"Exit Wounds" Chapter Thirty-Six
In honor of me finishing this godforsaken manuscript, here's the final chapter
Cheyenne inhaled the strong scent of plywood as she made her way to the paint section of the Home Depot in town. It wrapped her up in the quilt of childhood memories, memories of all her father’s projects that he somehow still had energy for even after a long week of work. She didn’t often set foot into Home Depot—admittedly that had always been Flynn’s area of expertise. But that week, she was going for the second time, and this time, she didn’t need to ask where to find the paint. Samples had been taped to the wall for three days and at long last, she found her muse.
Paint mixed, she carried the can through the store, lamenting at her lack of strength as her arm grew tired. She resolved to start working out again with all the space that would be freed up in her studio. Maybe she’d join a gym. Doubtful. Flynn went most mornings, keeping up the physique she so loved. Her Home Depot resolution had about as much traction as a New Year’s resolution. She recognized this as she set her items on the conveyor belt—two rollers, two paint pans, a tarp… do we have a tarp? She shrugged off her second guessing and at last set the paint can on the belt.
Like clockwork, Meena pulled into the driveway just as Cheyenne pulled her hair up into a bun and tucked the front of her big T-shirt into the waistband of her infamous painting jeans. It was warming up, but not quite weather for shorts. Each morning, Cheyenne enjoyed her coffee on the porch, basking in the sunlight as the sun rose high enough in the sky to bathe her with warmth.
The pair convened in the room that was to be Flynn’s office. What was then eggshell would be a creamy green, just rich in pigment enough to be reminiscent of a springtime sprout, but dull enough to not overtake the framed floorplans that would grace the walls. Cheyenne had plans, big plans, for this room. She knew he had no reason to venture back there, and that her surprise would remain a surprise.
With paint poured in two pans, the girls took up opposite walls. Meena was stanced, turned back to look at Cheyenne, who held the roller in a hesitant hand. “You ready?”
Cheyenne nodded, unsure. Just as she contemplated setting the roller down and sealing up the paint can, a wave of confidence overtook her. She was ready. She had never been more ready for the life that would await them, just two lovers and the cat. She turned to smile at Meena, with cheeks that bloomed with blush. “I’m ready.” She dipped the roller in the paint, and took to those eggshell walls that held nothing but the remnants of a pain that Cheyenne was ready to heal from. She had been waiting for that readiness for almost three years. Finally she felt it swell in her heart. It was like the rushing of a waterfall before it cascaded down the mountainside, droplets blowing freely in the wind. Those droplets were sprinkles of hope and visions of their new life, a life where nothing felt hollow. She couldn’t speak for Flynn, but she was ready for a future where she didn’t feel guilt over the emptiness of her womb. She was happy, standing there painting, and felt grateful for the strength her body gave her. In her pain, she’d learned to appreciate the things her body did for her. Like waking her up in the mornings, allowing her peace in the smallest of moments, carrying her on walks through the neighborhood. She’d grown stronger with each day that passed, her incisions causing her less pain and her organs conforming to the absence of her uterus. Since Flynn had come into her life, she was happier, but in that moment, happiness flooded her. She was covering up the old, bringing in the new, and she felt better than ever. She held some apprehension—apprehension that Flynn still wanted children while she’d given up her wish.
This slowed her strokes with the roller. Contemplation of what she hadn’t yet considered. Meena was too enraptured by the evenness of her passes to notice Cheyenne’s hesitance. Cheyenne glanced back at her friend, the only person as close to her as Flynn. She weighed her options, the weight of them heavy on both shoulders. Bring it up or let it simmer. The shoulder that held the simmering thoughts fell deeper than the other. She chose to cover up her troubles with that soft green shade. In her mind, the same way Flynn could, she pictured the room at its completion, Flynn’s desk in the corner under the window, a drafting desk that she would buy for him on the opposite wall. She knew he loved to do his plans by hand, as antiquated as that technique might be. She loved to watch him sketch. Since the infancy of their relationship, she’d watched him sketch out on napkins at restaurants. Once on a cloth napkin, forgetting he was in a fancy restaurant. He needed to convey his vision to her. He always needed to convey things—he felt dictation didn’t do justice to his visions. He was a good artist, Cheyenne always thought him better than herself. But it was natural to be one’s own harshest critic. She longed to watch him from the chair that would now reside beside the door, watch him sketch on his new drafting table that she had already ordered in anticipation. The chair she was supposed to nurse in. It was supposed to get there Friday. Just enough time for her to put it together before he returned from work for the weekend. Hopefully, he’d go out for drinks with coworkers to give her more time to get it set up. But hopefully not too many drinks. Her worry returned, as it always did when it came to him. She wanted to be by his side forever, to ensure nothing ever happened to him. The accident enhanced this feeling. For those moments that she spent, suspended between reality and imagination, where she didn’t know if she was alive or dead—where she didn’t know if he was alive or dead—she knew she never wanted a life without him beside her. And this she knew might be out of her control. She wanted to do everything in her power to ensure that it was within her hands. But she couldn’t go to work with him, follow him through every waking hour.
