Skin Deep

by Marissa Doyle

  “No, the boy’s still sleeping but Alasdair’s awake. They spent a peaceful night as far as I can tell.” Garland made a funny little face as she said that. She wasn’t going to tell the healer about sitting up with Conn all night? Why not? “Of course you can. Boy Scouts? You’re either very civic-minded or very crazy. Or both. See you in a few minutes.”

  She poked at the black thing again and stood looking at it with a little smile. “That was Dr. Mowbray. He wants to come check on you two now because he’s doing a first aid class later with the local scout troop. He’s really something, isn’t he?”

  “Yes,” Alasdair said politely. Most of what she’d said made no sense but it seemed safe to agree.

  “I’m going to go start some coffee. Call if you need me, okay?” She set the black thing back down on its platform, glanced again at Conn, then left. He heard her soft footfalls move away from him and counted them. This was a large place, with many rooms—large and lonely, if she lived here all alone. How sad for her.

  He lay back against his cushions and winced as one of his cuts gave a twinge. He wished he could like the healer as much as Garland seemed to. But underneath that calm demeanor—all healers, selkie or human, seemed to have it—Alasdair could sense his suspicion, verging on hostility. He didn’t want him and Conn here at Garland’s house, that was certain. Why? Because he didn’t want anyone getting between him and Garland? Too bad there was no way he could reassure the healer that he had no interest in her—not even one as lovely and compelling as she was. He was a warrior, and warriors must know only battle. After Finna had been killed—his hands clenched helplessly at his side. Never would he give Mahtahdou another opportunity to strike at him through a loved one. Someday, when Mahtahdou was again chained, when his people were safe and he’d regained his throne, there would be time for him to love again.

  * * *

  Garland barely had time to make a pot of coffee before Rob arrived. He wore a tie and his white medical coat under his outdoor jacket and looked even more reassuring and competent in it, if that were possible. She resisted the urge to straighten his already straight tie, just for the sake of touching him. He smothered a grin as he looked at her.

  “Wow. I’d pictured you as more the tailored silk pajama type.”

  Oh, hell. She’d forgotten that she was still in her cow jammies and fuzzy blue bathrobe and slippers. She spread the skirt of her robe and pretended to curtsey. “I’m sorry to have disillusioned you. Now you’ve seen the worst of me.”

  “Oh, I don’t know—I kind of like them.” He came in then paused to consider her as he pulled off his jacket. “But you really need curlers and cold cream all over your face to complete the picture.”

  “Beast.” She stuck out her tongue at him. “Next time I’m calling an acupuncturist when I get a splinter.”

  “The closest one’s in Provincetown. And she wears clothes remarkably like your pajamas so you two might get on famously. But I’m not sure she makes house calls.” He turned toward the stairs. “How are our guests?

  “Rob, wait a minute.” She reached out and touched his arm. “How common is amnesia?”

  He paused on the bottom step and looked at her. “Outside of the movies? Not very. And not the global kind that you see in fiction all the time. Damn. I should have sent Alasdair to the hospital. Is he slurring words or showing signs of confusion or paralysis? What happened?”

  “Nothing happened. It’s just that—well, he still says he can’t remember anything, but he was able to recall that his wife was dead. And he seems—I can’t describe it. When you called just now, he jumped and stared at the phone as if he’d never heard one before. It’s—”

  “Yes?” Rob looked at her expectantly.

  “I don’t know,” she finally admitted.

  He frowned. “Are you afraid of him?”

  “No, of course not. He’d never hurt me.” He needs me, the thought popped into her mind, but she didn’t say it aloud.

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “I don’t know. But I’m sure.”

  “Hmmph. Let me have a look at him and then we can talk.” He gave her a quick smile and headed up the stairs, but the smile hadn’t quite made it to his eyes.

  Alasdair’s greeting was pleasant but subdued. He answered Rob’s questions in monosyllables when possible. She again noted his wary scrutiny of Rob’s stethoscope and his mystified reaction to the digital readout on the thermometer. Rob caught her eye when Alasdair flinched as his blood pressure was taken, but otherwise he maintained his cordial, reassuring manner, moving with exaggerated slowness as he checked and re-bandaged his wounds.

