a wine bottle.”

Mrs. Cross admits, “You got me there.”

Blake tells his parents annoyed, “If either of you were paying any attention, you would of noticed Ava’s the only woman I’ve been sleeping with for years.”

My father informs Blake firmly, “I don’t care how in love with her you are. You’re not marrying her.”

Bronson inserts “I know Pastor Wimbly loves Ava. I’ve seen him pat her bottom and steal kisses from her. But he’s too old to get it up.”

I inform Bronson, “He’s not too old to get it up.”

“What,” ask Bronson confused.

I roll my eyes and inform Bronson, “Pastor Wimbly gets it up just fine.”

Bronson ask me, “How do you know he can get it up.”

Mrs. Cross tells Bronson matter-of-factly, “There’s only one way for her to know. Are you trying to be funny? This isn’t the time to be funny.”

I inform Mr. and Mrs. Cross, “He’s not trying to be funny. He’s never trying to be funny. He’s your stupid one.”

Blake nods his agreement with me, “If either of you were paying any attention, you might have figured out for yourselves that Bronson’s the stupid one.”

“But,” says Mr. Cross confused, “his grades were always decent. Not good, but decent. He usually averaged at least a C.”

Blake informs his parents, “Girls that like him have always helped him with his work and done it for him. He’s never written his own essays or anything.”

Bronson counters, “I rewrote them in my own hand.”

I inform Mr. and Mrs. Cross, “He has excellent recall. He remembers facts, figures, dates and stuff. He knows the answer to two plus two is four but he doesn’t necessarily understand why the answer is four.”

“I know why,” inserts Bronson enthusiastically. Then using his fingers, “Because if you have two things and you have two more, when you count them together, it’s four things. See?”

My dad starts laughing, “You don’t even know which one of your kids is the stupid one.”

I inform them, “He’s not trying to be funny. The stupid stuff that comes out of his mouth is what he’s actually thinking. It’s almost like a super power he doesn’t even know he has. He says something stupid, but it makes people laugh. So they think he’s being funny on purpose.”

“Wait,” request Bronson confused. “I thought Bryant was the stupid one.”

“No dear,” I tell Bronson sweetly. “Bryant’s not stupid. But don’t worry about it. You did an excellent job of explaining why two plus two equals four.”

And I know he won’t worry about it. He smiles winningly at me for telling him he did a great job and ask me, “Can I have a kiss?”

I nod yes and give him a kiss. Then he rest his head on my lap. I pull my fingers through his hair and comment to Blake, “Best puppy ever.”

Blake scruffs up Bronson’s hair and says with a warm smile, “Yeah, I like him.”

“I like puppies,” comments Bronson. Then he tells me, “I love you Ava.”

I have no trouble responding, “I love you too Bronson.”

Blake ask me, “Why is it easy for you to tell Bronson you love him, but you have trouble saying it to me and Bryant?”

I take a moment to think how to explain it, “When you or Bryant tell me you love me, it’s this intense serious thing. I love you both, but not with the same intenseness or passion you have for me. And I don’t want to tell you a lie. But when Bronson says it, it’s childlike, not serious and passionate. So I have no trouble saying it back.”

Blake take a deep breath, “I think I understand.”

Mr. Cross ask me, “So what happened after Blake and Bronson left you and Bryant alone.”

I take a deep breath and exhale heavily, “I don’t know. Parts of it are fuzzy. But there was no argument or anything like that. One minute we were laying together cozily just talking and the next he was straggling me with his bare hands as he went on about setting me free. When I hit him with the root beer bottle the first time it wasn’t hard enough to knock him out and I think I just made him mad. He kicked me repeatedly. He made a fist and pulled back, but I don’t really remember the blow. I saw stars. Then he was sitting on me straggling me again. The second time I hit him with the root beer bottle I gave it everything I had and knocked him out. Still, there are injuries I’m not sure whether they came from Bryant or when I fell down the front staircase.”

“You fell down the front stairs,” state Mrs. Cross with a gasp.

I nod, “I tripped and I lost my balance. Tumbled all the way to the bottom.”

“You must have been terrified,” says Mrs. Cross.