She rolled paint onto the walls with a renewed ferocity, something Meena took notice of. “You good?”
Cheyenne smiled, a smile that fought to break free despite her efforts to suppress it. “Great.” And she meant it.
“Flynn is going to love this.”
“He better!”
Meena chuckled and returned to painting, her strokes much more calculated and even than Cheyenne’s. Meena was having her own challenges internally as she bathed the eggshell. Finally, she decided to just blurt it out. “I’m pregnant.”
If tires, Cheyenne’s roller would’ve screeched as it halted. “What?” She turned slowly, expecting this to be some kind of sick joke.
Meena nodded, smile exploding. Cheyenne dropped her rolled into the tray, not giving a care to the paint that splattered the tarp as she rushed over to Meena with open arms. The roller contacted her shirt as Meena hugged her, but neither took notice. “I can’t believe it.”
“Neither can I.” She could believe the pregnancy, but not Cheyenne’s overwhelming happiness. She figured her good will would be tainted with jealousy, but there wasn’t a hint, not even an aftertaste. She let Cheyenne sway her around as they both basked in the happiness that had showered Meena the very second those two lines showed up on the test. “You’re gonna be an auntie again.”
“I know. Flynn’s gonna be so happy.”
As they parted, Meena’s smile fell. “I didn’t know how to tell you, you know…”
Cheyenne smiled, a sympathetic smile that told Meena there was nothing left to worry about. “I don’t want anything more in this life.”
Meena gazed into her best friend’s eyes for signs of deception. Nothing stood out to her. “Nothing?”
“I have the world, Meen.”
“You really do,” she said softly. “And I’m so happy.”
They embraced again before returning to their prime task of the day, intent to finish before Flynn returned home around six. It was no small task, their painting was hasty, hence why Cheyenne had taped the day before. Melodies of the nineties filled the room, nostalgia embracing both of them in different ways. For Cheyenne, it was memories of sitting in the garage on a summer night with her father, Coke in hand while her father sipped a Yuengling. For Meena, it was the four walls of her bedroom that confined her, providing solace while her parents fought in the kitchen. She steered clear of her mother when she’d been drinking, but her father rarely had the good sense to do the same. Often he’d been drinking too and had the same urge to incite something.
But in that moment, the two of them made new memories to Spin Doctors’ “Two Princes.” Shaking their hips and laughing, paint rolls were melodic.
When all was said and done, the girls stepped back and admired their handiwork. “Any spots I missed?” Cheyenne asked, scanning her wall with an attentive eye.
Meena evaluated. “Nope. What about me?”
Cheyenne scrutinized, wanting everything to be just right. Although Flynn would appreciate a little imperfection, as he always said it was the salt of creativity. “Nope.”
Meena held up a hand and Cheyenne’s palm collided with hers in a hearty smack that followed as the girls slapped each other’s asses. Their work was done, but Cheyenne had her work cut out for her. The time read 4:56 P.M. Flynn would be leaving the office soon.
“Now let’s clean this shit up.”
A time-lapse could not do their quick work justice. While Meena took everything out to the trash in front of the house, Cheyenne stood confined by the walls that used to bring her an ache in her chest. Now that feeling in her chest was a flutter. The flutter, the palpitation of a butterfly’s wings as it set off from the heart of a flower.
#
Cheyenne lay on the couch with a book, trying to maintain her composure as Flynn came through the door. “Hey, babe.”
“Hey,” she said, without looking up from her book. “How was your day?” It was Friday night, they’d planned a date night. It wasn’t a rare occasion for them, being childless and having a renewed love for each other after their year apart. The childless part was something Cheyenne no longer resented being reminded of. She found the beauty in their enduring love that found enough of an outlet without making them a trio. She’d always have more than enough love to give when it came to him. She was thankful that all her love could be concentrated to him.
