Blood Entwines

by Caroline Healy

  ‘Say something!’ Kara crying, pleading with Rosemary to challenge the report, to declare the outcome ridiculous, but Rosemary had been too tired to fight any more.

  Kara could not remember closing her eyes, yet here she was, wrapped in a warm cocoon of darkness. She was on the cusp of fully falling, of losing herself completely to sleep. The notion appealed to her. She was tired. Why not have a little rest?

  I’ve lost my shoes, she thought, drifting on a wave of semi-awareness. She could feel her toes tingle, like when you put your feet into hot sand at the beach. Her skin felt different too, downy, like a newborn baby’s. She pulled her mind away from the lull of sleep. Something was bothering her, an annoying wisp of afterthought. What had she been thinking about? She must try to remember.

  Silky warmth travelled through her body from her toes to her legs, her torso, her arms, right the way down to her fingertips. It felt nice. She sighed contentedly and let her consciousness drift by, lazy and uninhibited.

  But there it was, that annoying thought. Why couldn’t it leave her alone? She just wanted to sleep, to drift.

  Think!

  Exasperated, she heaved her mind into action, trawling through the boxes of memories.

  A voice, female, reassuring and supportive. No, that wasn’t it.

  Red, fire-engine red. Her mind skidded away from the image as if scalded.

  She tried again. A name. That’s what she was looking for. The heaviness and warmth threatened to distract her again, pulling her away from solving the mystery. No, no. Just concentrate for a minute more, she told herself. A name, yes that much she knew, but whose name?

  B. The letter sprang to her mind like a rapid reflex.

  B for boy. Yes, she thought to herself, that was it.

  A boy whose name begins with . . . Bill? Bobby? Barry?

  No, no and no. Not the right name.

  An irritating buzzing began somewhere in the distance. It sounded like an irate bee. She was distracted from her task as she listened intently. The buzzing grew louder, coming closer, humming towards her, circling to the right side of her head. She wished that she could open her eyes, move her hand, swat the irritation away, but she couldn’t.

  The sound reminded her of the dilapidated electric shaver her dad used to use. When she was little she supervised his morning shaves. She would dutifully watch at the alabaster sink as he neatly trimmed his beard.

  A crack in her memory. She hugged the jagged piece of pain to her heart. She must not think of him. The only way she felt better was if she didn’t think of him.

  The buzzing increased and swooped near to her right ear and then away. Swooped again, coming closer. She didn’t like it. It was too loud and she was getting cold, very cold. She wanted to concentrate on remembering.

  Why was it so cold?

  B is for . . .

  The name, think of the name.

  Ben Shephard. That was it! She smiled to herself in triumph.

  The buzzing stopped. All was quiet. Then the pain came. A silent scream erupted in her mind. She could not move, could not cringe away as it burned and seared through her body. First her chest then her arms, legs, her face, eyes, ears, lips; they were on fire, painful, excruciating fire, and she wanted to die.

  If she could just die, then the pain would stop.

  Rosemary looked down into the operating theatre. One of the machines stopped beeping and for a moment silence hung in the air, curling in tendrils like mist. The heart rate monitor was crashing, the green line indicating Kara’s heart beat faltering, the space between the peaks and troughs lengthening.

  The surgical team froze for an inhale of breath, then moved as one, congregating around Kara, hands moving fast, needles injecting into the soft flesh of her arm; a machine rolled to her bedside; words fired from one doctor to the other, none of which Rosemary could hear.

  Instead she watched horrified as the nurse peeled back the surgical gown, exposing Kara’s chest. Rosemary could lip read the words cardiac arrest.

  The nurse squirted clear gel on to stainless steel paddles, handing them to the surgeon. He shouted something and they all stepped back as if afraid that death was contagious. The surgeon pressed the paddles to Kara’s chest and sent a volt of electricity through her. In an unconscious holding of breath, they all leaned towards the patient expectantly. The heart rate machine remained silent for such a long time. Rosemary counted the seconds in her head, each one excruciating.

