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I miss the way you make me feel, @LORI HANLON
PERMALINK // POSTED ON: Jan 1 2018, 04:45 PM
Lori's pale eyes flicked frequently to the rearview mirror out of habit, checking for any sort of motion that might indicate Alceo was signing to them. Though barely two years old, his personal lexicon was expanding exponentially—and since their son, born far too young and far too unlucky—couldn't really make a sound, it was imperative to Lori that he always felt like she was "listening", even though it meant occasionally taking her eyes off the road.
Next to her, her husband sat, half-asleep in the passenger’s seat after a long day at work. Though they were making better money than they ever had before, Lori liked being the one to pick Dave up from his job, despite it no longer being a financial necessity. He worked harder than anyone she had ever met to do right by their little family; in turn, it was the little favors and moments that she could provide to him that cheered her best.
It wasn’t that Lori wasn’t working. As an ex-marine, the idea of physically or intellectually staying still was practically soul-destroying. But Lori kept busy, incredibly so. Her time was evenly divided between freelance interpretation (she had finally built up a reliable client base in the city), and taking care of Alceo, who required frequent doctor's visits and a variety of therapies to ensure he was growing up healthy and strong… and might even one day be able to find his voice. In the meantime, whatever hours weren’t devoted him, Dave, or her work, she spent doggedly teaching herself sign language; in a fashion only the strangeness of life can cook up, all her experiences, and all her skills, somehow had led to this moment… and truth to be told, nothing else had ever felt so right.
Simplicity. Family. Living. The taste was strange, but she had grown fond of it; fond of the way her scars had faded to a reminder of her past, of where she had come from, and her heart had grown as a testament to the future.
She’d never be the housewife of sitcoms from bygone decades, nor did she want to be. But Dave loved her, and she loved Dave, and they loved their son. It worked for them. That’s all she had really wanted.
The roads were mostly empty this time of night, and the sleepier her husband grew, the quieter her son did, too. All of them longed for bed, so it was good that they weren’t far from home as it was. Though it was tempting to prop up her head with a hand, muscle memory and discipline had her with both hands on the wheel. Lori knew, however, that as soon as they put their toddler to bed, she’d be hitting the hay herself—her back and hip were aching from the weather, and that alone tended to wear her down. That didn’t mean she wasn’t alert, though, which was a damn good thing; otherwise, she might have missed the car in front of them getting clipped and spinning into the median. Or rather, missed the crucial moment where her pale eyes were able to immediately zero in on the license plate and commit it to memory; it was kind of hard to ignore an accident like that without willfully managing it.
There was no question that they were stopping. They weren’t the type of people to run away from a problem, and many a good Samaritan had helped them out (especially Dave) in the past, so it was only fair that they play that role in turn. With Alceo in the car, things might be a little more complicated, but they’d figure it out. They always did.
Lori pulled up behind the battered vehicle and reached out to gently squeeze Dave’s hand, so as to not startle him awake, while hitting the hazard lights with her other fist. Her husband was already stirring from the shift in momentum, which was good; spooking Dave, especially out of a dreamworld, could spell bad news—but Lori knew how to do right by him now, and rigidly abided by it. It was better for both of them if she did.
“Qualcuno ha fatto schiantare la macchina. Potresti prendere il kit di pronto soccorso dal bagagliaio per favore? Andrò a controllarla. Puoi stare con Alceo.”
Reaching behind Dave’s seat, Lori grabbed her cane and turned the car off, slipping from the front seat. She limped towards the smoking wreck rather quickly, nonetheless, scanning the vehicle for any immediate sign of danger. When she found none, she pressed forward, and knocked gently, but firmly, on the driver’s side window.
“Are you alright? I am going to open the door, okay?
Someone crashed their car. Could you grab the first aid kit from the trunk? I’ll go check it out. You can stay with Alceo.
And red lights passing
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