  “Headache? Seeing any flashing lights or auras or doubling of images?” Rob peered into Alasdair’s eyes and shone a small flashlight into one of his pupils, then did a few more assessments that Garland guessed were an impromptu neurological exam.

  When he turned to Conn’s bed, his cheerful smile faded. “I know you don’t want to hear this,” he said, gazing down at the sleeping boy, “but I strongly recommend we bring him to the hospital for observation. He should have woken up by now.”

  “Rob, are you sure? What about—”

  “No,” Alasdair cut in, pushing himself up. “We are not leaving this place. Garland, tell him.”

  “Garland, please explain to him.” Rob glanced at Alasdair then turned back to her. “I’m worried about this kid. This sleepiness could be caused by anything from a physical blow to the head to meningitis or encephalitis. Do you want to risk him dying or being permanently disabled?”

  “If you touch my son, you won’t leave this dwelling alive.” Alasdair now stood by his bed, swaying on his injured feet but clenching his hands into fists.

  “Stop it!” She stepped between the two men and pushed Alasdair back down onto his bed. “Sit down before you fall. No one is going to hurt anyone in my house.”

  “I wasn’t going to fall.” He glowered at her.

  “Yes, fine, you weren’t going to fall. Don’t you dare get up again.”

  “Thank you.” Rob’s voice was still quiet and even but edged with anger. “Will you please explain to this—”

  “Rob, wait. Trust me.” She led him a few paces away from Alasdair’s bed, then turned back to Alasdair. “I won’t let anyone hurt Conn. You know I won’t.”

  The fury faded from Alasdair’s expression. “I know you won’t. But you don’t understand. We can’t leave here. We can’t leave you. Not yet.”

  “This is getting ridic—” Rob began.

  She glanced at him and shook her head.“Why can’t you leave?”

  “When I am strong again, we will go.” His voice was not much more than a whisper. “I promise. But not yet.”

  She met his gaze. It was unwavering, and there was something else in it too: despair, heavy enough to crush a grown man under its weight. And if it could crush him, what about a child?

  She looked down at Conn then looked again, startled. Conn’s eyes were open, and he was gazing up at her with wide golden-brown eyes exactly like Alasdair’s. She fought down the impulse to exclaim out loud and channeled it instead into a smile. “Well, hello little sleepyhead,” she said, and sat down next to him. “How are you this morning?”

  “He’s awake?” Rob was there in an instant.

  “Conn,” Alasdair breathed, and rose again.

  Conn didn’t react to either of them. He kept his eyes fastened on her face for a few seconds longer then squirmed up and wrapped his thin arms around her neck, burying his face in her shoulder.

  “Okay, okay.” She lifted him up and settled him back on her lap, just as they’d sat last night. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Umm, right,” Rob said. He squatted next to the chair and tried to catch the boy’s eye. “Hello, Conn. How do you feel?”

  “He’s not going to your hospital,” Alasdair said. He staggered the two paces to Conn’s bed, sank down on it, and leaned toward him stiffly. “Conn, ciamar a tha thu?” he murmu
red.

  The boy didn’t respond aloud but made a small motion with his head and snuggled even closer to her.

  “It’s all right,” she said to him gently. “I’m not going to put you down if you don’t want me to.” What had Alasdair said? What language had it been? If they were from a foreign country it might explain some of Alasdair’s unfamiliarity with everyday things, but not entirely. “How are you, Conn? Can you tell the doctor?”

  He didn’t move.

  “Does he understand what I’m saying?” she asked Alasdair. “Does he speak English?”

  “Enough of it,” he said shortly, as if unwilling to reveal any more. “But he does not speak much in any language.”

