Veritas

by Quinn Coleridge

  I shake my head. Didn’t know me.

  “I’ll consider it,” Kelly replies. “Right now, I want you to be clear on Tom’s situation.”

  I reach out and hug him as he’s babbling on about survival percentages. This quiets the doctor and for a moment, we just hold each other. Until he pushes me away, back to business once again.

  “Miss Collins is coming within the hour, bringing you clean clothing and the like. Before she arrives, I’ll have the nurses get a pitcher of hot water and some soap. That way, you can wash and make yourself presentable. Wouldn’t want Craddock waking up to a grimy mess, would we?”

  17

  Dum spiro, spero.

  While I breathe, I hope—Cicero

  Newly washed and wearing a clean gown, I follow Cordelia to the men’s ward on the south side of the hospital. It’s the treatment hub for those patients likely to die. Nurses move between the beds. Changing sheets and dressings, removing bedpans, administering medication. I detect the haunting scent of laudanum—something I never wanted to smell again in this life. Some of the sick murmur in pain, while others are deathly silent.

  Tom? Can you hear me?

  His mind is quiet and unresponsive. There is no communication between us, but I am content he is still among the living.

  Cordie seems unhappy we are here. I know this from her tapping foot and near-constant sighing. She figures she knows everything about me and cannot understand how I came to be friends with this undisclosed male.

  “Who is he?” she finally asks. “The fellow you wish to visit?”

  I finger spell, T-O-M C-R-A-D-D-O-C-K and then show Cordie my usual sign for his name. My companion flags down a nurse and asks for his location.

  “Oh, yes,” the woman replies. “Follow me.”

  She leads us to Tom’s bed, and Cordelia informs me that there is only one chair. This situation makes her tap her foot again.

  I sit down and wave her away. Come back later. Four hours.

  “What would your father say?”

  Don’t care. Go.

  “I’ll tell you what he’d say. You’re fired, Collins! Collect your things and depart!”

  Calm down. Father won’t find out.

  “Remember Halloween night? What a disaster that was! I barely escaped with my employment intact.” Cordelia turns toward the bed and surveys Tom. “He does have a nice face though, Miss Hester. Kind-looking, strong.”

  Yes.

  “Wish I had those lovely lashes. Good jaw line, too.”

  I nod, eyes misting up behind the black glass of my spectacles.

  “You’re sure you’ll be all right?” Cordie murmurs, cracking under my will at last. “Can I get you anything? Water? A handkerchief?”

  No. Thank you.

  “I’ll be back at five. Willard can cool his heels ’til then.”

  Cordelia leaves the ward, and I reach for Tom’s hand. His pulse feels weak, so different than it did before. I remove my glove and touch his face, running my fingers along his cheek, smoothing the laugh lines around his eyes.

  A clock chimes downstairs in the next hour of my vigil, and again sixty minutes later. A nurse wants to check Tom’s wound and asks me to step away for a while. I use my cane and walk to an empty corner of the men’s ward. Kelly joins me, sandwiches in hand.

  “Thought you might like a bite,” he says. “I have bottles of lemonade in my pockets, too.”

  Not hungry, I sign.

  Kelly takes my arm, turning me toward the door. “Well, I am, and I don’t care to eat alone.”

  We leave the ward, turn right, and walk for several yards. Then the doctor stops and leads me through a narrow doorway. “Sorry,” he says, as I step inside the room. “It’s a tiny place, but it works when I need a quick wink. No chairs, I’m afraid. You sit on the cot, and I’ll take the floor.”

  The rope and canvas bed groans loudly as I rest my weight on it. I scoot to the edge of the feather tick, face hot.

  “Never mind, Hester. It always does that. Here’s your sandwich and some dried apples. Eat up.”

  I bite into the thick, buttered bread and taste a delicate slice of ham inside, a daub of grainy mustard layered between. The dried apples stick to my teeth, and I roll my tongue into the crevices to capture the last of their sweetness. So much for not being hungry.

  “Hit the spot?” Kelly asks, a smile in his voice.

  Thank you. Very good.

