Reba studied herself carefully in the mirror as she applied deodorant to her under arms, then threw her towel over the curtain rod, too exhausted to bother folding and rehanging it where it belonged. Her stomach was swollen, a bruise unearthing itself on her right hip bone under the deep cut the doctors had found while she was still at the hospital. They'd cleaned it and bandaged it, but deemed it "not deep enough" to suture. Reba hadn't realized just how far glass went when it shattered. She had a rash that ran the length of where her seatbelt had probably saved her life, but no doubt hurt her, running across her collar bone.
Her skin, a black and blue inked map of the trauma she'd seen, was beginning to tell the story of the night before more and more, new wounds seemingly popping up every time she looked in the mirror. Frowning, she eyed herself a little more closely. Her red ringlets dripped down her back as she gazed up and down the length of her form; until twenty four hours prior it had been well preserved and long untouched. She couldn't keep her mind from wandering as she gave up her study in favor of another handful of Tylenol and her pajamas; a pair of soft yoga pants that would sit easily on her injured hip and one of Brock's old, soft t-shirts. He'd seen her without a bra and underwear enough times that she skipped those all together; her body was so sore she wanted as few layers touching her as possible.
She knew it was morbid, but she couldn't help her thoughts from turning to Loriann. What had her body been through? Did bodies bruise when hearts stopped beating? Reba had never fancied herself a scientist, and she understood the basic concept that without a heartbeat to pump blood through veins, there'd be no way for vessels to be injured and capillaries to burst- but what if it happened on impact, before the heart stopped beating? They didn't simply disappear immediately after death, did they? Would her family opt for an open or closed casket funeral, or would they even have a choice in the matter?
"Reba, you decent?" Brock called out as he approached their old bedroom and came through the open door, unconcerned over whether she was dresses or not; he'd seen it all before and she'd still been in the shower since he'd been back, over forty five minutes.
"Jesus, Brock, you scared the living daylights out of me!" She snapped as she jumped, quickly pulling the oversized white T-shirt over her head, Brock's old office logo printed on the front of it. "Are you trying to give me a heart attack, too?"
Brock smirked as she stood there in his old t shirt, her hair still soaked from her shower, with no make up on. He'd seen her like that a thousand times. They'd stood there in that very spot and discussed bills, homework, the practice, vacations, new cars, pregnancy tests, their kids, their marriage, their friends. They'd fought, they'd laughed, they'd kissed. It all flashed through his mind as he caught a glimpse of her black eye and her sutured eyebrow; how many years he had spent loving and fighting with this woman and how quickly all of it could have been gone. How stupid he was to throw it all away. He felt a familiar pang in his chest as he felt the weight of the ring on his left hand; a ring he hadn't exchanged with Reba; a ring that meant he couldn't go to her like he had so many times before in this very bedroom. Now, more than ever, he wanted to. Shaking his head, he chalked it up to trauma. It was natural to miss her in the wake of a traumatic event. Everyone wants to hold their loved ones closer in a situation where one has almost lost them, especially as an immediate gut response. It's natural, he reassured himself. It will pass.
"Im sorry Reba, I was just coming to check on you," he muttered as he focused his eyes on the bed and ran one hand through his hair, waiting for her to make herself decent, "you've been up here for a while and I wanted to make sure you were ok."
Reba softened when she heard the concern in his voice and nodded gently, smiling at him, "I'm alright, Brock. I was just.... takin' stock, I guess. I'm a little more banged up than I thought I was," she sighed as she moved towards her side of the bed, the same side she kept when they were married, and rummaged through the drawer in her nightstand for a tube of Neosporin. Carefully, she pulled the hem of the oversized T-shirt up and tucked it under her chin, revealing her smooth, pale, freckled stomach and pulled the waistline of her yoga pants down around her hipbone, revealing the raw, bloodied cut. "This is going to get infected. I wish they would've just put stitches in this one, too," she groaned as she applied the antibiotic ointment to her hip, ignoring her ex husband as he sat down on the bed so he could get a closer look.
