It was slowly starting to make sense. When the pain got too much, Damian shut down. He blocked everything out. It was a coping mechanism. I could only imagine the horrors he had witnessed through all those years with El Charro. He had learned to turn his emotions off. I remembered when he cut my finger off. He’d gone on to make potato salad, as if he mutilated people every day.
I watched him adjust his pillow. I knew that sleeping on that side had to hurt—his stitches were still raw. So I flipped over, and stared at the wall. A few minutes later, he shifted back around. I could feel him staring at my back. In a little while, I would get up and give him another dose of his pills, but for now I was content with not being invisible, with having this flickering acknowledgment even though I knew he would look away the moment I turned to face him. Still, there was a lingering undercurrent of fear. Except this time I wasn’t afraid of Damian.
I was afraid for him.
All my life, people had looked after me. My every whim had been catered to, every need fulfilled. I stood in the kitchen, staring at the shelves, realizing how ill prepared I was to care for someone. I could do coffee and toast, or a bowl of cereal, but now I was looking at condiments and jars of stuff that could no doubt be combined to make something nice, but I had no idea how.
I pulled out a can of tomato soup. Sick people did well on soup. And crackers. I grabbed a packet of those. I looked out of the window as the soup heated on the stove. The contrast of azure waters against the rough limestone wall looked like something out of a travel magazine. A tropical breeze swirled through the kitchen. It was painted soft and earthy, like marzipan and pumpkin butter. I couldn’t imagine Damian choosing the color scheme. On the other hand, it was the perfect retreat from the cold, harsh world he lived in. Here, there was warmth and sunshine and light.
Damian eyed me warily when I entered the bedroom with his lunch tray. Clearly, he didn’t enjoy being dependent on anyone, but I knew he was just using his gruffness to mask the vulnerability. He hated that he was weak and needed looking after. He hated the guilt that went with being looked after by me. But it was exactly what he needed. He needed to know that he was worth caring for, that I wasn’t going to abandon him like he thought I’d done all those years ago, that in spite of everything that had happened, I was still standing by his side. I didn’t know for how long though, because lord, just getting him to co-operate so I could prop him up to eat was a whole production.
I placed the tray on the bed and turned the spoon his way. He just stared at the tray. I knew he was thinking of all the times he had done the same for me on the boat, bringing me food, except under much different circumstances. I knew what it took for him to pick up that spoon. He held it over the bowl and put it down again. His throat spasmed as he fought whatever was tormenting him.
It dawned on me that no one had cared for Damian, not since MaMaLu, not when he was sick, and not when he was hurt. The world had denied him tenderness, and he didn’t know what to do with it now, or how to react. He had singlehandedly brought down a drug lord, but a bowl of soup was breaking him down. He wanted me to hate him for what he’d done. An eye for an eye. That made sense to him. Not this, not kindness where he expected loathing. It was turning his whole world upside down.
I wanted to put my hand on his clenched fists and tell him it was okay, but I got up and left. I knew he would never eat while I watched. A few hours later, when I went back to his room, he was sleeping. He had taken his pills, but left the food untouched.
Rafael was right.
Damian was a bull-headed prick.
I opened more cans of soup. More trays went untouched. I was ready to hold him down and force feed him when I found a jar of roasted peanuts. When Damian opened his eyes that afternoon, I was sitting on a chair watching him.
“About time,” I said, tossing a handful of peanuts into my mouth.
Crunch, crunch, crunch.
He looked from me to the cone of peanuts that I’d fashioned out of a magazine cover, but didn’t say anything.
I continued munching. Crunch, crunch, crunch.
He had to be hungry. Starving. He was just too fucking proud to let me do anything for him.
“I thought you were allergic to peanuts,” he said.
“You know very well I’m not.”
For a fleeting second, the hint of a smile played on his lips.
There it was, a memory that had gotten past his defenses: me discovering chocolate peanut butter ice cream and hiding the container under my bed so I could share it with him. There was nothing left when he climbed through the window that evening. I had eaten the whole thing and was trying not to be sick.
I failed, and he helped me clean up the evidence.
“You knew,” I said, realizing why he hadn’t blinked when I told him I was allergic to peanuts. I thought of him moisturizing his feet. “You asshole.”
He laughed, catching the peanut I threw at him.