Chapter 8 - He Didn't Hear Me Because I Never Called
The couch cushions were still warm from the lamp when we settled. I sat on the end with my good arm around both boys, my hurt arm propped on a throw pillow in my lap. The white gauze he'd wrapped around my sleeve looked too bright in the low light. He sat on the coffee table across from us, knees wide, hands hanging between them. The house was too quiet after the front door had clicked shut.
He kept looking at the hallway like he expected to hear the engine start. No one started it. The two men had said they'd stay at the curb until he texted. He hadn't picked up his phone yet.
"You okay like that?" he asked. "Need more light?"
I shook my head. "Low's good. They can sleep like this."
The younger one was already leaning heavy against my side, his choo-choo train still clutched in his fist. The older one sat upright, watching his dad. He hadn't let go of my sweater with his other hand.
He rubbed the back of his neck. His shirt was still unbuttoned at the throat, damp at the collar from running. The silver watch caught the table lamp when he moved.
"I should've been here faster," he said.
I didn't answer right away. I could hear the wall sconce buzzing faint. The windows were dark blue now, no movement behind them.
"Where were you?" I asked. It came out softer than I meant. "When it happened."
He looked down at his hands. "Front office. Door closed. I was on a call with the alarm company about the back sensor. I put my phone on silent so it wouldn't beep through." He paused. "I didn't hear anything until —"
He stopped. He glanced at the boys.
"Until what?" I said.
"Until I heard them." His voice dropped. "Through the door."
The older boy shifted. "We yelled," he said.
I tightened my arm around him a little. "Tell him what you did."
He looked at his brother, then at his dad. "You were gone a long time. Mom said stay back."
"I had the shelf," I said. "I told them to get to the doorway."
"We went to the hall," the older one said. "We yelled Dad, dad."
The younger one lifted his head off my ribs. His eyes were half closed. "Dad, dad," he whispered, like he was showing how loud it was, not calling now.
He stared at them. His jaw worked. "That's what I heard," he said. "Just that. Through the office door. I thought they were fighting over a toy."
I remembered the sound of my own breathing then, loud in my ears when the upright leaned. I hadn't yelled. I hadn't had air for it. I'd just braced my shoulder into the side panel and held.
"I didn't call," I said. "I couldn't get to my phone. It was on the side table."
He nodded once, quick. "I checked after. Three missed from the alarm app. Nothing from you. I kept thinking —"
"What?"
"That you must've called and I missed it." He pulled his phone from his back pocket and set it face down on the coffee table like he didn't want to look at it. "Door closed. Ringer off. I sat in there while you were holding that thing up."
The lamp hummed. The younger boy's breathing evened out against me. The train slipped a little in his hand and I caught it with my good fingers and set it on the cushion.
"It wasn't long," I said.
"It felt long running here," he said. "Past the kitchen, past the lamp. I heard them again in the hallway and then I saw —" He gestured toward the corner, toward the bookshelf we couldn't see from the couch but both knew was there. "You on the floor. Blood."
The older boy pressed closer. "Mom holded it," he said.
"I know," he said. "I saw."
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. He didn't touch my arm. He just looked at the pillow under it, at the way I was holding it still.
"Did you try to get up with it?" he asked me.
"No. I stayed down. Told them to run. They didn't go far. They stayed in the doorway and yelled."
He looked at the older boy. "You did right. Both of you. You stayed where she could see you and you got me."
The boy nodded, serious. He didn't smile.
"Why was your door closed?" I asked.
He exhaled. "Noise ordinance email from the HOA about the sensor tests. I didn't want them to hear me argue." He glanced at the sleeping one. "Stupid."
"It wasn't stupid," I said. "You didn't know the shelf was loose."
"But I should've heard the scrape." His voice caught. "If they hadn't yelled —"
"They did," I said.
We sat with that. The ceiling light in the hall was still on, spilling a thin line under the living room doorway. Blue from the windows edged the curtains. The apartment felt small and held, like after a storm when the power stays on.
He reached out finally and put his hand lightly over my good hand where it rested on the older boy's shoulder. His palm was warm. The watch was cold against my knuckle.
"I'm sorry I wasn't here," he said.
I looked at him. "You're here now."
He held my eyes. He didn't say more. The older boy yawned and leaned his head against my collarbone, careful to miss my hurt side. The younger one was fully asleep, mouth open.
He stood slow and pulled the throw blanket off the back of the couch and spread it over the three of us, tucking it around the younger one's legs and under my pillow to keep my arm raised.
"Stay?" the older one mumbled.
May you like
"I'm right here," he said. He sat back down on the coffee table, closer this time, his knee touching the couch. "Not going back in there tonight."
I nodded. The guilt was still in his face, in the way he kept checking my arm, the doorway, the boys. But his hand stayed on mine, steady, and the house stayed quiet around us.
