Dust Eva Everson (story reading txt) 📖

first, I attributed to too much fried food the night before. I rolled onto my back, careful not to disturb Westley who snored lightly, then turned my head to the digital clock glowing amber and red on the nightstand on his side of the bed.

Four thirty-eight.

I breathed out slowly. In through my nose, out again between slightly parted lips. Another cramp, a twisting almost, and I knew. This wasn’t nausea. My period was back after only two weeks.

I frowned as I raised up, wincing. Had I purchased pads and tampons since the last time? Never mind the tampons; they tended to hurt for some reason now.

But, had I? Getting them was on my list. Written neatly in my notebook.

I swung my legs over the side of the bed and felt it then, that first gushing of blood. Not wanting it all over the sheets, I stood, pressing my hand against my lower abdomen while the sensation of my bottom about to fall onto the floor let me know that taking soft steps to the bathroom wasn’t an option. I nearly stampeded. Westley moaned as I reached our bedroom door. Don’t wake up … not yet.

Blood spilled down my legs as I stepped into the bathroom, plopped onto the octagon-shaped tiles. My hands shook as they jerked my soiled nightgown over my hips in frustration, then lowered the toilet seat Westley left up at some point during the night. Men.

Blood poured into the toilet as if I urinated and what felt like a rock pressed against my bottom, distending me. I bent over, nearly blinded by the stabbing pain. Breathing in, then out, I pulled a wad of toilet paper from the roll. Held it against me. But it soaked almost instantly and pooled into my hand.

“Westley,” I called out, grateful Michelle was at her aunt’s and not a wall away. I drew in a quivering breath and waited. Hearing nothing, I called out again. “Westley!”

Within a moment he stood as a silhouette in the dark hallway. He took one look at the damage, another at my face, then dashed in and dropped to the floor in front of me. His hands, warm but trembling, pushed my hair from my face. “I’m here.” Then, looking down, he said, “I’ve got to get help.”

“I need a towel … or something,” I said, panic rising in my voice.

He grabbed a hand towel from the linen closet—off-white with gold daisies—and handed it to me. “Not that—” I started, then shut up and folded it until it formed a large pad.

Westley called for an ambulance from our bedroom, speaking words and phrases that grew faint as the room dimmed. I stood, my breath shallow, grabbed hold of the sink for support. But my legs, streaked with drying blood, had turned to jelly. Westley …

He stood over me then, holding me up, chastising me for standing, for trying to reach the safety of him. But as he scooped me into his arms, he whispered, “I’ve got you, Ali. I’ve got you.”

I closed my eyes and allowed the pain to sweep over me until I simply slipped away.

There would be no babies.

I woke, blinking into the bright hospital room I’d been in for three days and willed my tears to stay put. At least for as long as my mother and father sat in the hardback chairs against the baby-blue-painted wall.

Baby blue …

The irony.

For days I had slept, especially once the narcotics had been administered—the ones that came after the surgery. The surgery that ended any chance, ever, of me getting pregnant. Ever again.

I glanced toward the sleeper-chair where Westley sat looking up at the television, then followed his gaze to where Match Game ’82 flickered images into the room. “Match Game,” I whispered. More irony.

Westley slid to the end of the seat. “Awake again, huh? You okay?”

I nodded at him. “Yeah.”

“Pain?”

“A little.”

“Thirsty?”

“Yeah, but not enough to … how ironic that Match Game is on right now.”

His smile was tender. “How’s that?”

I gave him a weak smile in return. “The day you proposed to me …” I reached for the bed’s remote to raise the head a tad. “I watched Match Game while you pulled weeds.”

Westley stood, then took the remote from me. “Not too high.”

“I wasn’t—”

“I think they are all about three sheets to the wind,” Mama noted.

“Probably so,” Daddy agreed, which brought a grin to Westley’s lips.

“No doubt,” he said.

“This is the last month,” my mother said as she placed the sweater she knitted into the sewing basket at her feet.

I looked at her as Westley adjusted the sheet around me. “What?”

“I read it in the TV Guide. This is the last month they’re gonna air the first-run series.”

“Oh.” More irony …

“Your mama loves the TV Guide,” Daddy said then. “Reads it cover to cover.”

“You do the crossword,” she said back to him.

“Yes, I do.”

I glanced back at the television. “Who’s that?”

Mama stood so she could see the screen. “Who?”

“The man next to Brett Somers.”

“Skip Stephenson.”

“I don’t know him.” Then again, lately, if it wasn’t The Muppets …

“He’s on Real People,” Mama said, returning to her chair and her knitting.

“Oh.” I looked at Westley. “When will you get Michelle?”

“After we get you home.” He leaned over and kissed my forehead. “She’s fine, Ali. Velma’s got her and you know how much she loves being with Velma.”

Yes, I knew. I swallowed. “Did Cindie leave?”

“On Sunday. I told you this.”

He had, but I wanted to make sure. And more than anything I wanted to know if he’d told her the truth. About the surgery. About how I was only half a woman now. About how she would have it all, really.

The education we practically paid for.

And the little girl with her curls and Westley’s smile.

Chapter Thirty-two

Daddy left the following day to go back home, but Mama was staying until I got back on my feet, which the doctor said would be within a few weeks. Mama being with me for