Restore Me (13 page)

Damon Cole 1989

He had to have been around ten years old in
1989; just one year older than I was when the accident happened. A
visual of a young Damon pops into my head, coaxing a smile from me.
I can imagine him as a little boy with a troublesome grin, a milk
mustache, and curious amber eyes. I picture him having shaggy hair
that he probably only combed when someone forced him to. I bet he
was adorable. My smile quickly fades as I open the notebook and
read a line at random. I read the next line, and the next, and the
next. My smile disappears completely as my eyes grow big. I cover
my mouth with my hand. My eyes scan line after line of what Young
Damon has written. I’m speechless; completely and utterly
speechless.
Oh, Damon.
I turn my attention to the next
notebook in the stack.

Damon Cole 1994

“15 years old,” I mumble. I choose a page
somewhere near the middle of the notebook and begin. I read as far
as I can before my eyes refuse to go any further. I shove the
notebook back in the stack. I pull another notebook out from
somewhere in the bottom of the pile of books. A tri-folded paper
slides out from between the next notebooks and I stoop down to pick
it up. With one hand, I flick my wrist to open the document. I
gasp.
His birth certificate.
I skim the official document
until I find the line that lists the parents. “Father: Edward
William Cole, 25, Las Vegas, Nevada. Mother: Beverly Wynona Davis.
17. Las Vegas, Nevada.”
He knows his mother’s name?! Why in the
world hasn’t he found her? Has he ever even tried?

My phone chirps as a text comes in. I check my
phone to see the message is from Brian.

Heads up. Boss man is in a mood.

I fire back a text.
Why?

I secure the birth certificate back in the
drawer at the bottom of the pile, but keep the last notebook I dug
out. I check the title while I wait for word from Brian.

Damon Cole 1996

“The year of the accident.” He was 17 years old.
A big boy in my nine-year-old eyes.

My phone chimes again with another text and I
toss the notebook back in the drawer.

His sister, Elise. He’s on his way home.

“Oh, shit.” I fire off another quick text to
Brian, asking him to pretty please with cherries on top do the car
switcheroo for me. I scurry frantically to lock the cabinet doors
and return the key to its original position beside his computer
monitor before Damon gets home. I rush Hemingway out of the office
and busy myself in the kitchen.
This should be
interesting.

***

Brian was right when
he said Damon was in a foul mood. He’s stewing about something but,
of course, has said
nothing
to me about it. He still won’t
open up. He doesn’t even say a word to me. He ate his dinner then
disappeared into the bedroom. I’ve lost my grip on my self control
and it’s time to lay the cards out on the table.

I make a quick pitstop in the office for my ammo
and walk into the bedroom, the stack of composition books in my
arms. They’re heavy but I’m so pumped with adrenaline and a rainbow
of emotions that the weight of the books are no hindrance.

He’s sitting up in the bed. His back is against
the headboard and he’s wearing the indifferent expression that I’ve
come to despise.

“Do you even know I’m here?” I mumble as I set
the books onto the foot of the bed. I glance up at him with the
same pitiful hope I have every time I see him, that when my eyes
meet his I’ll finally see life, or at least emotion, in them. It’s
pathetic. I feel like a dog begging for a scrap of food. I know
this isn’t his fault. I know that better than anyone, but I’ve lost
patience. I’m boiling over with emotion and I can’t stand the
rejection anymore.

“Still on vacation, I see. Must be nice to just
quit! You just throw in the fucking towel and walk away from
reality, huh?!” I clench my teeth so hard that pain streaks like a
bolt of lightning through my jaw.

He doesn’t look up. He hardly blinks.

“Damon, I’m begging you. Begging! Come back. I
can’t take it anymore. I feel so damn lonely. Just stop this!” My
begging falls on deaf ears because he doesn’t show even the
smallest of reactions. He just stares at me with empty amber
eyes.

“I found something today. Wanna know what I
found, Damon?” I grab one of the composition books and flip it
open. Before I start reading, I glance up at him. I don’t know if
it’s my imagination or not, but I swear his chest seems to be
rising and falling just a little quicker than before.
Please let
this work.

“I found all these composition books. Loads of the
damn things just stacked up in that cabinet in your office. So you
can imagine my surprise when I decided to be nosy and see what was
in them.” I put a finger to a line at random and go for it.

“I don’t know why he thinks I would ever steal money
from his wallet,” I read. “It wasn’t me. He wouldn’t listen and now
my lip needs stitches. I only hate him because he hates me.” I peek
up at him and I know it’s not my imagination. He’s definitely
breathing harder. I flick my wrist to close the book then throw it
like a frisbee across the room.

He startles at the noise, but still doesn’t look at
me.

“That wasn’t your fault,” I clip
out through gritted teeth. I grab up another book and flip it open.
“I don’t know why he hates me. I wish I did know, because then
maybe I could fix it. I could be a better kid and then he would
love me. I wish he loved me.” I throw the book and it lands near
the other one.
I’m making a fucking pile
of Damon’s childhood catalog of abuse!

“Not your fault, Damon. Is this
the shit you’re running from, or is it me? Huh? Answer me!” My lip
quivers as I reach for another book.
Again.
My eyes land in the middle of
the page and my heart clenches.