  Once our early supper is finished, Kelly delivers me back to my chair near Tom’s bed. “Craddock’s quite pale, but I haven’t seen any infection or fever, which is a marvel. Have faith, Hester. Your fellow’s a tough one. He obviously has something to live for.”

  I smile, skimming my fingers along the edge of the bed until I find Tom’s hand and link it with mine. Kelly turns to the patient across the aisle and asks the man about his level of pain. He calls for a nurse and prescribes a different medication. From there, Kelly wanders among the suffering, making every effort to ease their discomfort. He fights a losing battle but does so valiantly.

  Having returned from taking Maude Lambson to her afterlife, Sir Death hangs about these people—a long shadow stretching toward their sick beds. I feel Him biding time, waiting beyond the room’s threshold.

  In the corner of the room—approximately thirty feet away—I hear a soft, convulsive groan, followed by stillness. Sir Death hovers no more but enters swiftly and flies to the bedside of the dying man. Though it is rare, some humans see Him in their last moments, when the veil separating mortality and the after-life grows thin. He appears to them as a family member or an old friend, come to bring them home to the other side.

  The Reaper draws the man’s spirit from his body and glances over. I reach across Tom, shielding him from Sir Death. No shadow on this one. Pass him by.

  He rolls His eyes, gently mocking. If it’s Craddock’s destiny, I will come. You cannot stop me, Lady V.

  Damn, He’s got me there. Death is always in cahoots with the clock. I watch the newly departed soul looking about the ward in confusion. The Reaper takes his arm and draws the fellow upward, toward the ceiling, as though he weighs no more than a feather. The dead man does not call out to me for justice or retribution, but journeys easily to the other side. Death isn’t gone for long. In an instant, He’s back at the threshold.

  “Hello!” Cordelia exclaims.

  I nearly spring out of my chair. Confound it. How did I not hear her approach? Angry squirrels are usually quieter than my companion.

  Tsk, tsk, Visionary. Sir Death laughs at His post near the door. Am I distracting you?

  Not at all, Sir.

  He can be so egotistical, this Reaper. Still, I prefer egotism to His anger—it’s far better for my health.

  Cordelia scoots by me and picks up my cane and reticule. “We have thirty minutes to get you home, miss. Willard’s waiting out front.”

  All right, I sign.

  After kissing his hand, I stand and touch Tom’s face, feel his motionless features. He could be a marble statue, except for the warm skin and the slight stirring of breath at his lips. I don’t know why I do it, perhaps it’s Sir Death being so close, but I make a sign upon Tom’s forehead—marking him with a V.

  Deus tibi faveat. May the favor of the gods be upon you.

  I nod at the Reaper as Cordelia and I exit the men’s ward. Kelly told her about the cotillion and she peppers me with questions the entire trip home, especially about David Thornhill.

  “Why ever did he try to kill you of all people? It seems so farfetched.”

  Kelly’s explanation didn’t cover all the details of our night out, but I am too tired to explain. Ask Doctor, I sign.

  She snorts with feeling. “Our next appointment isn’t ‘til Monday! Must I wait that long?”

  See him tomorrow. Hospital.

  “We’re going back?”

  Appealing to her romantic nature, I suggest that Cordelia and her sweetheart Isaac spend time together while I’m with Tom.
“Hmm,” Cordelia replies, after some consideration. “That might be nice.”

  My father was still ill when she left this morning, and I can’t help saying a prayer of thanks. Fate plays havoc with my life most days and this development is like a gift from above. We reach The Revels before the appointed supper hour, but I have no appetite, since Kelly fed me a short while ago. Cordelia removes the untouched tray from my room and leaves for the servant’s dining area below stairs. I grow restless, trapped within my little suite. I take up my cane and walk through the house, ending up at my mother’s chamber. She greets me in a quiet fashion, but doesn’t mention the splinter marks on my face. Did she even look my way? I doubt it, caught up as she is with her own worries. Cherub moves less and less, and Mama says her new doctor isn’t optimistic about a full-term delivery.

  My mother reads aloud from the Ladies’ Home Journal, but Mama doesn’t stop to comment on a certain article, as is her habit, or make further plans for the nursery. She doesn’t ask about the drama I experienced yesterday. Does she even know? Has my father learned of it? If not, he soon will, and I hope to be several counties away when he does.