  Then a beep; a green peak on the screen. Then another beep; a trough. Slow at first, then more regular the beep, beep of the machine matching the thump, thump of a pumping heart.

  Rosemary exhaled. Kara was alive.

  The girl’s limbs began to shake, bouncing against the hard surface of the table, her spine curved to breaking point. The tube in her mouth dislodged, and her hand fell off the side of the operating table, the electrodes peeling from her skin.

  ‘Kara,’ Rosemary called, her entire body pressed against the glass divide.

  The nurse next to the IV drip flung herself across the patient, anchoring the flailing limbs, holding Kara’s body down. Another nurse leaned over Kara’s legs, weighing them. The surgeon stabilised her head and neck and for a full minute the team waited for the convulsions to stop.

  There was an exchange of worried glances, the lifting of an eyebrow, the dart of a pupil.

  Something was wrong.

  Chapter Four

  Jenny was the first to hear the news. Her dad let it slip as they drove to the Chinese for Wednesday night takeaway.

  ‘Big surgery today at the hospital,’ her dad said, trying to engage his daughter in conversation.

  ‘Hmm.’ Jenny was thinking about Ashleigh and their plans for the weekend.

  ‘It was a pedestrian, knocked down on Howe Street.’

  ‘Ya.’ She tapped the screen of her mobile, scrolling through Youtube.

  ‘Think it was a senior from your school.’ Her father glanced at her, taking his eyes off the road for a moment.

  ‘A senior?’ Jenny asked. ‘Who?’

  ‘Now, Jen, you know I couldn’t tell even if I knew. I simply do the accounts. No access to patient files.’

  ‘Aw, Dad, come on . . . this could be big news. Think!’

  Her father shrugged. ‘Just that it was a senior. A girl.’

  Jenny leaned her head against the window, squinting as she thought about the seniors who walked home along Howe Street.

  Maybe, she thought, nah, it couldn’t be. Could it?

  ‘Dad,’ she said. ‘Can we go the long way to the Chinese? I need to stop off at a friend’s to pick up some study notes.’

  ‘Sure.’ Her dad turned off at the next junction, looping across to the other side of town.

  Jenny flicked to her Facebook page. Nothing there except a lame post from Craig Crowley about the Halloween dance.

  What a troll! He tried to put his hand up her skirt at the St Patrick’s Day parade last year. It wasn’t the first, and probably wouldn’t be the last, time a guy tried to do that, but with Craig Crowley Jenny drew the line.

  ‘Pull up here, Dad, number eighteen.’ Her father parked the car at an awkward angle next to the footpath. Jenny got out slowly, scanning the street in both directions.

  Number eighteen was completely dark, no lights turned on. It could be that they hadn’t come home yet. She walked up the garden path, fidgeting with the sleeve of her jumper. What would she do if she got to the front door and someone answered it?

  Her foot crunched on something, the sound of cracking beneath her boot made her jerk to a stop. She peered down into the semi darkness, lifting her leg gingerly. On the bottom of her boot was a string of something congealed. She peered closer at the stringy substance.

  An egg.

  Looking around she noticed another egg on the grass nearby, as well as an apple and a tin of beans. There was a half empty bag of shopping abandoned on the porch. Jenny stood perfectly still for a moment, calculating the potential r
epercussion of her discovery. Someone had just left the groceries there, at the front door, interrupted in their task by the receiving of bad news perhaps?

  Taking out her phone she began to text as she made her way back to the car.

  Where are you?

  She pressed ‘send’. Ashleigh had anger-management class after school on a Wednesday but she should be home by now. Why wasn’t she on Facebook?

  Jenny was in love with Ashleigh. She would do anything for her, including kiss a boy. If it meant that Jenny and Ashleigh could have something in common, something to talk about constantly, something to shop for, dress for, apply make-up for, then Jenny would do it. She didn’t care what it was, as long as she got to spend time with her best friend.

  ‘Nobody home?’ asked her dad when she got back into the passenger seat.

  ‘Hmm.’ Her mind was working overtime.

  They drove in silence the rest of the way to the Chinese.

