What does he have against me? I’ve never seen him before.
There are two others, one of them an old woman in a blue head scarf sitting cross-legged, with a wooden bowl in her lap. A younger woman, standing beside her, turns and looks at me in surprise.
I start toward her, but hesitate, seeing her unsmiling face. Finally, she nods. “Hello, Miss Tummel.”
“Anna!” I seize her hand. “What are you doing here?”
“My mamus, she makes special meski for the painter.” She nods at the woman, who frowns up at me.
“Your mother, yes! Hello.”
No answer. Just those sharp eyes, black as gunsights.
“Meski,” Anna explains. “It is tea. Mamus, she knows the plants. How you say? Herbs. Her tea make strong blood. But it is too late for the painter man.”
Cole speaks up. “You mean he’s dead?”
“He is alive. A little.”
Cole takes me by the arm.
Inside, two large people crowd the dim, low-ceilinged room. When my eyes adjust, I see they are Cole’s parents.
“Hello, Mrs. Havens, Mr. Havens.”
Cole’s mother looks me over and shakes her head. The satin ball gown doesn’t help my case.
Cole’s dad steps forward, leaning heavily on his cane, and offers a callused hand.
“I understand the painter’s hurt,” I say, peering about.
Havens nods. “I’ll never forgive myself, getting him that job. He has no business in a glass factory. This one, especially.”
“He’s back there,” says his wife in a flat voice.
I edge past them to the bed. A man lies in dirty work-clothes, his face smeared with ashes, eyes shut, neck and shoulder bandaged, blood seeping through the gauze.
So this is Underwood. He looks barely alive.
“I don’t think you can help.” Mrs. Havens has taken a seat on the other side of the bed. “Too late.”
I glance from her ruddy face to his unnaturally pale one. She may be right. I can see my coming here was a last resort, after everything else failed.
“What happened?”
“Ach. That damn factory. A sheet of glass slipped and took a slice out of ’im. It would never have happened if that uncle of yours…”
So it’s a cut, then. I can do cuts.
I kneel beside the bed for a closer look, but it’s hard to concentrate with Cole’s parents staring at my back. Anna has come in, too, and her mother. Just what I need, an audience.
Careful not to touch him with my glass thumb, I place my hands on the sticky gauze at the base of Underwood’s neck. His blood stains my sleeve.
The pulse is weak, the pillow soaked and reeking. His eyelids flutter, mothlike, and I get the feeling—it’s a feeling through my hands—that I’m losing him. There’s just not enough life. I bow my head and concentrate.
My eyes are closed.
His eyes are closed.
You’d almost think we were praying.
We are.
Now my hands tingle and grow warm as I press the base of his neck more firmly. It’s hard to find a pulse. For seconds, there’s nothing. Then another beat.
Come on, mister.
I will my life into him. Through my hands into him.
My hands grow warmer.
Shutting my eyes tighter, I sink into myself. Not myself exactly, because I don’t feel alone. We’re doing this together. My life. His life. Our life.
We can do this.
No pulse. I’m counting now. Three seconds.
Five seconds!
I feel myself lose concentration. Fear does that. I glance at Cole’s mother. She stares back. And there’s Anna’s mother….
Don’t look at them!
I close my eyes again. Shut out everything. Alone. Alone with this man, this Underwood. The two of us.
The one of us.
A heartbeat!
My hands grow hot.
Another heartbeat, faint as the first. Then, seconds later, another.
We stay like this for what must be minutes. The pulse is irregular, but getting stronger, the breathing more definite, as I pour my life into him. Finally, feeling woozy, I have to stop. I need to stand up, to get back some of the energy that’s been drained from me; but I’m afraid to. Can he keep going on his own?
I lift my hands a few inches, but hover. His chest rises slightly, falls slightly.
I take my hands away. He keeps breathing.
I look at Cole’s mother, on the other side of the bed. “What if we take off the bandage?” I ask.
She frowns. “I don’t think so.”
“I need to see.”
She looks at me doubtfully.
“Would you do it?” I ask.
Silently, she gets up and takes my place. I’m glad she does, because a strange dizziness sweeps over me. I lean against the wall. Cole slips an arm around my shoulder. “Are you all right?”
I take a couple of slow breaths. “A little weak.”
We watch as Cole’s mother snips the bandages.
She gasps.
There’s blood all over him. His neck, his shoulder, the mattress. But it’s dried blood. Dried blood!
Only a narrow red line still oozes.
Cole’s mother turns toward me. She starts to speak, but can’t get anything out. There are people who are criers and people who aren’t. Today, she comes close. She stands, reaches for me, pulls me against her. Then pushes me roughly away, holds my shoulders, and looks at me hard.
At the sound of a moan, we turn. Underwood’s head moves back and forth as if to escape a dream. I kneel beside him and hold his head to calm him.
His eyes tremble, then open.
They open wider. Bright clear blue. He’s staring at me.
He tries to speak. Swallows.
Finally, in a whispery voice: “Marina?”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
A tear starts in the corner of his eye, a tremor in the lips, a beginning smile. “You came back,” he murmurs as his eyes slowly close.
