2011

Maddie blushed as she was strapped into the stroller, and her diaper became more visible.

A taste of things to come this weekend.    Chapter One Hundred & Thirteen: Part Five The lullaby had faded into silence. Paul’s breathing had finally evened out, deep and steady, the pacifier bobbing gently between his lips like a small anchor holding him safe in sleep. The lemon-dotted blanket rose and fell with each breath, and the nightlight painted soft purple and gold ripples across the ceiling. Lilly lay on the narrow roll-away bed in the corner, one arm tucked under her pillow, the other resting across her stomach. She watched him for a long moment, the ache in her chest both heavy and sweet. He’s safe tonight, she told herself. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. But sleep would not come easily. The day’s weight pressed on her like wet concrete—the fight, the ambulance, the bruises, the way Paul had looked at her with those trusting eyes while she changed him. She closed her own eyes, willing the quiet to settle over her. Instead, something shifted. The pastel walls of the room began to strobe in hard, ugly flashes—pale mustard yellow bleeding into puke-stain green, the colors of old linoleum and institutional fear. The gentle nightlight flickered like a dying bulb. A distant hospital loudspeaker crackled to life, tinny and echoing: “Paging Dr. Reynolds… Code blue, east wing… Paging Dr. Reynolds…” The voice grew louder with every pulse of color, overlapping itself, the words stretching and warping until they sounded like accusations. Lilly’s breath caught. She tried to sit up, but her body felt pinned to the mattress as the flashes intensified, faster, harsher, slamming against her eyelids even when she squeezed them shut. Between the strobes, the room dissolved. She was no longer thirty-three. She was eighteen again, perched uncomfortably on the edge of a cold medical exam table in a different hospital, a different nightmare. Her hair — longer then, darker, tangled — fell across her face in uneven strands. Her fingers were clenched in the thin paper sheet covering the table. The knuckles were swollen. Bruised. Purple fading into sickly yellow. Small cuts traced across the backs of her hands and along her wrists. Some were fresh, thin red lines that had not yet scabbed over. Others were older, the dried rust of blood marking their edges. Her forearms showed the same story. Bruises in different stages of healing. Faint fingerprints where someone had grabbed too hard. The room smelled faintly of antiseptic and something metallic. Fear. The loudspeaker crackled again. But the voices that followed did not belong to the hospital. A softer female voice, thick with old Nashville drawl, drifted in like warm honey laced with sorrow. A gentle hand rested on young Lilly’s shoulder. “Mama’s here, honey… my sweet, sweet flower.” Then the voice sharpened—harsher, colder, the same Southern cadence turned to venom. “Mary-Beth, she’s hardly a flower anymore after this. She’s nothin’ but a harlot, givin’ our family’s name a stain… like the Scarlett letter.” A man’s voice snapped in, rough and furious, the accent rolling like thunder over the hills. “Lilly,” the man demanded, voice tight with rage barely held in check. “You tell me right now who did this to you. Who STOLE this — your gift.” The word gift sounded heavy. Sacred. A thing already lost. The second woman cut him off, her tone slicing like broken glass. “Lee-Roy, don’t you dare talk to me like this! Lilly’s been just the problem child since she could spread her legs, and now we’re supposed to shed a tear for what SHE allowed to happen.” A final voice—neutral, ice-cold, clinical—cut through everything like a scalpel. “We’ve done all that we could.” The room felt smaller. The fluorescent lights buzzed louder. Lilly’s shoulders began to shake. Not crying. Shaking. Like a body trying to contain pain that had nowhere left to go. Young Lilly’s body curled inward on the table. She pulled her knees up tight to her chest, arms wrapping around them as if she could disappear inside herself. Her shoulders shook violently. A low, broken moan escaped her lips—raw, animal pain that echoed off the mustard-yellow walls. The flashes slammed harder. The loudspeaker screamed now: “Code blue… Code blue… Code blue…” Lilly’s eyes flew open in the present. Her Apple Watch glowed on her wrist—2:45 a.m.   