  ‘I hate the smell of takeaway in my hair.’ She turned and looked at him, wide-eyed. ‘Is it OK if I wait here?’

  ‘Anything you like, precious.’

  He banged the door loudly and trudged off to get their dinner.

  Jenny picked up her mobile and speed dialled. She imagined Ashleigh lying on her bed, her long hair falling around her shoulders, her slim legs tucked underneath her, lips slightly parted . . .

  She shook her head and tried to concentrate but the memories wouldn’t go away.

  ‘Hi, my name’s Kara.’ The new girl, her first day at school. She was pretty. Too pretty. Jenny remembered the calculating look on Ashleigh’s face. In her opinion it was best to keep potential threats close.

  ‘You can sit with us.’

  Everything changed after that. Two became three. Ashleigh didn’t seem to care about the rumours: whispers about Kara’s breakdown, about being a pyromaniac.

  Jenny drew in a deep breath as a velvet voice answered the call, ‘Hello.’

  ‘Ashleigh,’ she began, pushing the memory away, ‘you’re never going to believe what’s happened!’

  Ashleigh rolled her eyes. These mandatory calls from Jenny were such a pain. She was in the middle of painting her nails. Her toes were drying a perfect crimson. She was getting ready for her visit to Ben’s house. She hadn’t been invited, but that wasn’t going to stop her.

  She would have to be less subtle in her threat about the scout from St David’s. Ashleigh looked at the business card on the table. She had stolen it from her dad’s wallet earlier. All it would take was an anonymous text. She was prepared to give Ben a second chance. The business card would be enough to show that she was serious about the consequences. Ben wasn’t completely stupid.

  ‘Well, Jenny, what is it? What haven’t I heard?’

  It took approximately two minutes for Jenny to gush out the details of the accident. For once Ashleigh was silent, listening to everything Jenny had to say.

  Poor Kara, in hospital, major surgery . . . Jenny was practically panting on the other end of the phone.

  Ashleigh mumbled something noncommittal and told Jenny she’d call her back. Then she hung up, placing the phone reverently on the vanity table in front of her. She stared at the mobile, processing the information, storing the important bits for future use and discarding anything that she thought unnecessary. She sat very still and analysed how she should proceed.

  She still needed to visit Ben, to remind him that she was not to be crossed. On reflection, she realised the whole situation might work to her advantage.

  She looked into the mirror above her vanity table. She puckered up her brows and moved her lips into a mournful line. She needed to practise looking distraught. It was an appropriate reaction when one of your best friends has been in an accident. Maybe she could get some time off school, extra credits towards her course work.

  Sometimes she got very weary of pretending all the time, but only when it involved not getting her own way. The rest of the time, it was perfectly fine.

  She considered the Halloween dance. She would of course be going with Ben. He wouldn’t refuse her. Now.

  She thought about her cream dress and decided that it was totally wrong. She opened her laptop and logged on to ASOS. She knew exactly which dress she would get, one that would blow Ben’s mind.

  Chapter Five

  Day One:

  Kara opened her crusted eyelids.

  Where am I?

  Her entire body felt taut, like the overstretched strings on a violin, ready to pop.

  She wasn’t prepared for the pain. It came upon her like a school of piranhas, biting into her skin, sending jolts of agony through her body. She moaned. Someone was standing next to her, speaking, but Kara couldn’t decipher the words. A soft syrupy wave of pain relief rolled through her, starting from a point in the back of her hand and working its way along her body.

  She drifted back to the dark.

  Day Three:

  She didn’t open her eyes this time because the pain was too intense. She concentrated on her breath instead, in and out, wheezing through her chest.

  Mentally, she examined her limbs, her right leg hurt a lot more than her left, her lower back burned with a bright pain that stopped her thoughts for a moment. When she concentrated on her head, there was no word to describe the searing agony. It was as if her skull was being squeezed through a meat grinder.

  There was an itch, a hotness all over her skin. She pulled her attention to it and realised that it wasn’t on her skin. It was in her skin, within her body, coursing through her system. The blood in her veins was burning, running hot, trying to burst through the paper-thin layer holding it in.

