Just then, Eli comes running back, breathless as he says, “I’ve got the Band-Aids.” An entire box of them, apparently.
“Thanks,” I say, extending a hand in his direction while keeping my gaze on Zoe. I seem to have calmed her, and I don’t want the wailing to resume. However, when I don’t feel a box, I look up, finding Eli’s focus lost on the wound once more.
“Look away,” I tell him as I stand to grab the bandages and baby wipes from his hands, then hurry to wash Zoe’s cut and coverit. It’s nothing big, but I still take extra care with it. “There. All done.”
“I need the magic kiss,” Zoe says in a small voice, her tears gone.
“Daddy, magic kiss,” I tell Eli with a poke to his calf. “No B-L-O-O-D anymore.”
He turns to me with an annoyed look. “I can handle the word.”
My lips quirk up. “Just not the sight. Right.”
He doesn’t answer, instead leaning over to kiss the bandage over his daughter’s knee.
I clap my thighs, then say, “Great. Now onto the second part. Zoe, want to get that popsicle?”
That gets her to stand and run to the house.
“You got to her quick, didn’t you?” Eli says before running after her. I get up, too, but when I look at my lonely chair on the other side of the lawn, I decide to stay where I am, examining the house. It hasn’t changed much since it belonged to Mr. Grant, except maybe for a fresh coat of paint and new shutters. It’s simple, a bungalow with brown shingles darkened by the salty mist and large windows that I know offer beautiful views of the water. The curious part of me wishes I could examine the inside, too, see if it’s just as I remember it, or if it feels as distant as the man who currently inhabits it.
A minute later, Eli comes back out with Zoe, who looks good as new with a pink freezie in hand. She runs toward her sandbox and when he’s made sure she’s fine, he walks to me.
“Thank you, for that.”
“It’s nothing,” I answer, still watching his daughter who’s begun filling buckets with sand and dead leaves while talking to herself.
“You remembered,” Eli says after a moment.
“Huh?”
“About the blood.”
I chuckle. “Hard to forget when you’ve passed out in front of me so many times.”
“It happened, like, twice.”
“Sure.” The thought makes me glance at his forehead, where a scar is still present above his left brow from the time we were seventeen and playing with rackets in Ruth’s yard. I’ve always been a terrible athlete, and when Eli hit the ball way too high for me to reach, I jumped to return his serve, but my grip was loose around the racket, and it slipped out of my grasp and right onto his forehead. He started bleeding, and the second he saw the red dripping to the ground, he lost consciousness. Then, when he came to, he saw the same dark spot of blood and promptly passed out again. He probably needed stitches, based on the size of the scar, but that day, I only covered it with three bandages and called it a day.
“I didn’t know you’re a nurse now.”
It hits me then, that I maybe shouldn’t have said it. I’d rather not talk about my job, or why I can leave work for so long. More than that, my position is technically waiting for me in four weeks, but who’s to say I’ll be able to keep it?
A patient has made a complaint about you.
I crack my knuckles, kicking my boss’s gentle voice away from my head. “Yeah. A lot’s happened in a decade.”
“And yet you still haven’t gotten rid of that nasty habit,” he says with a dip of his head toward my hands.
I smirk. “You’ll have to pry knuckle-cracking from my cold, dead hands.” Nothing is better to relieve stress.
The small grin he wore leaves as he turns toward the water. “I still can’t believe you’re here, to be honest.” He drags a hand through his thick, dark hair. “I’d assumed you’d never step foot here again.” There’s an edge to his voice; one I’ve never heard before.
“Me too,” I say honestly.
His throat works. “You didn’t tell me how long you were planning on staying.”
“Four weeks.” All the time I have to get my shit together.