I nod agreeingly. I was terrified.

Blake ask me, “Can you make some room for me so I can hold you?”

I nod and scoot over so Blake can slide onto the bed with me and hold me. It feels good to be held. And I don’t mind the slow thorough kiss either.

Mr. Cross slides off his corner of my hospital bed and joins my father on the loveseat. He tells my father, “We’re overdue for a proper conversation with one another.”

My dad responds, “That’s true.”

“Ava,” Mrs. Cross says my name softly, “I’m sorry we’ve failed to get to know you properly. We don’t know you half as well as you know us. And we’ve not tried to get to know your family at all.”

I shrug, “They feel they know more about all of you than they would like to anyway. After all, we’re our districts doctors. We know everyone and all their dirty little secrets: who cheats on her husband, who’s secretly homosexual or bisexual. And just so you know, your pool boy’s bisexual.” I point to her and I point at Bronson’s head on my lap because they both screw the pool boy.

“Oh dear god,” exclaims Mrs. Cross. “I really need to sober up so I know what’s going on around me. So is Bronson bi???”

I shake my head, “He’s not truly interested in men like that. He’s not seeking them out for sex like he does women. But he’s very opportunistic when it comes to sex. So when the pool boy offers to blow him or be done analy, Bronson just goes with it. Just thought you might like to know where the mouth of the pool boy has sometimes been just before you’ve kissed him.”

Mrs. Cross states looking a little green, “I think I’m going to be sick.” Then she rushes into the bathroom and shuts the door.

Blake and I tune out her retching to listen to our fathers talk. There’s no telling how much Bronson is absorbing until he says something that indicates he heard every word that was said.

My father informs Mr. Cross, “We’re not pressing charges. We just want Bryant to get the help he needs. We love him. We don’t know Blake or Bronson well. They only visited us with Bryant occasionally. But Bryant used to spend time with us regularly. He really took us putting off the wedding until he’s finished his studies the wrong way. Stopped spending time with us and taking Ava to your home all the time. We understand his learning disability and the pressure he’s under. We didn’t want to add to that pressure by letting them get married and then he would be coping with working part-time, school part-time and a family of his own full-time. I know he wants Ava to have his baby and Ava would do it for him if I let her. But I know he’s not ready for all that. He doesn’t want Ava to work because he selfishly wants to keep her all to himself. But Ava needs to work and the hospital, clinic and urgent care need her. People like her who want to serve by taking care of others are becoming hard to come by. Being a doctor may allow you to live a comfortable life, but it doesn’t make you rich and powerful.”

Mr. Cross questions, “My boys have spent time with your family?”

My dad nods, “Yes, but mostly just Bryant. About two weeks after kindergarten began he showed up at our front door. I asked him if he was lost and he ask me if Ava Washington lived there. I answered yes and he told me, ‘Then I’m not lost.’ Walked on in calling for Ava who excitedly came running, gave him a hug, got his hand, started showing him around the house and introduced him to everyone. I called your home and spoke to your wife. She didn’t even know he was missing. Thought he was playing in his room.”

“I didn’t know that,” admits Mr. Cross.

Mrs. Cross has come out of the bathroom. She still looks pale as she sits in the recliner nearest the loveseat. She informs her husband, “I didn’t tell you back then because I was afraid you’ld get mad, a Cross boy befriending and playing with the only child of color in our small town. But she was the only friend he had. The other children wouldn’t have anything to do with him. They picked on and bullied both of them. They sat together because no one else would sit with them. The teacher didn’t want to waste her time with him because as she told me, there were children with real potential she needed to focus on. Ava helped him with his school work and tied his shoes when they came untied. She played with him when other children wouldn’t. I let him go to Ava’s after school for over a month before he finally mentioned her in front of you. I was terrified you were going to forbid him from having anything to do with her when you met her.”

“Why would I do that,” ask Mr. Cross. “She was a beautiful, intelligent, friendly, kind child. Bryant adored her and she adored him.”

“Because she’s part black,” answers Mrs. Cross frankly, “and you’re a Cross and Crosses are related to Drumpfts and Drumpfts aren’t fond of people of color. But they’re especially not fond of blacks and Mexicans and she’s part black and Mexican, two strikes.”