"Yea... that's pretty gross," he laughed as he took her by the hips and turned her toward him, taking the ointment out of her hands so he could help her. "What do you say I get you settled on the couch, we order that pizza, and we don't think about this for the rest of the night?" He asked quietly as he took over. He held her hip steady with one hand as he squeezed more ointment on to the tip of his index finger and spread it across her hip bone, careful not to make her flinch, "There. Do you want a bandaid on it? And do we need to do your arm while we're at it?"
"Nah, I just finished my arm," she muttered as she dropped the hem of her t shirt and replaced the cap on the Neosporin tube, trying her best not to make the situation awkward. "I think.... that sounds like a good plan." She could ignore it for a little longer, right? Besides, she was exhausted, and she didn't feel well. Her eye felt like it was going to throb out of her head and everything burned. Her nerves felt like they were on fire and her back ached.
"I think that sounds like an awfully good idea," she nodded as she raised her own hands up to her shoulders and gave them a squeeze, trying to work the knots out as she followed her ex husband down the hallway of the home they'd once shared together, their old family photos adorning the walls. Reba ignored the twinge of emotion bouncing around in her ribcage as she stared at the back of his head. Was it wrong that her whole family was at his house, while she was here playing make believe with him? Should she allow them all here so she could play hostess and grieving loved one? Was she doing this backwards, or was she simply preserving herself? She let out a quiet sigh as her thoughts took over on the short journey down the stairs. Guilt suddenly seemed to be choking her. Could she really sit on the couch with Brock, eat a pizza, and watch a movie like they were on vacation while their family was cooped up in his house, worried about her, and Loriann's family was cooped up in theirs, grieving their daughter? It didn't sit right with Reba, but then again, she was exhausted down to her bones, and she knew she wasn't exactly in her right mind.
"Hey Brock-" she muttered, stopping on the bottom stair as he headed into the living room, seemingly nonchalant; his usual, carefree self.
Brock stopped and turned, tugging at the sleeve of his black Henley top to pull it up around his forearm. "Yea?" He asked cluelessly, moving to reach for the cordless phone on her desk while he waited for her answer.
"Am I... doin' something wrong, handlin' this this way?"
Brock watched her carefully for a moment as she stood in the middle of the staircase, fiddling with her thumbnail as she waited for his answer. She seemed so small. Brock had felt a lot of things for Reba in their past together; passion, amusement, bewilderment, lust, love, fury, hatred; but his heart had never broken for her until that moment. As if the weight of it all were too much, Reba placed one gentle hand on the wooden banister to balance herself and closed her eyes. There were no tears, no hysterics or monologues about how hard it was. Just one steady grip on the banister, one quiet breath, and one silent prayer. He knew without any words being spoken that the reality of what had happened had just hit Reba all at once, and whatever he had known of the woman was about to change.
Brock was torn; he didn't know whether to go to her or to leave her be. After what felt like an eternity in silence, Brock set the phone he'd been cradling in one hand back down on his ex wife's desk and licked his lips, searching for the right words. He opted not to move towards her, knowing if he touched her she'd break.
"I think.....," he paused again, "I think, Reba, that no one is going to really understand what you went through last night but you, and there is no right answer right now. I think.....I think we all love you more than we know what to do with and we're just glad you're still here and... we're going to do whatever it takes for however long it takes for you to be alright. So, no, I don't think what we're doing tonight is wrong."
Reba nodded calmly and moved silently to the couch, afraid if she opened her mouth she might break in two. Maybe, if Brock didn't touch her and she could just get through the next few minutes, she could survive this wave of emotion. Recognizing what she was doing, Brock moved back toward her desk and picked up the phone, opting to order the pizza from the kitchen. As Brock made his escape, Reba plopped herself down on the couch and pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to hold it in. She shut her eyes and laid down on her side, pulling a chenille throw off the back of the couch, willing her thoughts and the resulting panic away. Her parents were fine. The kids were fine. They were probably being entertained by Barbra Jean's antics and playing games and eating too much ice cream. It was all....fine. That's what bothered her so much.