“Wait. Mr. Underwood, I’m not…” But I stop myself. He’s asleep.
I reach for Cole’s arm and struggle to my feet.
He turns to his mother. “I told you. You didn’t believe me. She can do anything!”
I’m about to object when I sense someone at my elbow. It’s the Gypsy woman, holding out her bowl of tea.
“Meski,” she says in her growly voice. “You take some.”
“But it’s for him.”
“Yes, for him. Later. You need now.”
I take the bowl, half filled with a strange-smelling brew. She nods encouragingly. “For your blood.”
“My blood. Right.”
I take a tentative sip, then immediately shudder and shake my head. What did she put in there? Out of politeness, I force myself to take another sip. Worse!
The woman takes the bowl back and looks at me. No expression. As if she’s waiting. Am I supposed to say something?
But then I notice a strange feeling. I’m not quite as dizzy as before. My head’s a little clearer. “Wait.” I take the bowl back from her, hold it in both hands, get my courage up, and take a big swallow.
Truly horrible!
“That was good,” I tell her.
She smiles, showing a gap where two teeth are missing. “Parika tut.”
“She say tank you,” Anna explains.
There are smiles around the room. The painter was dying, but now he lives!
It feels like a party, with one of the guests unconscious—the guest of honor. I kneel and examine his wound. Yes, the gash is healing, but he’s dangerously weak.
No more need for bandages. There’s just a shrinking red line beginning below the chin and running down to the collarbone.
“Bravo!” cries Cole’s father, loudly clapping.
The noise half wakens the painter. His head moves side to side, and he opens his eyes. Still looking foggy, he notices Cole’s mother in the chair beside the bed
. “You’re not her.”
“I’m Helen Havens,” she says. “Cole’s mother.”
He murmurs something, and she bends in to catch it.
“Where…” He swallows. “Where is she?”
She looks uncertain.
“I saw her,” he says in a fierce whisper.
“Mr. Underwood, you’ve been hurt. I know what you think you saw, but—”
His look changes. There’s suspicion in his eyes. “Why are you lying?”
“I’m not ly—”
“What have you done with her?” He strains to climb out of bed and start searching, but he can’t lift his head. “She was here! Marina!” He must think he’s shouting, but his voice is pitiful. “Marina!”
This is not good for him.
I step out from behind Cole. “Hello.”
He subsides onto his pillow and takes a long look at me, his eyes moistening. I blush in spite of myself. No human being, certainly no man, has ever looked at me the way he’s looking. “Marina,” he breathes.
“It’s all right. I’m here. Just rest.”
He nods, submissive.
“Here, I have some medicine. It will help you.” I take the bowl of lukewarm meski and spoon a little into his mouth. He doesn’t object. I think he’d go along with anything I say. I give him another spoonful and watch him swallow.
His brow darkens. “You didn’t come.”
“What? When?”
“You were going to meet me, but you didn’t come.”
“You mean on the ship?”
He nods.
“I’m sorry. I tried. But I’m here now.”
“Yes,” he says. “You’re here now.”
“More tea?” I give him another spoonful, which he takes without complaint. “Now rest. Get your strength.”
“Will you stay?”
Fear zips through me. I can’t pretend forever. He’ll realize I’m not Mother, and then what?
And Uncle Asa. Has he realized yet that I’ve gone missing?
“Of course I’ll stay.”
—
He sleeps a long time. Every so often, I check his pulse, and each time, it’s a little steadier, a little stronger. I watch his face. It’s a good face. You can tell a lot from the lines. He has worry lines, smile lines, sad lines, but nothing like the sharp verticals on Asa’s face.
There’s so much I want to ask him.
Anna comes up to me. “We go. Mamus, she leaves the meski for the painter. She brings more tomorrow.”
I follow her outside to say goodbye and am surprised to see it is already twilight. Her mother is there, smiling. “Kushti bok,” she says—goodbye—and gives my cheek a little pat with her leathery hand.
Anna hugs me briefly. I see she still has the hair clip I gave her. “You come sometime?” she says. “Mamus will like that.”
“I want to, yes. I don’t know when, but—”
“Kushti bok,” she whispers.
I watch them trudge along the bluff toward the Gypsy camp till they disappear in the gloom. Below, the firth murmurs to itself. Overhead, a star blinks on. As I stand here, an unfamiliar feeling sweeps through me, making my eyes blur. It takes a moment to realize what it is.
I love these people.
Anna, Underwood, Cole, Mrs. Havens. I love them.
All the keener, then, the memory suddenly slicing through me, sickening me with shame. It’s an indoor memory. You can’t have such feelings out here under the sky. I was standing in Mother’s bedroom, staring at her portrait, thinking: I could hurt them.
That can’t be me. Not my thought. And yet I thought it. I remember it thrilled me to think it!
Who am I?
Cole comes and stands beside me. “That’s an amazing thing you did,” he says.
His words bring me back. I smile up at him. “I didn’t know it would work. I’ve only done cuts and bruises.”
“He was dying.”
“Yes, it felt that way.”
“I wonder…,” he says, then stops.
At that moment, Cole’s mother appears at the doorway. “You should come, Cisley. He’s waking up.”
