by James, Ella
I look up into her eyes. I love her. I can’t get my mouth to say it.
“I love you,” she murmurs back.
I laugh—inside my head, at least. She read my mind.
Finley holds me, and it’s me and her. It’s slow and dark, and all that bad stuff feels a little bit better.
“This is my worst day.” It’s barely a murmur.
She hugs me closer to her. “Close your eyes, Sailor. I’ll play with your hair… You’ll tell me later.”
My friend died. Because I was stupid and a coward, and I didn’t tell. I imagine saying it. I see his face. I always see his face, especially when I dream: it’s blue, with purple lips. I killed him. I kind of want to tell her that. So she can tell me it’s okay.
“What’s wrong with me?” My eyelids feel so heavy. “Did you give me something?” It’s a whisper.
“Carbon dioxide.” Her lips press against my cheek. “Just my breath. You were having an anxiety attack. But now you’re okay.”
I was?
“I messed up,” she whispers. “The refrigerator… I’m so sorry.”
I stare at the ceiling. “Would you go with me?” The question burbles up from nowhere. “Finley…will you marry me? If I get better?”
Her arms tighten around me. I feel her ribs expand. Her lungs expand. I love her lungs. More than I hate myself, I love her. Does it work like that? Does getting better work like loving something more than wanting to be dead?
A triangle moves across the ceiling. Something long and pale. I focus on it without knowing what it means.
“I would love to marry you, Carnegie. But—” Her voice catches. “Declan—”
Finley jumps up. I sit up in time to hear her loud gasp. “Doctor!”
Two figures congeal before someone flips the light switch.
I blink at the priest and someone else—a short guy with gray-brown hair. I’m getting to my feet when Finley runs into his arms.
He chuckles: a deep, Santa sort of laugh that doesn’t match his small frame. “It’s my wee wifey!”
Chapter Forty-Two
Finley
When my world implodes, there’s silence. Silence as I’m crushed against my husband’s chest. Silence as Father Russo spots Declan on the floor. I hear a smack, but I can’t turn around because I’m locked in Doctor’s arms.
When I do, I find Declan lying pushed up on one elbow with a dazed look on his face, and Father Russo standing over him.
“What’s this then?” Doctor frowns from me to Declan and then back to me, with drawn brows. “What’s he doing here?”
“He’s sick,” I manage.
Father Russo crouches down beside him. When my gaze moves to Declan’s face, I find his eyes are locked on me. His face is white as bone, but his eyes—they’re blazing. I feel myself whither.
When I look to Doctor again, his hard eyes are on me, too.
He frowns at me, then strides to Declan. “Hello there. I’m the physician over this clinic.” He kneels beside Declan, and I feel my legs shake. “Dr. Daniels. Or, as they call me, simply the good Doctor.” He casts a glance over his shoulder at me. “Intoxication?”
From my angle standing over them, I see Declan’s jaw lock. He shakes his head. “Tree nut allergy. Got near something with cashews.”
I watch, wordless, as he somehow stands, putting a hand into his pocket for a moment before looking dead at me.
“Thanks for the Benadryl, Finley.” He quirks a brow at Doctor. “Nice to finally meet you, Dr. Daniels.” He nods, just the barest motion of his chin, and walks out of the clinic.
The sensation in my chest is one of tugging. It’s as if my heart is trying to leave with him.
When the door clicks shut, Father Russo and Doctor speak at once.
“That is the strangest—” Father Russo begins, as Doctor exclaims, “Who the devil managed to get cashews?”
Father Russo shakes his head, purses his lips. I can feel his eyes move over my face as I glance down at the floor.
Doctor steps back over to me. He snakes an arm around my waist, then drapes his hand over my backside. “Who has cashews?” he asks lightly, as his fingers pinch.
His hand roves up and down as the priest shrugs. “I’ve not seen them offered in the catalog since ’17.” He gives me a pointed look, then steps toward Doctor, hand extended. “Welcome back, Daniels.” They clasp hands, and he meets my gaze. “You’ll do better with him here now.”
“Yes.”