“W-why…does he use a coat hanger?” I think I may
vomit, but I continue. “The coat hanger is the worst, especially
when he heats it with his l-lighter.” I throw the book as if it’s
on fire. Tears stream down my face and I’m as desperate as a person
could be.

Damon’s cheeks redden. His chest rises and falls
almost like he’s panting. His hands are clutching the blankets so
tightly that his knuckles are almost white.

“That shit wasn’t your fault either.” Before I know
it, I’ve opened yet another composition book. My eyes find a bold
line at the bottom of the page.

“Maybe someday someone might save me.”

I close my eyes and absorb the
ache that comes with reading his horrifying journal entries. With
my eyes still sealed tight, I send the journal sailing to join the
others on the floor. It crashes into the pile and Damon flinches
again.
My poor Big Man.

“Not. Your. Fault.” My gaze is locked on a crumbling
Damon. I see him coming around. He can’t fight this. He can’t fight
me. I take a tentative step towards him on the bed. “Not your
fault,” I repeat in a softer tone.

His brows draw together but his eyes are still
locked onto a focal point other than me. Tears stream down his
cheeks.

“It’s not your fault, Damon.”

His head shakes back and forth. His brows pull even
closer together. His jaw tightens. I can see his jaw muscle bulge
and tick as he grits his teeth. I take another step closer to
him.

“None of it was your fault,” I say softly.

“Stop!” He roars so loudly that I jump back.

I don’t know whether to haul ass or fall to my knees
in relief. I do neither. I’m frozen in place. I know I’ve come too
far to back off now. “No. You wanted someone to save you from that
shit? Well, here I am. Let me save you. You were an innocent kid.
None of that was your fault and neither was the accident.”

“No! Stop!” His booming voice still startles the
hell out of me, but I can’t quit now.

I reach for his hands and unclench them from the
blankets. “I’ll save you. You have to let me save you.” I guide one
of his big hands up my stomach to my chest. I press his trembling
hand, palm down, to my chest; to my heart “My heart beats for you.
Let me save you.”

His eyes flit from side to side before meeting mine.
The turmoil I see in those eyes is gut-wrenching.

“Please, baby.”

His fist tangles in my shirt as his eyes slide
closed. “I’m s-so sorry.” His voice cracks and quakes and I let out
a breath that I feel as if I’ve been holding forever. “I’m so
sorry.”

“Hush. It’s okay now,” I whisper as I climb onto the
bed to straddle his lap. New tears well in his amber eyes and my
heart breaks all over again. Seeing him so distraught is painful
for me. I don’t want him unhappy. I don’t want him hurting.

“I wanted to tell you. I was so dumb. I put you
through hell. I—” Tears spill from his eyes and I can’t bear to see
it. I pull him to me. His arms wrap around my waist and his head
rests against my chest. I feel his body rock as my Big Man sobs; he
completely crumbles. 33 years of torment have reached a pinnacle
and I’m here to see him fall to pieces.

And I’ll be here to put those pieces back
together.

“Look at me,” I say, after several long moments
pass. My hands cup his head and I pull him away from my chest so I
can look at him. Those eyes I melt for bore into me.

“I love you, Damon. You’re going
to get through this.
We
are going to get through this.
Together.”

His eyes close and he draws in a deep breath. I’m
compelled to lean forward and press my lips to his tense forehead.
I swipe my thumbs beneath his eyes, wiping away tears as I go. My
hands cup his jaw and tilt his head back to look at me. My sweet,
broken man needs me. Actually, I’m not sure who needs who more at
the moment. I need to feel close to him again. I need to feel
wanted by him and he needs to feel anything but tortured. I lean in
and press my lips to his. It feels like I haven’t kissed him in
millennia. The feel of his mouth against mine is like breathing for
the first time. Painfully perfect. It makes me abundantly aware
that loving him can be painful as hell, but being without him is a
hellish agony.

***

I
straddle his lap and hold his sodden face in my hands. I’m still so
shocked that Damon was abused so horrendously by the person that he
calls his father. It breaks my heart to see this successful,
driven, strong man so tormented by his past.

“If you want to leave, I’ll understand,” he offers
weakly.

“Why in the world would I want to leave?” My head
snaps back a fraction as if I’ve just been slapped. “I didn’t leave
before, why would I leave now?” He’s lost his mind if he thinks I’d
hightail it out of here when I’ve just gotten him back.

“Because now you know. You read it.” His head drops
in shame and it breaks my heart to see him so defeated.

I lift his face to mind and stare
into his bleary eyes. “Listen to me, Damon Cole. I’m not the
expert, but I think that’s what love is. It’s knowing the ugly
truth and not giving a damn. I don’t care about that.” I motion
towards the stack of notebooks that I’ve tossed across the room.
“That’s not you. It doesn’t define you. It doesn’t define
us.
” I motion my hand
between my chest and his, lowering my forehead to his. “We define
us.”

“We define us,” he repeats.

“Yes, Damon. Us. Nobody else.”

In almost an instant, I see the worry leave his
face. Those warm eyes, the ones I’ve missed so much, return. I wrap
my arms around his neck and hug him tightly. His muscles relax
under my touch and I’m so relieved I could cry. I thought he might
always be Zombie Damon. I’m glad I was wrong.