Mr. Cross nods his understanding, “I see why you thought that. But just because Crosses are related to Drumpfts doesn’t mean we think like them. In public I let it look like I don’t disagree with the Drumpfts, but you’ve never actually heard me say I do agree with them. Yet I can’t openly say I don’t agree either. Drumpft Senior had one of his own grandsons executed for being openly gay. My grandmother being Drumpft Jr.’s older sister isn’t going to protect us.”

“You two aren’t a couple who talks much are you,” ask my father.

“Very true,” admits Mr. Cross. “You and your wife married each other because you’re in love?”

“Yes of course,” answers my father.

“I think that’s wonderful,” says Mr. Cross sincerely. “I had hoped for that when I was a young man. And I hope for loving marriages for my sons. But Lilith and I are not married for love. I know the rumor is that she seduced me and she may have believed that herself at one time. She married me because I’m from a rich, powerful family and she believed that would provide her with a lavish, opulent, cushy life. Yet she long ago discovered that it isn’t half as easy as less fortunate people think it is and she drinks a lot of wine to cope. I married her because I was expected to marry and have a family, carry on the Cross name and such. I needed a wife who was reasonably pretty, reasonably intelligent, photographed well and would look good on my arm during formal functions. Lilith checked all the boxes so I married her. We don’t talk more than necessary and usually only when it’s necessary. She’s given me three sons I love very much and I love her for that if nothing else. Her tubes were tied after Bryant was born and she is now free to have discrete affairs as I have my discrete affairs. And once in a while we still bone each other.”

My father shakes his head, “That’s just sad.”

Mr. Cross nods agreeingly, “Indeed it is. The one bright spot in our miserable lives is your daughter. That big house on the hill is cold and lonely when she’s not there. Without her we all go to our neutral corners and only interact when necessary. With her, we come together and interact almost like a real family. And I understand Bryant has become too unstable to marry her. But Blake is stable and more in love with her than I was aware of before today. He loves her enough to blackmail me to let him marry her. Until today I just thought she was his favorite sex toy and favorite way to annoy Bryant.”

“Well I just learned yesterday that Bryant’s been stuck sharing her for years with his older brothers,” shares my father unhappily. “Quite frankly I’m shocked and appalled that this has been going on in your home. It certainly hasn’t been good for Bryant’s mental health and I don’t like the effect it’s had on Ava. She’s become distant and quiet over the years. She was a happy sing-songy child. Here she’s been protecting us from knowing what she’s been going through in your home. Protecting us from suffering with her because there really isn’t anything we could do to stop it. All we could do was get her an implant as soon as she went through puberty to protect her from an unwanted pregnancy because we knew someone would take advantage of her first chance he got and she would be entered into the service rotation for the pastors when she turned sixteen. We were grateful when we discovered how much being Bryant’s girlfriend and later his fiancé protected her, kept her out of the rotation for the pastors and such. Except he couldn’t protect her from his own brothers. I can’t imagine how much that has eaten at him. But I understand better why he was pushing so hard to marry her sooner rather than later.”

“Yes it’s been a bone of contention between them,” admits Mr. Cross. “He wanted it to stop. But with Blake being in love with her too, it wasn’t going to stop. And Bronson is practically Blake’s shadow. The women Blake rejects turn to Bronson with open legs as a back-up plan. But I want you to seriously consider allowing Ava to marry Blake instead of Bryant.”

My father shakes his head, “That would put her under the same roof as Bryant. Next time he may succeed at setting her free. I can’t risk her life like that.”

Blake suggest, “What if I relocate to your home instead of Ava relocating to ours? I want Ava to be safe just as much as you do.”

“What about that,” ask Mr. Cross. “Will you consider allowing Blake to marry Ava if he relocates to your home instead of she to ours?”

“I will consider it,” agrees my father, “but I need to inform you we think we’ve found a suitable husband for Ava.”

“I knew it,” states Blake frustrated. “I should have made my move months ago.”

“Is he someone from our district,” ask Mrs. Cross concerned.

