Bobby’s eyes dropped to my neck and he started wiping, the door opened and Eddie was there.
I looked at him. Bobby looked at him. Eddie looked at us.
“Jesus f**king Christ,” Eddie whispered but I could hear it from across the room.
“It’s not my blood,” I told him.
He came forward, Bobby gave him the gauze and vanished.
Eddie didn’t hesitate and he didn’t look at me, he just started wiping.
Then he tossed the bloody gauze in the sink and went to get more.
When he’d wiped off al the blood, I said, “There was a lot of blood.”
His eyes came to mine.
“I could see.”
“No, I mean, on Dad.”
His hand came to my jaw. “I know what you mean.” I stared at him. “I want to cry.”
His eyes went from careful y blank to warm.
“Have at it, Chiquita.”
“Bobby told me not to break.”
“Bobby’s a macho idiot.”
His hand moved from my jaw, slid into my hair and he pul ed my head to his chest. I wrapped my arms around his middle and he moved his arm around my waist, the other hand stayed in my hair.
I took a deep breath. It broke in the middle a couple of times but I didn’t cry.
We stood there, holding on to each other for a good long while.
Then I realized something, something tremendously good and something frighteningly bad.
Eddie was my anchor. I was a boat, tossed on the seas in an ugly storm that wanted to engulf me and Eddie was keeping me tethered and safe.
How did that happen?
I’d been tossing on the seas for twenty-eight years, I was used to flipping around on the waves by myself, bailing out the water like a mad fool.
How did I get used to an anchor?
What if that anchor broke off?
Shit and damn.
Bobby was right, I couldn’t break.
I had to keep bailing, I couldn’t get used to an anchor.
“Mom and Lottie might be here,” I said to Eddie’s chest.
“Cariña…”