She sat bolt upright on the roll-away bed, heart hammering against her ribs, sweat dampening the back of her neck. The pastel nursery colors of Paul’s room had returned, soft and forgiving, but the memory still clung to her like smoke. Paul slept on, unaware, pacifier still in his mouth, face peaceful despite the bruises. Lilly pressed a trembling hand to her chest, breathing through the panic the way she had taught herself years ago.   She couldn’t stay in the bed another second.   Lilly rose quietly, bare feet silent on the cool floor. She crossed to Paul’s bed, heart pounding with fierce, protective love so raw it felt like it might split her open. With trembling hands she lowered the left-side hospital rails — the metal sliding down with a soft, metallic sigh that felt like opening a gate between their worlds. She pulled the large comfy chair as close as it would go until the armrest brushed the mattress. Then she leaned in, elbows on the bed, chin resting on her folded hands, watching him the way a new mother watches her newborn in the middle of the night — every breath a miracle, every tiny movement a prayer answered.   Tears slipped down her cheeks unchecked as the baby talk poured out of her in a trembling, aching whisper, each word soaked in the love she had never been given and now poured into him with everything she had.   “Oh my sweet, precious baby boy… look at you, all tucked in and fighting so hard even in your sleep. Mommy’s right here, baby. Mommy saw every bruise, every tear, every scared little thought in your eyes today… and it broke my heart into a million pieces.  But you’re safe now. No one’s ever gonna hurt my baby like that again. Not while Mommy’s here.”   Her fingertips brushed the soft hair at his temple, feather-light, careful to avoid the stitches near his cheek. Her thumb traced the unbruised side of his jaw in the lightest circle, then slipped under the lemon-dotted blanket to rest gently over his bandaged ribs — not pressing, just hovering with warmth so he could feel her presence without waking. She let her palm rise and fall with each shallow breath, memorizing the rhythm, anchoring herself to the living proof that she had broken the cycle.   “I was so scared today, baby… so scared....but look at you… still here, still my brave, beautiful boy. No matter what the future looks like — diapers, doctors, school, everything — Mommy’s never leaving. I’ll fight every demon for you. I’ll sing every lullaby. I’ll hold you through every storm.”   Paul stirred the tiniest bit, a soft sigh escaping around the pacifier, but he stayed deep in sleep, trusting, safe. Lilly’s eyes filled with fresh tears she didn’t bother to wipe away. She leaned closer, lips brushing the very edge of his forehead in the gentlest kiss, then another on the uninjured side of his cheek, her breath warm against his skin.   Across the city, while the hospital night hummed softly around Lilly and Paul, another room held a different kind of silence. Not the quiet of machines and nurses’ footsteps. But the quiet that settles after something inside a person has cracked. Martina sat heavily into the deep burgundy armchair in her apartment living room.   The chair swallowed her slightly — plush, overstuffed, the kind of furniture meant for comfort after long days of cooking, cleaning, and worrying about the daughter she had raised alone. Tonight it offered none. The cushions felt too soft, too forgiving, as if they were mocking the hardness in her chest. The fabric smelled faintly of the lavender spray she used to freshen the apartment, but tonight even that familiar scent felt distant, like a memory from someone else’s life.   Her left hand trembled.   Inside it, a crystal tumbler held two melting cubes of ice floating in amber bourbon. The glass clinked softly against the ice with each shake of her hand. The sound was small, almost pathetic in the stillness. Outside the wide balcony window, Jacksonville’s skyline glittered quietly — the St. Johns River reflecting streaks of white and gold from the bridge lights. Normally Martina loved this view. It reminded her that life kept moving, even when the heart insisted on stopping.   