My father shakes his head, “No. He’s from another district.”

“Are you sure about this,” ask Mr. Cross. “Do you really want to send her to a stranger in another district?”

“No,” admits my father, “but I do want her safe from Bryant. We love Bryant. And we’ve greatly missed his presence in our household the last few years. But we have to do what’s best for Ava. We have to protect her. We’ve been searching for over a year and we believe we’ve finally found someone. I’ll still consider the marriage to Blake, but I need to discuss it with her mother and grandparents. It’s their home too. And I ask that you seriously consider what is right for Bryant. He’s not like Blake and Bronson. I know he’s been working part-time at the municipal building and he hates it. Why not let him work part-time in his maternal grandfather’s garage instead? He’s a good mechanic. It would be good for his self-esteem. Consider letting him drop out of the university or at least let him study what he’s interested in. He hates political science and law. For the love of God man, stop worrying so much about what’s right for the Cross name and do what’s right for your son.”

Mr. Cross nods agreeingly, “I guess in many ways Lilith and I are failing miserably as parents when it comes to Bryant.”

“Not just when it comes to Bryant,” my dad points out, “for all three of them. You didn’t know who your dumb one is, you’ve been torturing Bryant with his weaknesses instead of building on his strengths, holding him to unrealistic expectations and you failed to recognize your oldest child is in love. And I’m supposed to let my daughter, my baby girl, our only child, marry into this mess you call a family? I’ll seriously consider Blake’s proposal. But I’m going to do what’s best for my daughter. And I hope you’re going to start doing what’s best for your sons.”

From out of nowhere Bronson ask me, “Ava, did you have sex with Pastor Wimbly?”

I answer a little amused, “Yes Bronson, I have. I service him at least once a month.”

“But that’s gross,” states Bronson.

“How is it gross,” I ask curious.

“It’s gross old man sex,” answers Bronson. “He’s old. Old people shouldn’t have sex. It’s gross. Just ewe.”

I shake my head amused and tell him, “You won’t think it’s so gross when you’re an old man.”

“But I’m not an old man,” responds Bronson.

I inform Bronson, “If you’re lucky enough to live as long as Pastor Wimbly, you’ll become on old man.”

“It has something to do with your age,” ask Bronson.

“Yes,” I confirm for him, “it has everything to do with your age.”

“If I don’t celebrate my birthdays will that stop it,” ask Bronson.

“No,” I tell Bronson, “even if you don’t celebrate them, you still get one year older every year.”

“Is there any way to stop it from happening,” ask Bronson.

I tell him, “No. It happens slowly. For the most part you won’t even realize it’s happening. You just wake up one day, look in the mirror and your outside no longer matches your inside. But it’s not a bad thing.” I don’t dare tell him if he dies young he won’t grow old.

“It’s not a bad thing,” questions Bronson.

“No,” I assure him, “it’s not a bad thing. It’s perfectly natural.”

“Alright then,” responds Bronson agreeably, “if it’s not a bad thing, I guess I can do it. Can I have another kiss?”

I take his face in my small hands and kiss him. He can tie his shoes, read and write, walk and talk, and for the most part he seems perfectly normal. He’s even house broken. But if you spent enough time with Bronson, you would come to recognize that there’s just some part of him that’s stuck as a ten year old boy. There are some things he just doesn’t absorb. He just doesn’t understand them, isn’t capable of understanding them and he’s not capable of being overly concerned about it. All you can do is explain things as simply as possible for him. He might come back to it later, but usually not. It’s sort of an out of sight out of mind thing and he’s very agreeable.

“Did you get to visit with Bryant today,” I ask them. “Pastor Cross came by earlier with Pastor Wimbly and said you were going to get to see Bryant.”

Blake answers flatly, “We saw him.”

“How is he,” I ask because I need to know. “They aren’t mistreating him are they?”

“No, they’re not mistreating him,” answers Mr. Cross.

“I feel like there’s more to it,” I state concerned.