  “Look,” Rob said. “If you put him down on the bed, I can make sure he’s—”

  “He’s…he’s in some pain, but not a lot,” Garland found herself saying as she peered down at Conn’s face. He looked back up at her from under his long eyelashes. “The bandages feel funny and the deeper cuts ache, especially the one under his ribs on the right side. Mostly he’s confused and scared. And he’d rather I didn’t put him down just now.”

  There was a silence, broken only when Rob cleared his throat. She looked up. Both men stared at her, Alasdair looking shocked and Rob dubious.

  “Garland, what’s going on?” he said. “How do you know that?”

  “I don’t know. I just do.” She leaned back slightly so that she could see full into the boy’s face. “Conn, if I hold you, will you let the doc—er, the healer look at you? He needs to make sure your hurts are healing properly.”

  He looked at her. And she could feel his thoughts, feel their shape and color if not their exact meaning, and knew that right now she was the only thing keeping him from dropping back into that trance-like sleep again—that somehow, she’d come to represent safety to him. His little body, still tense, relaxed against her. She looked up at Rob and nodded.

  Conn kept his eyes scrunched tightly shut the entire time but let Rob remove the old bandages, check the Steri-Stripped cuts, and reapply fresh dressings. She kept up a quiet litany of reassurance and explanation while Rob worked, aware as she did that Alasdair did not take his eyes from her, even to watch Rob. She wished she could decipher what his gaze meant.

  “All set, Conn,” Rob said heartily when he was done. “You’re one brave little boy, you know.”

  “He knows,” Alasdair said. He was still looking at her.

  Rob didn’t reply but packed up his bag quickly. “I’ll be back to check on you tomorrow,” he said when he was done. “Garland?” He nodded at the door. “The scouts are expecting me at one and I have to finish getting ready.”

  “Can I give you to your daddy for a minute while I say good-bye to the doctor?” she asked Conn. “It’ll just be for a few minutes. I promise.”

  His grip on her robe tightened and he buried his face in her neck again.

  “Conn,” Alasdair said, and then spoke again in that strange, liquid language. The boy held on stubbornly for a few more seconds then loosened his grip and let her put him into Alasdair’s arms.

  “I’ll be right back,” she said, touching Conn’s hair. She could feel his eyes on her as she left the room behind Rob.

  Rob was silent all the way down the stairs. He put on his jacket and said, “Come out to the car with me.”

  She glanced toward the stairs. “But—”

  His jaw tightened. “They’ll be fine for five minutes. Please, Garland.”

  Garland pulled her jacket on over her robe and followed him outside. He put his bag in his car then leaned against the door and looked at her. “I don’t like this,” he said flatly.

  “What?”

  “Any of it. Alasdair knows more than he’s telling, and there’s something wrong with that child. And both of them seem awfully fixated on you.”

  Garland leaned against his car too and sighed. “What did you expect? The poor kid was attacked and left for dead, is confused and frightened, and has decided he can trust me. How would you feel if you were in his condition?”

  “Probably the same. But I still don’t like it. And I don’t like the way Alasdair looks at you.” His face was closed, all boyishness fled.

  A light bulb turned on in Garland’s brain. “Rob, he can barely get out of that bed without help. You don’t have to trust him. In another day or two I’m sure he’ll start to remember who he is and we can send them home to their family or whatever. I feel sorry for them. I know what’s it’s like to be hurt and tossed aside.” She gave a self-deprecatory shrug and looked down at her feet.

  “Hey.” Rob straightened and turned to face her, tilting her chin up with one finger. “I’m sorry. I’m being a jerk.” He smiled ruefully. “For a minute, I was jealous. I hope he realizes how goddamned lucky they are that you found them.”

  “Oh, anyone would have—”

  “Would have taken them into their house and stood over them like a dragon with a nursing degree? I don’t think so.” He glanced toward the house. “I see what you meant by the amnesia question. I thought Alasdair would jump out of his skin every time I tried to use any instrument on him.”

  “So how is he?”

  “I wasn’t lying. He’s healing amazingly fast considering what he went through. At least physically. I couldn’t find any signs of actual brain trauma that would explain the memory loss—no weakness or paralysis, or lack of alertness, or aversion to light. You’ll have to keep an eye on him, though—some injuries can take days to manifest themselves. And be very careful helping him when he’s up and walking. Further head injury could be fatal.”