I feel like I’m drowning as he moves toward the door. The air I’m dragging through my nostrils doesn’t seem to make it to my lungs.
This time, when the door shuts, I’m alone with Doctor. The room seems to buzz around me as he grabs my upper arm. “Perhaps you’d like to explain where your undergarments are. And why I walked into my clinic to find my wife down on the floor embracing Homer Carnegie!”
His gray eyes widen slightly, and I note he’s grown a bushy mustache.
I shake my head. “He came here…craving.” My voice quakes, and he loosens his grip on me.
“That’s why his hands were shaking?”
I meet his eyes, nodding slightly.
“That’s why you were with him?”
I nod. “He arrived quite unexpectedly, leaving me no time to dress. He’d been drinking, as you noticed. He was out of sorts. I tried to help.”
Doctor nods, pressing his lips together. He gives me a small smile, and for a moment, I glimpse in him what I did when we met four years ago: a conviviality that, if not actually kind, could at least be companionable. “It’s been quite some time,” he says softly.
“You’ve arrived early.”
He reaches into his pocket and brings out something he holds pinched between his fingers. My pulse quickens when I see that it’s a ring with a large diamond.
“Oh—I—” I swallow. “Thank you.”
I take it from him, and he takes it back. “Hold out your hand, Fin.”
My fingers tremble wildly as he slides it on my finger. I hold my breath, praying he’ll mistake fear for excitement. When I glance up at his face, I find his thin mouth curled upward at the corners. “To replace that dingy one.”
Gammy’s. I nod. “Thank you, Doctor.”
I wrap my arms around his neck, stretching up a bit too high at first. As I hug him, my head begins to feel hollow.
I pull away, and his eyes search me up and down before they move across the floor—to the spot where Declan was.
“It’s been quite a journey. Lock up, Fin.”
He strolls toward the residence, and I walk to the clinic door on legs that feel like rubber. I pause for only a moment to listen. I hear nothing, but even if I did, there’s nothing I can do. I cross myself and walk toward the short hallway before I realize—the bed! My heart dips down into the hollow of my belly. I feel like I’m moving underwater as I rush over, straighten the covers. That’s when I realize—where is the syringe? Is it still on the floor?
My heart thuds dully in my temples. I turn around, thinking I’ll check the floor quickly. And there’s Doctor. He stands just behind me, staring without blinking.
“Did you have a patient?”
“Well, yes. Homer.”
“He was in the bed…then on the floor?” He arches one brow.
“I rushed to the door thinking it could be emergent. I was in my robe. I directed him here to the bed and went to dress.” I wave down at my pants and sweater. “When I returned, he was near the medication cabinets. Perhaps wishing for…well, who can know? Then he went down to the floor. I believe he’s quite poorly. Withdrawing, since he’s been here,” I say softly.
Doctor nods. He holds his hand out for mine, and we walk toward the residence together. Never has he held my hand. Not ever. As he closes the door linking the residence to the clinic, I can’t breathe for crushing fear.
I flinch a bit away, a habit borne of only three occasions—but they were…impacting.
Tonight, though, he gives
me his tight-lipped smile. “It’s good to be home, dearie.”
* * *
“How is it?”
“Adequate, I suppose. Perhaps a bit stale.” Doctor sets the muffin down and shifts his gaze back to the newspaper.
“I’ll try for more moisture next time.”
He chuckles. “Oh, I trust you will. You’re baking for me again now.”
“What shall I make for you today?” When there’s an ebb in our patient flow, and I’ve nothing to do out on the slopes, Doctor likes it when I bake sweet things.
“Do you have dough for friendship bread? Something that you can’t foul up, and besides, I’ve missed the taste of it.”
“I don’t believe I do, I’m sorry to say.”
He frowns, tugging at the chain attached to the arms of his bifocals. “Plum cake, then.”
“Plum cake it is.”
I’m not sure he’d mind if I left the adjoining den and kitchen area, so I start to spray the counters with some cleaner. When I’m finished, I stand near the table where he’s sitting. “I’ll start on your laundry now, I believe.”
