by Katy Regnery
Dang it!
All I want is to stay inconspicuous, and now everyone in the store is glancing over at me.
“To where?” yells Maggie.
“Where you callin’ to?” asks the clerk.
In normal circumstances, I would tell him to forget it, grab my groceries, and run. But this isn’t normal. There’s an injured girl lying in my mother’s bed, and I promised to help her.
“Um . . . Arizona.”
“Arizona? Dang. Long long-distance. That’s gonna be pricey, son.”
“I, um, I’d really appreciate it if I could just . . .”
“Arizona!” he bellows toward his boss.
“No way!” she yells back. “Tell ’im to get his phone fixed!”
I flinch at this refusal, feeling frustration rise up within me. Looking up at the cashier, I say softly, “I’m willing to pay for the call.”
“How much?” he asks.
“Ten dollars?” He looks at me curiously, but doesn’t say anything. I add desperately, “Twenty?”
“Twenty bucks to make a phone call?” He reaches behind and pulls something from his back pocket, holding it out to me. “You can use mine.”
I’ve seen people on hiking trails using their cell phones, of course, but I’ve never actually held one in my hands, and I have no idea how to use it. It’s a little bigger than a credit card, but when I touch the screen, it lights up with little pictures.
“Thanks,” I say, staring down at it.
“You can go over there,” he says, gesturing with his chin to a bench between the restroom doors. “I’ll watch your stuff while you make your call.” As I turn to leave, he asks, “Ain’t you forgettin’ somethin’?” I stare at him. “The twenty?”
I reach into my pocket and take out a twenty-dollar bill, placing it on the counter between us, then head to the bench.
I sit down and touch my finger to the screen again.
It lights up with lots of colorful squares with a picture on each. Hmm. Oh. Okay. Maps. Weather. Clock. Contacts. Right. Okay. I look at each picture for the one that looks right and finally find it: a phone.
I press on the green box, and a keypad comes up. I quickly take the note from my back pocket and dial Brynn’s parents’ number, holding the phone to my ear. Hearing the sound of ringing is strangely familiar, though I haven’t used a phone since I was nine.
“Hello . . .”
“Oh, hello!” I say, my heart racing with nerves. “I’m calling about—”
“. . . you’ve reached the Cadogans. Jennifer and Colin are not here right now. Please leave your name and a message, and we will get back to you ask soon as possible. Thank you for calling!”
Oh. A message machine.
Beeeeeeeeeep.
“Yes. Hello. I’m calling about your, um, your daughter. Um. Brynn. That is . . . I have your daughter. Well . . .” I gulp. I am not good at this. “Brynn is staying with me, um, here in Maine. She is, well, she was injured climbing Katahdin. But don’t worry. I patched her up, and now she’s on the mend, um, so you don’t have to worry. She doesn’t want you to worry. Um. Yes. That’s all, I guess. She’ll, um, call you when she can. Okay? Okay. Goodbye, then.”
I pull the phone from my ear and stare down at the keypad. Beneath the numbers is a red End button, so I press that, and the main screen, with all the colorful little squares, returns.
So easy. Almost insanely easy.
Looking up at the clock on the wall across from me, I realize I’ve been in the store for over half an hour, which means I’ve been away from Brynn for well over an hour now.
I jump up and return the phone to the clerk with a hasty thanks. Then I grab my bags, tie them to the back of the quad, gas up, and head north for home.
***
Two hours later, I finally arrive back at my cabin.
It shouldn’t have taken so long, but I got cocky on the return trip, anxious to get back, and instead of going around a bad mud bath, I tried to go through it. Unfortunately, I also got stuck, which meant I had to use the winch, fastening it around a tree and pulling the quad out of the muck. Now I’m covered with mud and so are at least half the things I bought. But heck, I guess it can all be rinsed off, including me.
I park the ATV in the unused stall beside Annie, put the muddy grocery sacks on the front porch, and head to the outdoor shower. I strip down and wash off the mud, soaping up and rinsing quickly because I’m anxious to check on Brynn. I’m sure she’s asleep, but I’ll feel better when I see her chest rising and falling easily under Mama’s quilt.
Slipping naked back into the house, I race through the living room and down the hallway, to my room. I throw on clean jeans and a T-shirt, then head back to Mama’s room.
I know something is wrong—very wrong—right away.
Brynn’s been living with me for four days now, and I know she doesn’t talk in her sleep. But as I approach her room, I hear her mumbling.
“Jem. Jem. Oh, nooooo,” she mutters, her voice breathless with panic, breaking on tears.
Pushing open the curtain, I find her in bed, lying on her back. But her face is bright red, and the hair around her face is damp, sticking to her glistening skin.
“No,” I mutter, lurching forward to press my hand to her forehead. “Shoot! No!”
Her skin is hot. So hot. Scary hot.
“Jem?” she says, opening her heavy eyes. “I should . . . have . . . been there.”
“I’m getting you a cold cloth,” I say, leaving her to run to the bathroom. I grab a hand towel and douse it in cold water, then hurry back to Brynn.
I shouldn’t have left her. Damnation, I shouldn’t have left her.
Kneeling beside her bed, I press the towel to her forehead.
One of her wounds must be infected. I need to take a look at them, then get some ibuprofen into her to fight the fever.
“Jem,” she mutters as her eyes flutter closed. “My . . . battery. Oh, noooo . . .”
I don’t know who Jem is, but the profound sadness in her voice makes my insides clench with sympathy. Her voice sounds like mine after I lost Mama. Bereft. Lost. Alone.
“Brynn,” I say gently, close to her ear. “It’s Cassidy. You’re safe. You’re not alone. I’m looking after you, remember?”
“Jem,” she sobs softly as tears trickle down her cheeks.