Tonight the lights looked cold, distant, indifferent.   Her voice broke the silence. Low. Soft. Spanish curling through the room like smoke.   “Dios mío… qué hicimos para merecer esto.” (My God… what did we do to deserve this.)   Her thumb pressed hard against the rim of the glass. The bourbon trembled. Then her voice hardened slightly.   “Ese muchacho…” (That boy…)   The anger simmered beneath the sorrow.   “Marcus.”   The name tasted bitter. She leaned back slowly in the chair, her eyes lifting toward the far wall. And as they did— The memory replayed. The apartment had felt different earlier that evening. Tense. He stood in the doorway with that familiar posture — confident but slightly deferential in Martina’s presence. He’d always known how to present himself well to parents. That was part of his charm. Amber stood beside him, arms folded tightly across her chest. Martina had been standing near the kitchen island.   Waiting.   The moment Marcus closed the door behind him, Martina spoke first.   “What happened.”   Not a question. A demand. Marcus swallowed.   “Mrs. Enamorado—”   “Martina,” she corrected coldly.   Marcus nodded.   “Martina.”   He stepped forward slightly. His posture was carefully controlled — shoulders relaxed, voice steady. To anyone else he might have looked genuinely remorseful. But Martina had spent years raising a daughter in a world full of charming men. She knew performance when she saw it. Marcus began.   “I want to start by saying I am deeply sorry for what happened to Paul.”   Martina didn’t respond. Marcus continued, carefully choosing words.   “I told Danny to challenge Paul to a one-on-one game.”   Amber shifted slightly beside him. Marcus pressed on.   “I wanted Danny to play him hard. I wanted Paul to… be humbled a little.”   Martina’s fingers tightened around the glass.   “But I never meant for Danny to attack him,” Marcus added quickly. “And I had no idea about Paul’s need for… protection.”   He paused slightly over the word. Amber’s influence. Martina noticed.   “I didn’t know,” Marcus continued. “About his condition.”   The room stayed silent. Marcus waited. Nothing. So he added more.   “I would never have allowed that if I had known.”   Martina finally spoke. Her voice was calm. Too calm.   “So you told someone to humiliate him.”   Marcus flinched slightly.   “I didn’t say that.”   “But that is what you meant.”   Marcus hesitated.   “I meant for them to play.”   Martina nodded slowly.   “And when Danny pantsed him?”   Marcus looked down.   “I didn’t stop it.”   That was the first honest thing he’d said. Martina leaned forward slightly.   “And when Danny beat him?”   Marcus exhaled.   “I didn’t expect that to happen.”   Martina’s gaze hardened.   “No,” she said quietly. “You expected something else.”   Marcus shifted. For the first time, his carefully constructed remorse faltered slightly.   “I didn’t think it would go that far.”   Martina’s voice remained even.   “But you did want him embarrassed.”   Marcus said nothing. Silence confirmed enough. Martina leaned back slowly. Something inside her chest ached.   Not rage. Not yet. Disappointment.   She had believed Marcus was a good young man. Flawed, yes. But fundamentally decent. Now that image was gone. And the absence hurt. Because the boy in the hospital bed had no father nearby tonight. Marcus tried again.   “I’m not the one who hit him.”   The words slipped out before he could stop them. Martina’s eyes lifted slowly. There it was. The shift. From accountability. To defense. Marcus realized too late how it sounded.   “I’m not saying I’m innocent,” he added quickly. “I just—”   “You just want to make sure we know it wasn’t your hands.”   The sentence landed quietly. Marcus pressed his lips together. Amber stepped forward then.   “Mamá—”   Martina lifted a hand slightly. Not to silence her. But to hold space. She looked at Marcus again.   “You helped start something,” she said. “And now Paul is in the hospital.”   Marcus nodded.   “I know.”   Martina studied him carefully. Trying to decide whether the apology was real. Or simply necessary. The worst part? She suspected it was both. Amber’s voice cut through the memory.   “Mamá, escúchame.” (Mom, listen to me.)   Martina blinked. Back in the living room now. Amber stood across from her. Marcus slightly behind. Amber’s voice trembled but remained firm.   “Yo también estoy enojada con él.” (I’m angry at him too.)   Martina’s jaw tightened. Amber continued in Spanish.   “Pero no puedes tratarlo como si fuera el único culpable.” (But you can’t treat him like he’s the only one responsible.)   Martina laughed once. Sharp.   “¿Ah no?”   Amber stepped closer.   “Mamá… yo tampoco fui buena con Paul.” (Mom… I wasn’t good to Paul either.)   Martina blinked. Amber swallowed.   “When I first found out about… everything,” she said quietly in English now, “I acted like the biggest jerk imaginable.”   Martina closed her eyes briefly. She knew. She had seen the distance growing between them. But hearing Amber admit it still hurt. Amber’s voice rose slightly.   “I’m not pretending Marcus didn’t do something wrong.”   Marcus remained silent behind her. But his eyes watched carefully. Always calculating.   “I’m saying it’s more complicated than that.”   Martina’s voice returned to Spanish.   “Complicado no significa excusable.” (Complicated does not mean excusable.)   Amber’s temper sparked.   “¡No estoy diciendo que lo sea!” (I’m not saying it is!)   Martina stood slowly. The bourbon glass still trembled in her hand.   “You are defending the man who helped put Paul in the hospital.”   Amber’s eyes flashed.   “And you’re acting like Paul is the only person who matters!”   The words hit hard. Too hard. Martina’s face changed.   “Cuidado con lo que dices.” (Be careful what you say.)   Amber shook her head.   “This is exactly what I mean!”   The tension climbed quickly now. Years of mother-daughter history fueling every word.   “You always do this,” Amber snapped. “You pick someone to protect and everyone else becomes the enemy!”   Martina’s voice sharpened.   “Paul could have died today!”   Amber fired back. “And Marcus didn’t hit him!”   Silence. Marcus shifted slightly. The argument was spiraling. Exactly the kind of emotional chaos he preferred not to be inside. Amber’s voice broke.   “I love him, mamá.”   The sentence hung there. Heavy. Real. Martina’s expression softened briefly. But only briefly.   “And Paul?” she asked quietly.   Amber hesitated. That hesitation said everything. Martina’s heart twisted. Because she knew that look. Amber loved Marcus like a lover. But Paul… Paul was something else entirely. Family. History. A version of Amber that existed before ambition and popularity rewrote her identity. Amber’s voice came out small.   “He’s like my brother.”   Martina nodded slowly.   “Then act like it.”   Amber’s frustration exploded.   “Maybe I should just leave!”   The threat hung in the air. Martina’s eyes hardened.   “Entonces vete.” (Then go.)   Amber blinked.   “Mamá—”   “Vete.”   Marcus moved quickly then. Grabbing Amber’s bag from the chair. The movement was smooth. Practical. Amber turned toward the door. Her voice shaking with anger.   “¡No puedo creer que estés haciendo esto!” (I can’t believe you’re doing this!)   Martina’s response came immediately.   “¡Yo tampoco puedo creer en quién te estás convirtiendo!” (Neither can I believe who you’re becoming!)   Amber yanked the door open. Marcus stepped into the hallway with her bag. Amber looked back one last time.   “¡Esto no ha terminado!” (This isn’t over!)   Martina’s voice followed like a closing blade.   “¡Para mí sí!”     The door slammed. Hard. The sound echoed through the apartment.     Back in the present, Martina stared at the door. The bourbon glass still trembling in her hand. Her voice came again in Spanish.   Quiet. Broken.   “Dios mío…” She took a long drink.   And whispered the part she hadn’t said out loud. “Cuida a ese niño.” (Take care of that boy.) The December sun in Jacksonville moved slowly across the sky, its golden light pouring through the tall hospital window like warm honey. It bathed the pastel nursery-hospital room in a radiant glow — soft aqua walls catching the light and turning it into something almost magical, powdered white trim gleaming, baby blue and gentle pink accents softening every edge. The glow settled on Paul’s body like a blessing, framing his bruised and swollen face in a halo of warmth that made the stitches and the purple shadow around his eye look less harsh for one fragile moment. It rested on his chest where the nasal cannula rested under his nose, and it kissed the thick, dry Safari diaper hidden beneath the lemon-dotted blanket, turning even that into something safe and contained. The room felt like a cocoon — safe, cozy, a place where healing was possible.   