He says nothing. Likely too absorbed in what he’s reading. As I step into the bedroom, I note that the clock on the bedside table says it’s 4:49 a.m. Normally, Doctor is up at 5:30, but he’s been in Cape Town—west—so his biological clock is a bit “off.”
I sprinkle lavender oil atop the sheets to mask the musty, unused scent before making the bed. I had no time to do so last night, but it’s better late than never till I get a chance to wash them.
I hold still a moment, listening. Then I walk to the room’s doorway, holding my breath as I point my ear in the direction of the kitchen. When I hear nothing, I slip into the hallway and walk silently but briskly toward the door adjoining residence to clinic.
I find my torn panties beneath one of the pillows on the bed I shared with him. Scooping them up, my heart seems to skip a few beats, and my eyes throb awfully. It’s the first bit of emotion I’ve felt in a number of hours—a stinging needle-prick of deepest longing for him. It’s there then gone. I stuff the panties into my bra and walk quickly down the clinic’s short hall. When I make it back to our room, I pull my contraband from my bra and nearly fall to my knees with relief.
A moment later, he clears his throat. “What’s that you’ve got there?”
I whirl around, my body vibrating with terror, my blood roaring in my head. “What do you mean?” My voice is hopeless—weak and cracked.
He strides closer. “What’s this then? Something you fetched from the clinic.”
I hold the panties up, my fingers bending desperately to mask their torn appearance. “If you mean these—”
He snatches them from my hand. Holds them to his nose, inhaling.
“From the drawer,” I whisper.
The back of his hand connects with my mouth, and I taste the stinging tang of blood.
Chapter Forty-Three
Declan
I leave Baby in the house with a fresh lamb nappy and a full belly and walk down to the village.
It’s really cold out. I think colder than it’s been so far.
When I get to Upper Lane, I notice all these lanterns on the porches, and I remember that it’s solstice. The twenty-first of June’s the longest night here.
Every time I take a breath, I feel it in my chest. My chest is sore. It’s kind of weird how bad it hurts. My whole body hurts. I kind of like it. It gives my mind an anchor.
When I get to the clinic, I don’t know what to do. I just stand there in the dirt-patched grass beside the door and watch my breath fog. I forgot to wear a coat. I guess that’s why it’s so damn cold.
The sky is orange and pink this morning. Usually, then sun’s nowhere in sight, so dawn is always blue or sort of purple. I rub my arms and sort of pace around for a minute. I spend a second being careful with my breaths, doing the breathing from my nose and letting it out my mouth.
It’s okay. It’s weird how when I think shit like that now—when I tell myself something to calm me down—I hear her voice saying the words. Thinking of that makes my throat ache.
I need to get going. Earlier, I used my radio, which has spent this whole trip at the bottom of my bag, to talk to someone on the Celia, and I don’t think they want to wait around too long. I need to get going.
I reach into my pocket and pull out a square of paper. The paper’s folded around the stolen syringe, which is still full of Fentanyl. I step closer to the porch. I don’t know where to leave it. The note doesn’t say much.
I’m sorry I took this. I kept it cold, so it should still be good.
Thank You.
I underlined the “Thank You” twice with slash-looking lines, like maybe I’m just someone who likes underlining things.
I thought hard about leaving the syringe at her Gammy’s place, but I thought of a few ways that could go wrong. Someone might think Finley gave it to me, for one.
I go around for a few minutes about where to leave the note and syringe. I rub my sore chest. It feels weird to hold the note, knowing that the Fent’s inside it. I’ve had it on me for so many hours now, it doesn’t tempt me quite as much.
There’s no flower pot or anything on the clinic’s stoop. And it’s a little windy. I decide to walk back to the other porch. The one by their door.
I gulp down some cold air. Walk around the building’s back corner. I think she’ll find it here. There’s an empty pot with just dirt. I set it in there. If he finds it—the doctor—it’s not like it tells him anything. It shouldn’t put her at risk.
I suck in some more cold air. Stuff my hands deep into my jeans pockets.
My eyes sting. I squeeze them shut. Christ.
