More Than Words

Chapter 13 - MOLLYCODDLE

MOLLYCODDLE (verb)

1. To treat (someone) with an excessive or absurd degree of indulgence and attention

2. To treat with great or excessive care or in an overprotective way

— — — — —

Evan

"Keep your head still and follow my pen with your eyes." Ryan examines me carefully with a serious expression. I must have gotten hit in the head harder than I thought because I could almost mistake it for him caring.

"Tell me again what happened," he asks, scribbling a note on the tablet by the ER bed I'm laying on.

I hiss at the other doctor sitting by my head, who is starting to stitch up the laceration above my eyebrow. It's difficult to talk and sit through sutures at the same time. Pain has always been greedy when it comes to my attention.

"If you're trying to distract me from the stitches — don't." I grit through a clamped jaw. "Why are you even here? Please just leave me alone."

"Mommy you're bleeding!" Gracie cries when she comes tearing past the privacy curtain shielding the view from within the room, with a giant red lollipop clenched tightly in her little fist, and big, fat tears beginning to stream down her cheeks.

The ER doctor dabs at my forehead but besides a bead or two of blood, there's nothing serious to attend to.

"Oh no munchkin, I'm okay. It was an accident. I know it probably looks red but it's just a bump, no big deal okay?" I lie right to her sweet little face.

After going through what I had with my mother, I swore to myself I wouldn't lie to my kids. I would be honest with them, I would give them explanations and reasons, and the words "because I said so" would never escape my lips.

Easier said than done.

Ryan eyes Gracie like a hawk eyes its prey, studying her in contemplative silence. "In addition to doing my job, I'm trying to figure out what happened so I can help you," he says to me, ignoring the two year old crawling into my lap.

"Gramma hit mommy with her car," Gracie supplies unphased and unfiltered, settling comfortably into my arms.

The ER doc finishes the final stitch and makes a hasty exit. I can't even blame her, if I could make a break for it, too, I would.

"Like I said, it was an accident. Are we almost done here?"

I'm sure if I were to look, I'd find Ryan's intense gaze fixated on me, willing me to look at him. But I refuse. He doesn't get to be my person anymore, and holding me hostage in the ER isn't going to force my hand.

"Ev, you have a concussion and mild sprain in your wrist and ankle. When you leave you're going to need to be looked after for a few days, ideally a week."

I'm not sure what makes me feel more vulnerable, being laid out on this ER bed, or the predatory way with which Ryan stalks up the length of the bed without breaking eye contact with me.

"I'll be fine, just give me my discharge papers."

The bed dips under his weight as he sits sideways on the edge the way I've seen family and loved ones do over the years. "You know," he hesitates, his hand creeping closer to mine until he can ghost his pinky against mine, "you could stay with me. I could make sure you heal from your concussion...and keep you off your feet so your ankle heals."

I'd like to think that I tried but we all know I did nothing to stop the laugh that erupts from within my chest. Perhaps he's the one who needs a neuro consult because he's out of his mind if he thinks I'm going to put aside what he did to me and my —