Fix My Feet When They're Stumblin'

Chapter 78

    Ronnie watched his wife nervously from his position on the bed, absentmindedly folding his laundry and placing it in his suitcases as she removed items from their closet and dresser drawers. She had hardly said a word to him since breakfast.

    "Liv," he said softly, "Come on. What do you want me to do? We can't just abandon him, send him off alone. Someone has to be there with him."

    "I know."

    The drummer cringed at the shortness of the answer, irritation clearly bleeding through. He fell silent again, meekly folding his clothes and sneaking glances up at his wife's stiff back in between tasks.

    "So...are you gonna talk to me, then?"

    "I don't know, Ron," she hissed through gritted teeth, suddenly rounding on him, a cobra ready to strike. "When are you going to talk to me?"

    "You were there too, I asked if you - "

    "You'd already made your decision and you know it," she said shortly, thrusting a pile of shirts into his arms and turning her back on him to return to the closet. "I'm a formality."

    "Livvie, Bran can't go alone. Look at him!"

    "Yeah, yeah, I know," she snarled, her eyes blazing. "But why don't we all have a look at you first?" Scoffing angrily, she yanked a shirt off its hanger with such force that the plastic rebounded and broke, the sharp snap of fracturing plastic loud in the room. She drew back for a moment, blinking in astonishment at the carnage and then down at the shirt in her grip.

    "Here," she said, carelessly tossing it in Ronnie's direction without looking at him. Ronnie barely snatched it in time to avoid a faceful of cloth and folded the shirt blindly, watching his wife gather the pieces of plastic from the floor and trash the hanger.

    "What about me?" he asked, doing his best to ignore the rush of blood in his ears, the wave of lightheadedness that swept through him. "I'm fine."

    "Oh, sure - of course you are," Olivia sighed, the fire drained away. "Sure. You're perfect." She deposited a pile of clothing on the bed beside Ronnie and fell down beside it, deflated.

    "So what's the problem?" the drummer asked casually, reaching for another shirt to fold so he could avoid looking at his wife and her all-knowing eyes. She laughed, but it was a sharp, sad sound that held no humor.

    "Shit, Ron, this is exactly what I mean. You can't talk about what's happened to you at all. If anyone tries to actually talk to you, you clam up and shut us out, or you eat us alive for daring to care. Anyone. Even poor Brandon. Even me."

    Ronnie swallowed thickly, the memory of his friend's stricken, tear-stained face looming large inside his head, crowding out coherent thought with a sickening crush of guilt. "I won't say anything like that to him ever again," he managed to choke out, silently begging the ghost in his head to leave.

    "You can't promise him that," Olivia said gently, pulling a jacket from the suitcase and carefully refolding it. "You're really hopeless at this, by the way," she added, her lips twisting upwards. "You'd think you'd be able to fold your clothes properly after all this time on tour."

    "I just chuck it all in," he admitted, seizing on the change of subject gratefully. Olivia rolled her eyes and refused his attempt.

    "I mean it. You got lucky - really, really fucking lucky, Ron - that you went ballistic on him early enough in his recovery that his memory is like a sieve...nothing sticks. The simple dignity of choice, it's not his anymore. He'll forgive anyone for absolutely anything, because he can't remember it long enough to even be granted the choice. He doesn't get to decide if he wants to forgive you or not. The memory is just there one day, gone the next."