Is he good to her? He looked older—maybe fifties—and I couldn’t tell if he was a dick. As far as dicks go, I guess maybe he’s not into using his, because…she was a virgin. I know that for sure.
I think of all those times she said things like “no strings attached,” and tell myself she knew this all along. She knew he was coming back and I was going. She’s okay with it.
I can’t think much on how I was a fling for her. Because that was basically it. Finley’s got the biggest heart on earth, so a fling for her is worth more than a lot of people’s marriages. Thinking that makes me think of how she ran to him. My throat closes off.
I pant in white puffs.
Fuck.
I gotta go now.
I’ve got my eyes half shut, and I’m striding toward the clinic part of the building when I hear yelling.
That’s a man’s voice.
What the fuck?
I move closer to the clinic’s white-washed, cinderblock wall. The voice is low and hard—not yelling now, but kind of clipped and…yeah, that’s definitely angry. I listen, but I can’t tell what he’s saying. Then he’s quiet. I can’t move as adrenaline floods my system.
What the fuck was that?
Say more.
Give me a sign if I should stay.
The ever-present Tristan wind whips over the roof. I pace back to the house door. Nothing. Fucking hell.
I sit on the stoop and run my hand back through my hair. I need some kind of fucking sign. That she’s all good with this guy. Even thinking of that—of her with that old fucker—gives my chest this burning feeling.
I get the letter and the syringe out of the pot. Walk toward the clinic door. Maybe I’ll knock. It’s probably a bad idea, but I don’t know…I’ve got a weird feeling. I clear the stairs with one big step and stand there with my eyes shut. Please.
Maybe I’m going crazy: I just want it to be bad for her, so I can swoop in.
I try the knob. It works. The fuck? The door is open at 5:35 a.m.? That’s sort of weird, right?
I can step inside and…if they’re in there—if he’s in there—I’ll…what?
If it’s him, not her, I’ll ask for Benadryl. If it’s both of them…I don’t know. Why would it be both of them, though? Motherfucker was just
yelling at her in the house part of the building. I don’t dare to think of what I’ll do if I walk in and it’s just Finley. But if no one’s in there, I’ll walk over to the door that divides house from clinic, and I’ll listen just a little more.
I rub my eyes and try the door again. I don’t know what I’m thinking. That I’m in some kind of Bond movie? I push it open slowly, though. Real quiet, like 007. Inside the main room, it’s dark and silent. They’re not here.
I blow a quiet breath out. Step inside. And stand there. To my left is the little waiting area where she took my blood pressure just after we got back from the burrow. To the right, a long, pale blue curtain that divides the area with the beds from the big space in front of me, which has the cabinets and a receptionist desk.
If I go around the curtain to my right and pass the area with beds, I can walk into that little hall and listen at the door of the residence.
I keep my footsteps quiet on the pale linoleum as I make my way around the curtain. That’s when I hear it—a grunting sound. It stops me in my tracks and makes my body start to tremble. I know from the first sound…but I keep quiet, listening. I hear the grunt again, and the sound of a zipper. Oh, fuck—NO. The curtain to my right feels like it’s tilting.
I hear Finley’s whimper. No. No, no, no. But she’s whimpering—this sort of groaned whimper that turns into a high-pitched whimper as I hear springs creak. He makes a low sound in his throat, and my head starts to float on top of my shoulders.
She whimpers. He grunts. She whimpers, and that’s when, slowly, through the haze, I realize Finley doesn’t whimper like that.
Does she?
No, she doesn’t.
Finley is a screamer. If she’s not screaming, she’s gasping, groaning…whispering. She whimpers more, and something thick and hot and prickling starts to crawl up my neck. I can’t move…and then I have to. I can’t keep myself from stepping to the curtain’s end and walking quietly around it.
Each bed has its own curtain, and the one around the bed where we were last night is pulled shut. She whimpers again, and her voice cracks. I pulse white hot as the whimper turns to a small cry. Finley starts to cry, and he says, “Oh, I think you shouldn’t worry. You’ll enjoy this.”