  After an hour passes, I seek my bed, and fall asleep quickly. My subconscious replays the fight between Tom and David Thornhill. Blood is everywhere, splattered on the wall, dripping from the ceiling. It gushes from Tom’s abdomen, forming a pool at my feet, glazing my shoes and ankles.

  Lips blue, he looks at me balefully. “I did it for you, love. All for you.”

  “No,” I cry. “No.”

  At lightning speed, the scene moves back to the point before Tom comes to my rescue. I alter my circumstances and wrestle with Thornhill, try to wrench the gun from his hand, and throw myself against him.

  It doesn’t matter what I do, the end is always the same. Tom enters the dream and dies to save me.

  I go through the motions of my morning toilette in a daze, but then Cordelia takes over. She does my hair, sees that the pleats of my dress are just so, and fetches me a set of gloves to match. I hear hooves crunching up our driveway. The horse sounds large and its bridle jingles. Is it the one belonging to Kelly? I step into the hall, filled with dread. He can have no other reason to be here now than to tell me something awful.

  The front door opens and a person enters the house without invitation, bounds up the stairs. The scent of horseflesh and pine resin swirls about him. It is Kelly.

  “Into your room, Hester,” he whispers, guiding me by the elbow.

  Once we’re seated in my bedroom parlor, my head grows light, and I have trouble breathing. The doctor rubs my back vigorously. “Exhale, woman. Don’t pass out on me.”

  I rally at his words, trying to regain my composure and lung function.

  “Prepare yourself for good news, minx. Craddock woke up this morning. Ate, drank. The nurses even got him to walk a few steps. All positive physical developments.”

  I lift my face at Kelly’s tone. His use of tact is frightening—it doesn’t become him at all.

  What? I sign. What else?

  Kelly keeps his hand on my back. “In addition to the obvious wounds, it would seem that Tom sustained further injury. I don’t know how to soften the blow, Hester. I performed some tests this morning, and the results were disturbing. Tom’s brain has been affected. His memory, to be precise.”

  Tom can’t remember?

  “Everything exists for him only in the present tense. No past, little comprehension of the future. Just here and now. I can’t explain why—it might be due to lack of oxygen after his heart stopped. Or there could be psychological issues involved.” I feel Kelly shrug. “I’ve seen it happen before, with the patient recovering his full faculties. In a few cases, however, the situation is permanent.”

  No memory? None?

  “Tom didn’t recognize his own mother an hour ago. Wasn’t even sure what their relationship entailed. But once Mrs. Craddock was identified, he accepted their connection. That’s promising.”

  The doctor settles back into the sofa cushions. “If Tom can relearn things, we have hope for recovery. Are you up to the challenge of teaching him?”

  How? I ask and point to myself. Dumb. Blind.

  “You love the man,” Kelly replies, exasperated. “Craddock knew it once, and if you’re brave enough to stick it out, he’ll know it again. Are you willing to try?”

  Yes. Yes.

  “That’s the answer I expected. Are you coming to the hospital today?”

  Cordelia bring me.

  Without further comment, the doctor rises, and we walk to the front door.

  He mounts his horse and says farewell. “I’ll see you soon.”

  Soon, I sign in return.

  18

  Alea iacta est.

  The die is cast—Julius Caesar

  I have Cordelia run into Hollister’s, the place where Tom and I first met. She hurries back with a pound of English toffee—his favorite treat—assuring me that it’s tastefully wrapped.

  “I added a small note,” Cordie says. “To wish him a speedy recovery. I signed your name at the bottom, miss.”

  Ambivalent about the note, I thank her anyway and hold the parcel on my lap as we drive to the hospital. Willard drops us off and Cordelia goes with me to Tom’s floor. She says there’s a screen drawn around his bed, so I take a seat a short distance away. We arrange to meet at five and then my companion leaves.

  Sir Death is at His post by the door. He must visit often. Stonehenge boasts the biggest hospital in the area, and patients are brought over from every town in the county.

  I listen for anything that might concern Tom.