Mrs. Cross informs me, “He doesn’t believe you’re alive. He was told you are and we told him you are. Pastor Cross even shared that he visited you this morning himself and that you are very much alive. But he thinks it’s a trick so he’ll stop asking to be executed. He thinks we’re trying to prevent him from joining you. So he’s on suicide watch. They’re afraid he might hurt himself.”

I nod understandingly as I shed a few silent tears. Even if I had majored in psychology, I don’t think I could help him. Yet I still want to help him. I want my old friend back. I miss him.

Blake brushes my tears away, “There’s nothing you can do for him right now. Just get better yourself.”

I nod agreeingly to Blake and accept his loving devouring kisses. His gentle touch is comforting. And it might seem strange that I am so worried and concerned for a man who has felt more like a stalker than a boyfriend or fiancé the last few years and just tried to kill me a few days ago, but Bryant wasn’t always like this. The real Bryant wouldn’t dream of harming a hair on my head.

“It’s getting close to dinner time,” my father reminds the Crosses. “Ava’s Abuela will be bringing her dinner soon. And you need to eat yourselves.”

Mr. Cross nods agreeingly as he stands, “Let’s get home in time for dinner.” He comes to my bedside and kisses my forehead. “Even if they don’t let you marry Blake, you’ll always be a member of this family. We love you no matter what.”

“Thank you, Mr. Cross,” I respond appreciatively.

Mrs. Cross kisses my cheeks, “I almost got the daughter I always wanted. I know your father and grandfathers will discuss Blake’s proposal and give it serious consideration. But I know what I would do if I were them.” She accepts Mr. Cross’s offered hand.

Blake slips off my bed, takes my round face in his hands and kisses me thoroughly, “There are a few things I wish I had done differently with you. But I can’t go back and change the things I did when I was a dumb, horny teenager. All I can try to do now is better. Rest and heal. I love you.”

He’s giving me strong eye contact waiting for me to say it back, “You know it’s not like I don’t care for you at all.”

“Just say it,” request Blake with love filled eyes.

I finally cave in, “Alright, I love you too.”

Blake smiles beatifically and kisses me again.

Bronson hugs me tightly, “When you and Bryant come home, we can all go swimming together in the pool.”

My eyes well over with big tears, “I’m sorry Bronson. I don’t think I’ll get to come home.”

Bronson says confused, “But if you don’t come home Blake and Bryant will both be unhappy and miss you. I will be sad and miss you too.”

I don’t know what to say to him. But my dad points to my neck ask him patiently, “Do you see these bruises on Ava’s neck?”

Bronson nods yes. I can tell he’s listening carefully.

My father explains, “These bruises are strangulation marks.”

“Strangulation marks,” repeats Bronson in serious thought. “But that’s like hanging someone,” finding a frame of reference for it in his mind that he understands, “like they used to do in the wild, wild west for bad guys. Hang them and they died. I don’t want Ava to die.”

“I don’t want Ava to die either,” my father tells Bronson, “but Bryant did that to her. He strangled her. She’s not safe with Bryant any more. She’ll be safer at home with me and her mother.”

Bronson nods agreeingly, “Okay, as long as she’s safe there. I want Ava to be safe. I love her and Blake loves her. And I know Bryant loves her too. But he hasn’t been himself lately. I think something broke in his head.”

My father tells Bronson with a somewhat amused smile, “I think you’re right. So we better keep a little distance between him and Ava until he gets better.”

Bronson ask my dad, “Is it alright if I visit Ava at your house?”

“Of course,” answers my father, “we’ld love for you to come visit Ava at our house. It’s been way too long since your last visit. You can even bring Blake with you.”

Bronson ask seriously, “I don’t have to bring him do I?”

My father chuckles, “You don’t have to, but you can if you want to. You’re both welcome to visit.”

Bronson hugs my father unexpectedly, “Thank you, Dr. Washington.”

My dad pats his back, “You’re welcome son.”

Then Bronson hugs me and kisses me again. And this time he also rubs his face in my crotch. I was really hoping he wouldn’t do that in front of my father as my face flushes red with embarrassment. But Bronson’s not embarrassed. He’s happy as a clam as he waves cheerfully to us as he follows the rest of his family out of my hospital room.