Paul lay at peace.   His pacifier bobbed gently between his lips with each slow, even breath, the silicone nipple rising and falling in a steady rhythm. In his right arm he clutched both plushies tightly — Batman on one side, the Long Knight (the baby giraffe) pressed close against his chest. Their soft fur and familiar shapes were anchors. The little side of him had finally found rest after the storm, and even the big side felt the quiet safety of the room. For the first time since the gym, his body wasn’t fighting. It was simply being.   The camera in our minds pans back slowly. A toilet flushes in the attached bathroom. Water runs for a long moment. The door opens quietly. Lilly stepped out.   She looked radiant in the soft morning light — more at ease than she had been yesterday, even if the worry still lingered in her eyes. Her blonde hair was tied up in a high ponytail, a few loose strands framing her face. She wore just enough makeup to enhance her natural beauty — a touch of mascara, a soft glow on her cheeks, a hint of gloss on her lips. Her outfit was comfortable but expensive: cream-white Lululemon yoga pants that hugged her legs perfectly, paired with a long-sleeve zipper pullover in deep purple from the same brand. Beneath it, a sports bra peeked at the neckline. White socks completed the look. In her hand she held a piping hot cup of coffee from the small, high-end portable machine that sat on a shelf in the bathroom — one of the thoughtful extras Wolfson Children’s Hospital provided in its private rooms.   She leaned against the bathroom doorframe, heart and mind simply at ease for the first time in hours. Her eyes rested on Paul with a mother’s quiet devotion. He was safe. He was breathing. He was hers to protect. The glow of the December sun wrapped around him like a promise.   Then her expression changed.   Subtle expectation turned into slight uncomfortableness as she watched Paul’s face begin to twist — not from the pain of his injuries, but from something deeper. A slight rumble came from beneath the blanket. More squishes than crinkling from the diaper underneath. Finally, a soft muffled grunt escaped Paul’s lips around the pacifier.   Lilly understood immediately.   She was watching him dirty his diaper — for all intensive purposes — but this time there wasn’t any embarrassment on his face. His cheeks didn’t turn red. Instead he made his “mess” peacefully. In fact, Lilly’s heart strained a little more as Paul was seen almost blissful with the last little grunt between his pacifier before instinctively turning on his side, pushing his bottom outward, then settling back to sleep with a contented sigh.   Lilly put her coffee down on the side table.   She approached Paul’s bed again. The side rails had been returned up sometime overnight. She carefully reached in and slowly brought up the blanket from Paul’s left side. Under the hospital gown, she saw the back end of his Safari diaper poking out. Its previous pristine white plastic now had a heavy sag and a darker spot spreading across the seat. She paused for a moment, taking in the sight with a mix of tenderness and quiet responsibility. Then, with infinite gentleness, she reached down and lovingly patted the full, sagging diaper — a soft, reassuring pat right on the seat, her palm feeling the warm, heavy padding through the gown.   “Ohhh, my sweet baby boy,” she whispered in the softest baby-talk voice, the words slipping out naturally. “Such a big, messy diapee for Mommy’s brave little man. It’s okay, honey… Mommy’s right here. You’re all safe and sound, even with your yucky diapee. Shhh, shhh… Mommy’s got you.”   The words were quiet, almost inaudible, but they carried every ounce of the love she had learned to give him in these last three months. She felt the weight of the moment in her chest — the fear that she might not always be fast enough, the guilt that she hadn’t protected him sooner, the overwhelming need to keep him safe forever.   She gently let the blanket fall back over him.   