  He has a visitor with him now. A female. I know this by the creaking of a tightly laced corset, and the mothball smell of her dress. I assume it’s a rarely worn garment, brought out after months in storage.

  “You were named after my great-uncle,” she says. “He was a good, hard-working man, too.”

  Tom’s mother? I feel a sudden kinship, bound by shared love and grief. Not wishing to infringe upon a family moment, I stand and turn toward the door. I intend to wait in the hall, but a nurse takes it upon herself to divest me of Tom’s English toffee.

  “You needn’t be shy, dear,” she says, removing the box from my hands. “I’ll deliver it to Mr. Craddock.”

  What? No! Unhand that toffee!

  But I’m too slow to grab the parcel back. With the best of intentions, I assume, the nurse moves the privacy screen a few inches to the right. “Sorry to interrupt, sir, but you have a present from an admirer.”

  Mrs. Craddock leaves her chair and asks for the box. On pins and needles, I hear her remove the ribbon, lift the lid. “Why, it’s candy. The store-boughten kind.”

  Grunting a little from exertion, Tom shifts on his bed. “Who’s it from?”

  Joy surges through me, and I bite my lip. His voice is quiet, weak even, but any words from Tom are more than acceptable. I didn’t anticipate how happy I would be upon hearing them.

  Now there’s a bending-paper sound, like the card being opened. “Hester Grayson,” Mrs. Craddock murmurs.

  Is that disappointment in her tone? And the scent on her skin? Surely, it can’t be jealousy.

  “Is this person a friend of mine?”

  “Just a girl from town,” Mrs. Craddock says. “Follows you around like a puppy. It isn’t healthy, in my opinion, having someone like that at your heels. Handicapped, you know. Still, her family is rich.”

  I follow him around like a puppy? At his heels?

  “Miss Grayson’s right outside the screen,” the nurse says, ever helpful. “Waiting for a visit.”

  Tom moves on the bed again, groaning in pain. “Bring her over. So I can say thank you.”

  Beyond embarrassed now, tears forming, I step back and bump into the wall. Kelly’s private room is just around the corner, and I hurry into the hall and count the doors until I reach number five. Thankfully, the room is empty, but it smells of peppermint, like Kelly often does. M
y thoughts return to Mrs. Craddock as I climb onto the squeaky cot.

  After all these years, I never knew she felt that way. She seemed uncomfortable around me at times, apologizing for the state of her clothing or the messiness of her home—as if I could even see those things. Despite our differences, I thought we were friendly.

  Don’t blubber, Hester. It won’t help.

  The urge to reach out to Tom and test our clairvoyant bond is overwhelming, but I decide to wait until he’s stronger. Fatigued myself, I pull the blanket to my chin and doze. Then I hear Kelly’s voice.

  “Wake up, minx,” the doctor says. “I looked everywhere for you and finally thought of this place. I’m tired of hide-and-seek.”

  I prop myself up on one elbow and sign, Tom’s mother.

  “Scared you off, did she?”

  I nod, caught out with the truth.

  He squats down by the bed. “Can you blame the woman? It’s obvious she’s played second fiddle in her son’s affections for years.”

  Hurts.

  “Undoubtedly, but she’s gone now, home to cook dinner for her brood. Let’s reacquaint you with Tom.” Kelly pulls me up by the hand. “You might want to fix that collar first and pin back the hair drooping over your ear.”

  With the doctor’s help, I make myself more presentable.

  Look, I sign, and point at the puncture marks on my face. Ugly.

  Kelly merely laughs. “The scabs from the splinter wounds, do you mean?

  Yes. Must be terrible.

  “Oh, come now. Even with a few of those, you’ll do.”

  We leave the little sleeping chamber and walk toward the recovery ward. After a few steps, I panic once more and turn back.

  Kelly hauls me around. “Wrong way,” he mutters. “I would have thought you’d be plowing people over to reach Craddock’s bedside.”

  Mother hates me. What if Tom hates me, too?

  “Where is your spine, Hester? You’ll never know what he’s feeling if you remain in this hallway.”

  To blazes with Kelly. I have spine to spare. Answering the challenge in his words, I finish the journey to the sick room without stopping. The doctor stands with me just outside the door.