  “But you don’t think it’s a physical injury, do you?”

  “No, not really. An accident—or whatever he’s been through—can certainly trigger amnesia. It can be the mind’s self-defense against something that’s too much to handle at the time. As he recuperates, his memory will probably return. And the sooner the better as far as I’m concerned.” He frowned. “Look, this is too much to expect you to handle. Why don’t I call the hospital—”

  “No.” Even in her own ears, her tone sounded final.

  Rob looked at her. “All right,” he said after a moment “But I’m going to call Captain Howe and try to light a fire under him. And I’m going to ask you about calling the hospital at least twice tomorrow and again the day after that. I think you’ve bitten off more than anyone should chew, but that’s your right. However, it’s my right to keep on asking you.”

  Garland exhaled. “That’s fair.”

  “Good. Forgive me?”

  “Forgive you for what?”

  “Even better.” His smile turned sunny. “So will you say yes if I ask you to come out for dinner with me later in the week? Like Friday?”

  Garland hesitated. Conn and Alasdair might need her—

  But surely the police would have found out who they were and sent them home by then. “Yes,” she replied.

  He looked at her for a swift second, then put one hand on her shoulder, drew her slightly toward him, and kissed her—nothing that he couldn’t have done in public, but definitely more than a peck. She liked the feeling of his lips on hers, firm and steady, just like him.

  “That’s good.” He squeezed her shoulder. “I wish I didn’t have to leave, but the scouts really want this badge.”

  “Go. Have fun.” She stepped back from the car. Her lips still felt the warmth of his.

  “I’ll stop in this evening for a second and check on them, if I can.” Rob climbed in the car, smiled at her again, and backed out of the driveway.

  * * *

  Conn liked toast as much as Alasdair had. If they stayed in the house much longer she’d have to start buying loaves of bread in triplicate. He drank three glasses of milk and licked the dribbles of butter and strawberry jelly off his plate after he’d eaten his fourth piece, then sighed and crawled onto her lap.

  Garland smiled and smoothed her purple flannel shirt over his shoulder. She’d have to find him some
thing to wear other than it—a quick trip downtown might be a good idea in the next day or two. Unless Captain Howe had found out who they were and where they belonged. Even so, it would be nice to send him home clothed.

  “I have some work to do,” she said, looking down at him. “Do you want to watch me?”

  He blinked at her.

  “I’ll take that as a yes.” She stood up, then set him back down on the chair and wrapped a blanket around him. He clung to her neck but she gently detached his arms. “Wait a moment, little limpet,” she told him. “We’re going to do something fun.”

  “‘Little limpet’,” Alasdair repeated, and looked at her strangely.

  On the other side of the room was the worktable she’d planned to use for cutting her fabric. Right now it was piled with plastic storage bins of fabric and quilting supplies and a rainbow pile of fabric draped haphazardly over it all, thanks to a clumsy moving man who’d dropped one of the boxes on the stairs. She could fold it and maybe begin to think about work, yet still keep close to Conn.

  She dragged the toile armchair with him in it over to the table. He clutched the arms and smiled—in fact, she was sure she heard a very small giggle escape him. Maybe he wasn’t as damaged as she’d feared.

  “This is what I do,” she told him, picking up a piece of yellow fabric. “I cut out shapes from pieces of cloth and sew them back together in patterns, and then make layers of cloth with more stitching to hold them together. They’re called quilts. I haven’t made any for a long time, but I used to be good at it.”

  She shook out the cotton lengths—mostly the tone-on-tone batiks she loved, in rich, vibrant colors—and folded them quickly and neatly. They’d have to be ironed again before she worked with them, of course. It had driven Derek crazy when she ironed. “That’s what the housekeeper’s for, you silly darling,” he’d always said when he found her pressing fabric lengths. The words “silly darling” had never sounded as loving and patient as they should have. “Why do you think we’re paying her?”