I slid the comforter from under the armload of items I had carried down and worked my way over to my usual chair, pulling up the back end of the sleeper and arranging the comforter so he could lean back. It was hard not to notice the purple bruises running along his shoulders and back. One – across his right shoulder blade and side – resembled a boot print where he had been kicked or stomped on, more than likely breaking his ribs in the process. It sickened me to see how someone could do something like this to anyone. Provoked or not, there was no reason for such brutality.
He leaned back and noticed the look of disgust on my face. He bent his head down away from me in the same dejected appearance I had first seen him, back at the inn, as though he was ashamed of the way I saw him. I knew no words could make Job feel any different. I had to find a way to take his mind off of it and get him back here in the room with me. Snatching the chicken and bottles of water in hopes of distraction, I leaned over and held out a bottle, shaking it. His head started to rise, tempted by the refreshment I was offering, reaching up to take it. Instead he took my arm in his hand, causing me to drop the water into his lap.
I could feel my pulse racing. His grip wasn’t tight, as his other hand came up and held my hand. I could feel his large, soft fingers across my skin as he turned my arm, studying my wrist, still bruised from the night before. I could have pulled away at any time, but I was petrified that, if I tried, he might grip tighter. At last, he let go, and I pulled my hand back so hard I lost my balance and collided with the wall behind me. My knees gave out, and I slumped down on the floor, attempting to catch my breath, holding my wrist close to my chest.
He was looking down at his hands, palms up, as if horrified of them. He balled them into fists, still looking down, terrified to face me. I knew what he was thinking, but before I could say anything, he spoke up.
“I – I hurt you.” What he said was clear, but full of anger at himself.
“It was an accident. You were scared, and didn’t know where you were. I would have done the same thing.” There was no way I sounded convincing. I tried to stand up; my legs felt like rubber that wouldn’t support me. I stayed pressed against the wall, keeping as much space between us as possible.
“You’re afraid – of me.” He still hadn’t looked up, his gaze fixed on his hands – opening and closing them, as though he was testing the strength in them. He finally turned to look at me. There was an anger burning in his eyes, but not for me. I could see the pain he was feeling at the moment wasn’t a physical one, but emotional. His expression told me the anguish he was feeling. He didn’t need to say it, but did anyways.
“I’m–I’m sorry.”
I didn’t want him to be sorry. I didn’t like the feeling of guilt for being so biased to believe he would harm me. I had let the propaganda of the Sayner race get to me, and couldn’t see that he might be different. He had feelings, the same as us. He felt pain like us. He was more human than I could have ever thought.
I pulled myself off the ground, feeling my legs wobble under me. Stepping forward hesitantly, forcing myself to ignore my apprehension, I picked the bottle back up from his lap, handing it back to him. Before taking it, he gently ran his hand across the back of my own, still trying to convince me he wouldn’t do anything. His finger brought goose bumps up my arm. I could feel my breathing slow down to a more even pace. It was a calming effect. I wanted to tell him that it was alright; that I would find a way to move past my fears and accept him.
“Thank you.” His thanks were not just for the water, but for everything: the stress I had endured; saving his life and letting him stay in my home while he recovered.
“You’re welcome.” I gave him a smile back, so he knew I meant it. We stayed silent the rest of the night as we ate. All that we needed to say had been said. It would be hard for both of us over the next few days, but I was willing to give it a try. At that moment, I knew in my heart I could trust him.
8.
Over the course of the next week, I learned very little about Job. For every ten questions I had for him, I got back two answers at the most. The very few times he responded verbally, the answer was usually a quick yes or no related to something as simple as what foods he liked or didn’t like, if he needed this or that, or how he was feeling. There was almost a consistent yes when it came to my cooking.
I wouldn’t consider myself a great chef. Cooking for Chase taught me that it didn’t matter what I made, as it all went to the same place. Because of this philosophy, I preferred to make anything that was quick and easy, or came out of a box or can. Not once did Job turn his nose up at the food he was given, and I figured it had to do with the lack of a decent meal before being laid up in my basement.
He would devour it in three to four easy bites, usually before I could take even one. He always asked for seconds or thirds, and continuously cleared my cupboards and freezer almost daily. The only thing saving me from going broke was Sally, keeping my shelves stocked with her giving ways.
Some questions he would answer just by facial expressions, or with his body language. Physical pain was an easy one to interpret, since it was almost all the time. It either came with a simple wince, a sudden quickening of his breath, or as bad as gritting his teeth and holding back screams. I did as much as I could during these times by going through the list Sally had made. There wasn’t anything for pain on the list other than ice. The rest was checks to make sure there was nothing serious about his injuries beyond the visual. It was bad enough watching him hurt all the time; I had no desire to inflict any more pain. I hoped he was grateful for it, since Sally wasn’t showing signs of letting up.