Smiling softly to herself through the tears that threatened to rise, she walked around Paul’s bed and reached into the diaper bag. He’ll need a change soon, she thought. The thought brought a small wave of peace — this was her role now, and she was learning to carry it with love instead of fear.   But just as Lilly was making her way back for another sip of coffee, the peaceful and sweet morning was about to shatter around them.   Without warning — except for Paul’s heart monitor spiking just a second before with a sharp, urgent beep — Paul sat up in bed with terrifying suddenness. Still with his eyes closed, his body simply expelled from his mouth a chunky but bloody vomit.   It was violent the way his body expelled it — a sudden, forceful surge of dark red mixed with bile that splattered across the lemon-dotted blanket and the front of his gown with shocking force. The metallic smell hit the air instantly. Lilly dropped her coffee in seconds, the cup shattering on the floor as hot liquid sprayed across the tiles and her cream pants. Paul’s head snapped toward her and once again expelled more blood than vomit, the force making his body jerk forward violently. Fresh crimson sprayed across the bed and onto Lilly’s purple pullover, some of it hitting her face and neck in warm, sticky droplets.   Alarm bells began going off in the ward — sharp, urgent beeps echoing down the hallway like a siren of pure panic. Lilly was trying to cradle her son, arms wrapping around him as best she could while his body convulsed with extreme cough fits. Fresh blood kept coming up, splattering across her chest and arms. His eyes were wide open now, panicked and unfocused, the nasal cannula dislodged and hanging loose. He gasped between coughs, terror flashing across his face for the first time since the sedation.   Soon enough two nurses and two doctors rushed into the room. One of the nurses gently but firmly pulled Lilly off of Paul as one of the doctors asked sharply, “What happened?”   Lilly’s voice shook as she explained, tears already streaming. “He just… sat up and started vomiting blood — a lot of blood. He’s coughing it up now. Oh God, there’s so much—”   The other nurse quickly cut off Paul’s hospital gown. Beneath the taped ribs, his skin was almost purple, the bruising spreading violently. One doctor barked, “I think the kid’s got some blood in the lungs — possible hemothorax.” The other doctor agreed but checked the chart quickly. “Nothing showed up on his X-rays yesterday when they admitted him. What about the broken rib — did it puncture the lung?” The first doctor shook his head. “No, we’ll need to run more tests but first let’s check the stomach — maybe a quick pump.”   “Yes, Doctor,” one nurse said as they began to get ready to wheel Paul out. One nurse turned to Lilly and said urgently, “We’ll get back to you with news, some fresh clothes, and get the room cleaned.” One doctor mentioned, “The kid’s gonna need a change,” as Lilly held out the fresh Safari diaper she had been holding. One of the nurses took it and thanked Lilly as she watched them wheel her son out into the hall and toward treatment.   Lilly stood frozen for a moment, stained with blood and vomit, her cream yoga pants and purple pullover now splattered dark red. Then her legs gave out. She simply fell back onto the ground, sitting hard on the floor beside the shattered coffee cup. Her cries began — raw, broken sobs that tore from her chest as the reality crashed over her. The boy she had fought so hard to protect was being rushed away again, and she could only watch.   Her purse lay on the chair beside the bed. The screen of her iPhone lit up.   3 missed calls from Bryan.   The room was suddenly very quiet except for the distant sound of alarms fading down the hallway and Lilly’s quiet, devastated sobs.   She was alone with the blood on her hands and the terror in her heart.

Rather than a Sound Level Meter, it would be far more useful to have an Odor Meter.

Doctor's orders.  Hurt my lower spine when I wiped out in Hawaii.  

IMO, the scenario with your neighbor is less creepy. The whole aspect of having the protagonist be 18 years old and that makes it alright always skirts that vibe, but I think it goes overboard in this case.  It's creepy even if it was 13 years old, but 3 years old is not appropriate.