With dread in my stomach, I follow Cole in. Now he’s going to find out.
Cole’s dad is talking to him about the accident. Underwood only half follows him. His eyes wander around the room.
“Where is she?” says Underwood.
“Who do you mean?”
The painter closes his eyes and opens them wide, trying to focus.
“He means me, I think,” I say, stepping up to the bed. “Is that right?”
“Ah,” says Underwood, and sinks back.
“You’re having trouble with your eyes?”
He nods. “The medicine helps some.”
“The Gypsies brought it.”
He seems content to be silent, but I’m not. Everything I say is a lie, and now I can’t stop lying. “I like the painting you did of me,” I say. “I look at it every day.”
He smiles slightly. “It was easy. You were so…” He breaks off.
“What?”
“Happy. You had your secret.” A dark thought flits across his face. “But you never told me.”
What do I say to that?
“Why didn’t you? I never would have left!”
Now I’m really confused.
“And then to get your letter! After all those years!” Again, he breaks off. His eyes begin to close.
Is he going to sleep? He can’t go to sleep now!
Let him rest.
No!
“After all those years what?”
His eyes open a slit.
“What?” I repeat.
He shakes his head. “I waited. I was there, waiting. You never came.”
“The boat? In Trieste?”
“And then,” he says, frowning, “she came.”
I hold my breath. Why am I trembling?
“I knew right away,” he says.
My voice is a whisper. “What did you know?”
“I never saw her before, but I knew.”
“Knew…”
“I knew,” he says, “she was our girl.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
It’s full dark by the time I start home. Cole offers to walk me, but I tell him I’m a big girl.
“I’ll get you down to the beach. It’s a tricky climb.”
All right, I want to talk to him anyway.
As soon as we lower ourselves over the lip of the bluff, we’re swallowed in shadow. We work our way slowly, clutching each other’s arms. Finally, we reach the flat sand and the brilliance of direct moonlight.
“Thanks,” I tell him. “Guess I needed your help after all.”
We look at each other.
“Are you okay?” he says.
“A little stunned.”
He nods. “Do you believe him?”
“Don’t you?”
“He’s hardly in a condition to make up lies.”
I puff out a sigh. “It still hasn’t hit me. My father. He’s my father!”
“Strange no one ever told you.”
“I know. I used to ask my mother about it when I was little. ‘Where’s Daddy?’ She would never give me an answer. I learned to stop asking.”
Cole lays a light hand on my shoulder. “What are you going to do now?”
“I don’t know. It’s good your mother’s staying with him. I’ll come back tomorrow.”
“Do you think you can?”
Good point. Asa, Janko, Strunk, and the whole blessed staff will do what they can to keep me from going anywhere.
I aim a steady look at Cole. “I will be there.”
“Good,” he says.
I turn and hurry off down the beach, not looking back, filled with a sense of freedom like a gust of wind blowing through me. In fact, the wind is up. It lifts the folds of my gown into shining wings, fluttering in the moonlight.
I’m all alone. No one can hear me, or save me if I need saving, a
nd that’s how I like it. Overhead, the night’s on fire with stars, while down here the waves turn silver as they curve and crash, spattering me with foam. They’re louder than the wind, and on a crazy impulse I roar back, a shout that’s half laughter, half raw animal cry. I’ve never pulled a sound so loud from so deep a place. But it’s a glorious night, a wild night, and I’m wild myself. I have a father! I have a father, and I saved his life!
My stride turns into a skip, my skip into a dance, as the gown flows around me.
Rounding the curve of the shore, I pass the fishing boats, restless in their moorings. On the hill beyond, the castle rises. Closer now, I catch a glint on the parapet. As I suspected: it’s my uncle with his field glasses, staring out. The scene strikes me as almost funny: Uncle Asa spying on me. What can he do? He’s not my father. No, he is not!
I do another twirl, the gleaming gown flaring around me, and race into the water up to my knees and out again, my arms outstretched. Then I enter the hill’s black shadow and start the climb.
By the time I arrive at the castle gate, I’m breathing hard. Yes, he’s seen me. He knows I’ve escaped. And now he knows I’ve been in Mother’s room and stolen—that’s the word he’d use—stolen her gown.
I head around the side to the kitchen door and enter there. Considering how late it is, I’m not surprised the kitchen and pantry are deserted. No one hears me patter up the stairs to the second floor.
First thing to do is get to Mother’s rooms, where I left my clothes. I smell my way without too much difficulty—I’m getting good at this. How silent it is in here, after my run in the wind. I feel like I’m bringing some wildness in with me, some loudness of thought that doesn’t belong in this private place.
A glance in the mirror gives me a start. I knew I’d look windblown, but it’s worse than I imagined! My amazing hairdo is askew, my face flushed, and the gown—I’ve ruined it! Look at the stains. Mud stains, bloodstains. And the hem is ripped!
“Quite an outing you had for yourself!” comes a voice.
I whirl around, my heart tumbling in my chest. “Who’s there?”
The conch shell sits demurely on the vanity.
I let out a big breath. “You scared me!”
The shell makes no comment. Not one for small talk.
A Bitter Magic Page 12