I shake my head embarrassed and amused as my as my father says to me, “How in the hell did they miss that boy is a grade A doofus?”

I respond smiling, “I’m telling you it’s like a super power he’s not even aware of. He’s friendly, outgoing, athletic with excellent recall. He reads fine when he reads out loud even though he may not fully understand what he’s reading. And his hand writing seems perfectly normal. It’s actually a little too nice for a guy’s handwriting. So when he says something totally asinine that doesn’t make any sense out of the blue, people assume he’s joking.”

“Hey,” greets Dr. Walker cheerfully as he enters my hospital room with my Abuela carrying a large picnic basket and small cooler for her. He shares, “We just past the Crosses as we were coming down the hall. Were they visiting?”

My father answers, “Yeah, they just left.”

Abuela tells us, “You should have seen the dirty look Blake gave Dunston.”

I ask surprised, “Why on earth would Blake give Dr. Walker a dirty look?”

“Dunston,” Dr. Walker directs me. “I’m not on the clock right now. So call me Dunston or Dunny.”

So I restate, “Why give Dunston a dirty look? They’ve never had a conversation.”

Dad informs Abuela, “Blake is sharp. He figured out we’re looking for a husband for Ava because we decided Bryant’s become too unstable. So I informed him we began looking over a year ago. So he’s kicking himself. He’s in love with Ava too and finally asked Bryant last Sunday to step aside so he can marry her.”

Abuela’s eyebrows furrow with serious thought, “But he’s their oldest. He’s been groomed to follow in his father’s footsteps. Cross can’t let him marry Ava.”

“Apparently,” Dad informs Abuela as he helps her and Dr. Walker make our plates, “he has something over his father’s head so Cross won’t deny him marrying Ava.”

“Insurance policies,” I insert. “He calls them his insurance policies.”

“Oh,” says my father in surprised realization, “so Blake blackmailed his father right here in front of me to marry you.”

“Wow, that was bold,” states Dr. Walker.

“Sure was,” agrees my father. “I’m not sure if I should think better of him or worse.”

Abuela ask me, “Ava, do you know what Blake has on his father?”

I nod yes, but I don’t answer. I just want to concentrate on the food that’s been placed in front of me.

“Well,” questions my father expectantly.

“Well what,” I respond innocently.

Dad ask me frustrated, “What does Blake have on his father?”

“Video recordings,” I answer with a shrug as if it’s not important.

“Recordings of what,” ask my father a bit demandingly.

I ask him, “Isn’t this a bit like gossiping?”

“Just spill it,” orders my father.

So I inform them, “Video recordings of Mr. Cross being inappropriate with someone.”

“With another man,” questions Abuela.

My mouth falls open from shock that she asked such a thing, “Abuela, no. He’s not gay or even bi. It’s a young woman. And I’m not going to tell you who so don’t ask.”

“But you know who,” ask my father.

“Yes I do,” I admit. “But I’m not telling you who.” I would be mortified for my family to know. As much as they try to protect me, I do my best to protect them. We are a close family. We have very few secrets from one another. But just like all families, we have secrets just the same. Secrets that we each keep to protect the hearts of those we love.

Abuela then shocks me by asking, “Have you seen any of the videos?”

“No,” I answer a little high pitched. “What’s with you tonight? Why would I watch something like that? If Blake offered, I would not watch any of them.”

“Then how do you know Blake’s not bluffing,” ask Abuela.

I state matter-of-factly, “Blake doesn’t bluff. If he’s going to lose he wants to do it with dignity, not possibly looking like a fool.”

Abuela ask me, “Do you think Blake asking Bryant to step aside so he can marry you himself set Bryant off on Sunday?”

I answer, “I think it was a combination of things not one specific thing, I know he was feeling like he failed to protect me properly.” I shrug, “He’s suffering. That’s the one thing I know for certain. He’s suffering.”

Dr. Walker suggests, “Maybe he assumes you were suffering too in the same way he is. Maybe that’s what he was trying to set you free from, suffering.”

I nod agreeingly, “He was a sensitive boy. I think that’s probably about as close as we’re going to get to knowing what was happening in his head last Sunday.”