I tried to ask if there was anything he knew of that we could use for the waves of pain that never seemed to end. I had a stock full of ibuprofen and other over-the-counter meds that I had no problem distributing at any time. The response to this was always a shrug of the shoulders. Even when I tried to offer him any of these, explaining that it may help, he turned them away by pushing my hand aside or turning his head in the opposite direction, letting me know that he was going to refuse, no matter how hard I tried. Between seeing my reaction each time he showed that he hurt, and my forceful attempts to do anything to help, he started to cover up how bad it was, so that I would stop insisting.
Often there were times I couldn’t figure out what look he was giving me, as if I should know some mind reading skill. After asking the same question in a different way but getting the same mysterious results, one of us would give up. It was usually me, frustrated, throwing my hands up in the air or walking away. I wanted to believe that he didn’t understand, or that he didn’t know the right words to convey what he wanted to tell me. Even after just one of these episodes, however, I could tell that there was some other reason for his silence.
Other questions he just refused to answer. Brow furrowed, his gaze would direct to some unknown place. I tried not to press any of those questions, assuming, for whatever reason, they were either too painful to talk about, or he wasn’t ready to tell me.
The only one I asked almost every day was who had done this to him. His looks kept changing, as if he was hiding some secret he wasn’t going to let me in on. At first, it was no answer at all – hanging his head and not facing me – but slowly, it became a sad look, as though he really wanted to say, but knew it might hurt me more than it hurt him. I could see through his vow of silence each time, and tried to offer comfort that, if he would just say, I could do something about it. I had no idea what I could do. It wasn’t like I had a group of friends that would just go out and beat the scum to a pulp. I wasn’t about to go fetch the police to tell them, and have him taken away in the process. I could always ask Derrick, but then he would know, and take him back as his slave and work him to the bone. I couldn’t bring myself to do that.
Chase all but disappeared off the radar. His usual drop-ins for dinner had stopped altogether. There was no communication unless I sent him a text, or called him on his cell phone �
�� which almost always seemed to go to a voicemail box full of my unreturned messages. The few times he answered, he always had a different excuse, saying he was in a hurry or that someone was waiting on him. It began to feel as though he abandoned an orphan at my doorstep and fled before being discovered.
The one time he came over, I couldn’t convince him to go downstairs and try to engage in conversation with Job. I tried not to concern myself with his lack of involvement, since the less he knew, the better. I still had a nagging fear that he may have been part of the cause of the situation. I tried to pretend that it wasn’t there, but it was hard not to suspect everyone.
Sally stopped by every day to check Job’s progress and bring in fresh supplies or groceries. She was always a welcome sight when she arrived. Early in the week, she had brought about a dozen reusable ice packs, to give my fridge’s ice maker a chance to recuperate from its constant abuse. I’m sure if it had a voice, it would have thanked her.
At the start of the week, there was a lot of concern around what had happened when he was having the involuntary shifts and if it had caused any long term damage. The seepage from the stitches was pretty common, whether he had pulled at them or not. Each day, the swelling around them would go down bit by bit, even though the bruising seemed to spread and become more prominent.
The battered ribs were still painful, and caused him to take shallow breaths. Sally explained that it was better to take deep breaths to prevent fluid build-up in his lungs. Taking one of the pillows from the couch, he would hold it against his chest to assist in deep breathing, or else use it to adjust his position. Eventually, he gave up on trying to lie back, and insisted on sitting up, even when he slept. Most of my bedroom and living room set was now in the basement. I had been reduced to uncomfortable nights on the couch – a price I was willing to pay to ensure his comfort, for now.
His cheek and eye still had lingering bruising, but – judging from his ability to talk without pain and see out of the once-distended eye – the injuries on his face were superficial, and caused no more concern than one of the many small cuts or scrapes that had covered his body.
Small purple contusions appeared in almost every place imaginable. Some took the shape of fingers, from someone’s grasp holding him against his will. Others were like the boot print on his back from stomps or kicks, mostly around the midsection. I was surprised he even survived the mauling, and had come away with only the few injuries he sustained. Each discoloration that appeared, even as faint as some were, caused the anger to build inside of me – anger for the savages that believe such brutality should be allowed, but also anger at Job. I had already witnessed his strength, yet it was clear he had done nothing to stop it. There were no marks across his knuckles that would indicate he had fought back. The risk of being put to death for defending himself had to outweigh the cruel acts that had been violently placed on him. It didn’t make sense, but it wasn’t a question I was willing to ask yet, knowing he would refuse to answer.
The biggest concern had become his shattered leg. Sally continuously checked for warmth, a pulse, reflex, feeling and movement. She would ask him to move his toes, which he did ever so slightly, cringing at the pain it caused. The worst of the bunch was the reflex test, in which she would use the end of a pen and run it up his heel, causing him to involuntarily twitch his foot and nearly double over each time. It was a cruel procedure, but necessary for whatever reason she had not shared with me as of yet.
The swelling in his leg seemed to increase since the first day, becoming more discolored than before, no matter how much ice was applied. Each gap in the makeshift splint looked as if his shiny, bloated skin was trying to push its way out – like a balloon that had been squeezed too tightly. I made the assumption that this was just another part of the healing process, like the bruising that appeared everywhere else. As Sally continued these tests each day, she always said “good” or “things look great,” but there was concern in her voice on Friday.