A long exhale. “Better now.” He came over and kissed her on the cheek. “What’re you reading?”
She held the book so that he could see the cover, but bookmarked it as she did.
“No, don’t stop on my account.”
She sat up and took his compliant hand. “I have something to show you.”
“What’s that?” he asked.
She glanced up at him with plotting eyes. “Someone’s impatient.” She pushed his eyelids down and took his hand again, guiding him slowly across the living room and checking occasionally to make sure his eyes were still closed. “No peeking,” she said, catching the slight lift of his left lid.
“Okay, okay.”
He couldn’t yet see where she was leading him, but a sick feeling festered in his gut as he pictured the hallway he felt them drifting into. The baby’s room.
His fears were confirmed as she opened the door. He reluctantly followed. He awaited her command, which didn’t come as he expected it to. Her presence was felt behind him as she covered his eyes with her hands. “Okay,” she said softly. “Open.” She lifted her hands a moment later.
He was greeted with the sight of his desk centered under the window, shelves hung with his trinkets and mementos that he’d collected over the years. Tears filled his eyes as he saw her watercolor renderings of his projects. And the latest—one he hadn’t seen—Natasha’s house. “Cheyenne.” His voice trembled.
“Do you like it?” she asked, barely above a whisper.
He turned around, not wanting to take his eyes off the space. “You did this yourself?”
She nodded. “I mean, Meen helped with the paint but—“
He cut her off with a kiss. “I can’t believe you did all this… for me.”
“You deserve a space to work, a space to show off all the things you’ve done.”
Her worries about his desire for children renewed as she saw the look on his face as he did a sweep of the room once more. “But this was—“
“I figured we needed to make it something. We couldn’t just let it sit empty.”
He smiled, eyes meeting hers. “You’re right.” He took her fingers in his hand and kissed them gently, just a brush of the lips. “So what are we doing for date night?”
She shrugged, hand sliding down his shoulder to the crook of his elbow that made a right angle as he embraced her waist. “Chinese food and trash TV?”
He nodded, fighting laughter. “Sounds good to me.”
She kissed him. “I’ll go order.” And disappeared down the hall, leaving Flynn in the room that was lit only by the waning daylight. He approached the drafting desk, ran his hand along its sloped surface. Smooth. A solid slab of wood. She hadn’t skimped on the desk. He took a few short paces to the desk, wondering how on earth she’d moved it alone. He worried for her, wondered if she was in pain. The truth was she’d paid the delivery guy to help her carry it from one room to the—the baby’s room—other. He would have to stop thinking about it that way at some point. As he gazed around the room at the space Cheyenne had so lovingly put together for him, he thought that point might come sooner rather than later. His pens were in the cup he’d painted with Cheyenne at a pottery painting workshop, arranged as though nothing had changed. He admired the green of the walls, and then moved his eyes to all his plans, framed so nicely in a gallery wall sort of setup, broken up by her paintings.
She returned and wrapped her arms around him from behind, encircling his shoulders. He reached up with a limp hand and draped it over her forearm. “Dinner’s ordered. I paid for delivery.”
“Nice. Thanks, baby.”
Her brows furrowed as she pulled her vibrating phone from her pocket. “My dad?” She thought about declining the call, wanting to bask in this moment with her husband, but she thought better of it. Her dad called on Sundays. Unless something needed more immediate attention. “Hey, Dad.”
Flynn turned around, one of Cheyenne’s arms still resting on his shoulder. He watched her expression carefully, also aware of the fact that Will always called on Sundays.
“Oh…”
He watched her lip quiver.
“Are you okay?” A nod. “Yeah, I guess so.” Flynn could scarcely hear what Will was saying. He was trying not to listen, trying to let Cheyenne be the bearer of whatever news there was to be bore.
She hung up, disbelief haunting her face as she slid the phone back into her back pocket. “Aunt Paula’s dead.”
“Chey…”
“She’s dead.”
“Are you—“
“She was… it was time.”
“She’s in a better place. I know that doesn’t help.”
Cheyenne sniffled, determined not to let tears threaten her composure, and shook her head. “No, it doesn’t.”
He pulled her close, holding her head gently against his chest. She found solace in the sound of his heartbeat. It sounded like home.
As her dream of motherhood withered, so did her great aunt’s life.