  She sucked in a lungful of air and winced as her fragile ribs expanded. The beeping of the machine near her head infiltrated her consciousness as she sank back down to the dark.

  ***

  In the darkness he howled with hot frustration. He was so close. It was almost time to wake up. His plan was perfect, ready to be enacted. His motivation: revenge. He could wrap it up in any packaging he liked, tied with a bow, notions about saving mankind, philanthropic deeds, but, in the end, it was revenge, plain and simple, that spurred him on.

  Now he would have to deviate from his plan. Find what they had stolen from him.

  How was he going to get it back?

  Sometimes in war, there are casualties. In the darkness, he repeated this phrase over and over again.

  When the time was right, he would have to kill an innocent.

  One life to save so many others.

  He had no choice.

  ***

  Day Five:

  A soft weight settled on the edge of her bed.

  ‘Kara?’

  Kara forced her eyelids open, the neon light in her room overpowering. Then slowly, ever so slowly, shapes began to form, blurred and misaligned. There was something wrong with her eyes. She couldn’t see.

  Day Eleven:

  ‘But why can’t I focus properly?’ her voice croaked. She sipped the glass of water the nurse held for her, letting the cool liquid ease her dry throat.

  ‘Your body has been through a very traumatic experience, Kara. It’s going to take time to . . . readjust.’ The doctor scanned the chart, his pen skimming the page, checking her vitals. He didn’t make eye contact with her.

  Kara wanted to kick the table that the nurse had wheeled across the hospital bed. It contained her breakfast tray. A bowl of something resembling porridge and a sliced apple, slowly browning, was supposed to tempt her to eat. No chance.

  She hated porridge. Why were these people so stupid? None of them were telling her the truth. It wasn’t typical to be sporadically blind, her vision wavering in and out of focus at odd intervals. It wasn’t commonplace for her hearing to pop, her eardrums thumping with pain, paralysing deafness overcoming her. Smells that churned her stomach to the point where she gagged; this sort of stuff was not normal. She was not normal.

  And her skin . . . How could the doctor explain
that? Flares of searing heat across her body. She wanted to scratch, rake the cells from her skin, if it meant for one minute an easing of the torturous pain.

  ‘Why have you reduced my morphine?’ she asked, her jaw tight in an effort to keep her tone even.

  ‘I spoke to you about this, Kara. We need your body’s defences back online. You have to start coping with recovery independent of the morphine. It’s going to be a slow and, at times, painful process, but you can’t rely on a drug to get you through this.’

  Why not? she wanted to ask. Why can’t I rely on a drug? What’s the point of modern medicine if you can’t rely on it?

  Kara kept her lips closed tight, envisaging flinging the food tray towards the doctor’s head.

  Day Twelve:

  ‘Really, Mrs Bailey, I can’t see anything to be worried about. Her recovery has progressed excellently. In fact, I’ve rarely seen anyone heal as quickly as Kara has done.’

  The loud conversation butted into her dream, pulling her back to reality. They were talking about her. Kara remained still, her breathing deep.

  Rosemary’s voice sounded high-pitched, panicky. ‘Are you sure?’

  What was happening?

  ‘The stitches in her head are holding perfectly, the hair is already growing back and all her fractures are knitting together better than expected. You have nothing to worry about.’ The doctor sounded confident, too confident, like he had rehearsed this speech many times.

  Then it happened, a bubble of silence. One minute she could hear everything like normal, then this. It was like a pothole of deafness. She would fall into it and simply have to wait, hoping that her hearing would return. Sometimes it was only for a second, sometimes it was for longer.

  ‘. . . but in the operating theatre . . . the seizures . . .’ Rosemary’s voice hissed low in a loud whisper.

  What seizures? Nobody had informed Kara about any seizures.

  ‘I told you, Mrs Bailey, your stepdaughter is going to be just fine. Everything is completely normal.’

  ‘If you’re sure that removing the morphine is a good idea . . .’