That evening, she ran through the normal tests as usual, but the results had changed slightly. There was no twinge when she ran the pen up the sole of his foot. She tried again with the same outcome. She asked him to move his toes. Although he still gritted at the pain, there was nothing. I knew something was amiss. Job did, too.
She began a new process of pressing on his big toenail, which to my surprise looked fairly manicured for someone who had probably never seen an emery board in his life. She would hold it till it turned white and then let go, waiting for the pink under the nail bed to return to normal color. It took a few seconds, but finally came back.
“Can you feel this?” she asked while touching his toes and foot at the same time, checking for a pulse. He nodded, with a bit of fear in his pained expression. “You’re doing great. It’s not a big deal if you can’t move it. More than likely there is a tear in the muscles, and it’s going to take time for everything to go back to normal. This is just a little bump in the road.” She smiled at him as genuinely as possible.
He returned the smile and looked at me. I gave the half smile I usually reserved for most guests at the inn. It was as fake as they came, but he didn’t seem to question it. There was something going on that she was trying to hide from him. I knew what she said was a lie, and he was buying it. Whatever had her concerned, it was bad, and I needed to know.
As she finished her daily routine, I followed her up the stairs, hoping that whatever she had kept from him, she wouldn’t keep from me – although I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear what she would have to say. The look on her face was one of panic and grief, as though she had just lost someone close. Her hands began to shake as she hurriedly started gathering multiple ice packs and leftover bags of ice stored in my freezer. In her frenzy, she hardly noticed I was standing there, desperately trying to get her to turn and notice me. I had to step in front of her to finally make eye contact. The look in her eyes was the same pained look I had seen just before she had started the stitches to stop the bleeding.
“What is going on?” I said. “I saw what happened down there, but you lied to him. If you can’t tell him, at least tell me.” I kept my voice hushed, just in case one of the vents in the kitchen carried my voice down to him.
“There is a problem.” She broke eye contact and looked off somewhere else.
“Really? Are you sure? Because the way you’re acting, it doesn’t seem to be anything wrong. I figured you were going to tell me he will be doing the waltz tomorrow night.” I said it as sarcastically as I could. I wanted her to know I wasn’t going to back down till I had my answer.
“His circulation is very bad. The swelling in his leg has gotten worse, and the reflexes have stopped.” She bit her bottom lip, as if she didn’t want to continue. “He may have something called compartment syndrome. It’s rare, but if he does, then he is in danger without a fasciotomy.”
I was having an issue hanging on to what she was saying. Everything she talked about was over my head. I crossed my arms, hoping she was willing to give me a straight answer. “Okay. First of all, he broke his leg. You set it. That should be the end of the story. Secondly, I have no idea what a fashion-otomy thing is, since I never went to nursing school. Do you think you could explain it in English?”
She was still distraught over the situation, but after a deep breath, she was able to gather herself enough to spell it out. “There is blood collecting in his leg. It is causing the swelling. It means that it is not traveling to his foot as well as it should. A fasciotomy is a surgery where they cut open the leg to let the blood drain out. It may have been caused when he was shifting, and he may have moved the bones back out of place. It could be because his splint is too tight. I have no idea why, but either way, if the pressure doesn’t stop, then he is going to have some permanent…disabilities.”
“So, can you try to move his leg back into place, or maybe try to cut his leg open to drain it?” I did not want to be around to see him being carved like a turkey. I had already seen e
nough gore to last a lifetime.
“No. If I try to set it again, and I’m not even sure if it is out of place, he may have a blood clot, and it could break loose and travel. As for the surgery, I have no idea what to do or how to do it. I’ve seen it, and it usually requires supplies I don’t have and a skin graft afterwards. I would not be able to do that, and our outcome would more than likely be the same if we didn’t.”
“Well, then what kind of options do we have?” It was best to know what I was up against. There was no reason to panic if it really wasn’t something as bad as she thought.
“Best case – and the probable one – is that the tissue dies, and we amputate his leg.”
“And worst case?” I barely got the words out, still digesting the best case in shock.
“Worst case is a blood clot comes loose and travels to his heart or lungs and…”
She didn’t need to finish her sentence. I didn’t know much about medical terms, but I knew what an embolism was, and how it could kill instantly. The outcome of any of the options didn’t sound good. I finally understood why she couldn’t tell him. I wouldn’t want to be the one to break the news to him, either. How do you explain to someone that there is a very likely chance you’re going to have to saw their leg off, and they still might die?
“How long does he have before we have to…you know?” I could feel myself swallow hard at the thought. I couldn’t even say the words. My stomach had balled in a knot. I usually would make a joke at a moment like this, but this was beyond any humor.
“I’m going back down to try everything I know how, to delay it. I doubt I can do anything at this point to stop what has already happened. I would say Sunday, at the latest. It all depends on what happens in the next day. I have never seen it move this slowly. Usually a patient would be at this stage in a matter of hours.”
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