Leaving the icy compress on her forehead, I run to the kitchen and open the cabinet over the refrigerator, where I keep medical supplies in a plastic tackle box. I grab it and place it on the counter. I’m going to need to boil water too, which I generally do in the fireplace or outside, over the fire pit, but I don’t have time to make a fire. I decide to use the propane stove instead. It’ll use a lot of gas to get the water hot enough, but I don’t care. I’ll go back to the Golden Bridge Store next week to stock up on more propane if I have to.
I fill a pot with water, place it on the stove, and ignite the burner.
Uncertain of whether or not she’ll be able to swallow pills, I crush four ibuprofen tablets between two spoons and mix them with goat’s milk.
When I return to Brynn, I prop up her head and give her the milk, which she, blessedly, drinks without issue. Then I pull down the covers and lift her T-shirt to take a look at her incisions.
I see the problem immediately: around one of her many bandages is an angry-looking redness, and seeping through the bandage is a yellowish-brown discharge. I lean closer. It smells off too.
It hurts. . . but I’m okay.
Why didn’t she say something this morning? She had to have been uncomfortable. Maybe the Percocet masked the pain? No. I’m only giving her half doses. Maybe she was trying to be brave by not saying anything?
She’s your responsibility, Cassidy. How did you miss this?
And then I realize: I fell asleep beside Brynn last night before changing the dressings, and I was so distracted by my attraction to her this morning, I raced out of the cabin before I could tend to her. She’s had the same
dressing on for almost twenty-four hours, when it should have been flushed and disinfected last night or this morning. I’m lucky more of them haven’t soured.
By fighting against my feelings like a self-centered, self-absorbed teenager, I’ve put her in danger.
That stops now, I tell myself. You put her first. You take care of her. If you develop feelings for her, so be it. You can undevelop them later, once she’s gone. But as long as she’s under your roof, she comes first, Cass. You hear?
Furious with myself, I take the compress from her head, run to the bathroom to resoak it in cold water, and replace it on her forehead before checking on the boiling water. If the sutures have to be removed and the wound flushed with saline and resewn, I’ll have to sterilize any instruments I need to use. Including a syringe. She’s going to need a shot of lidocaine before I do anything.
When I return to her side, she’s mumbling about Jem again.
Jem. Who is Jem?
I squat down beside her.
“Shhhh,” I whisper. “Brynn, listen to me . . . you’re going to be okay. You’ve got a little infection, and it started a fever. I’m sorry I wasn’t here. I promise I’ll make it better.”
“Jem. Jem, I’m sorry,” she murmurs. Then, so softly, I almost miss it, “Cass.”
My heart stutters, and my breath catches as I stare at her face, at the tan freckles against her red skin. She has remembered me, even in her feverish state, and it makes something happen inside me. Something that I’ve never felt before rips through me at the speed of light. It is strong and true and heavy in such a good, light way that for a moment I feel like I could float away from the force of it. My lungs burn as I suck in a deep breath. My eyes water and I blink them rapidly.
I vow that I will never, ever let anyone hurt this woman again. Not Jem. Not Wayne. Not anyone. And definitely not me.
“Brynn,” I say, my voice gravelly and shaking with emotion as I reach up and adjust the cloth on her forehead. I thread my fingers through her hair, smoothing it away from her hot face. “I’m here. I’m here with you.”
“Casssssss,” she sighs, drawing out the s in my name until it’s just breath.
I can hear the water boiling, so I return to the kitchen and put two needles, a spool of fishing line, a syringe, scissors, tweezers, and several cloths into the water. Then I bring it all, along with the medical box, back into Brynn’s room.
I’ve known the devil in my lifetime.
I’m fairly certain that a part of him still lives inside me.
But I’ll gladly do battle with him now to make her well again.
Brynn
I’m so sorry, Miss Cadogan, but we need to speak to you . . .
Is there a Jeremiah Benton residing at this address?
Can we come in?
Can you sit down, miss?
A band called Steeple 10 was playing tonight at the . . .
We regret to tell you that Mr. Benton . . .
Is there someone we can call for you?
Miss Cadogan? . . . Miss Cadogan? . . . Miss . . .
Why my brain forces me back to that night, I don’t know. I wish it didn’t.
There are so many other times of my life I’d rather revisit, but this one always seems to win out. The well-intentioned female detective. The male officer in his dark blue uniform with a seven-sided star over his heart. The black-and-white squad car outside, on the street in front of our house, blue and red lights swirling, painting garish shadows on the walls.
But breaking through my memories, I hear another voice telling me that I’m safe, that I’m not alone, that I’m going to be okay.
It’s new, but I trust it.
It’s like the voice of God breaking through the cold, dark hell of my worst nightmares. And suddenly I am warm again. I am so warm. Should I be this warm, Cassidy?
Cassidy. Cass.
In my mind, I search for the face that matches the voice, and I see a clear stream with a blue stone and a green stone sitting side by side, glistening on the sand just beneath the still water.
I’m here. I’m here with you.
“Casssssss,” I whisper, my voice light-years away. Help. Oh, Cass, please help.
There is a soft ripping sound, like someone pulling tape from skin. Under the sound of my scream, I hear him groan.
Something’s wrong.
I open my eyes, and his face is turned away from me, but his unkempt blond hair is familiar, and it comforts me.
“Cass?” I murmur. “Help.”
He turns to me, those glistening stones blinking at me. “I will, angel. I promise.” He exhales. “This is going to pinch.”
I cry out as I feel a fresh stab of pain in my hip near the burning.
“That was lidocaine,” he whispers, wincing like it hurt him too. “It’ll numb up the area. I have to take out the stitches, flush it, and resew it.”
I close my eyes and try to breathe through the pain.
“I’m sorry, Brynn. It got infected. But I’ll fix it. I promise. Won’t take long. A few minutes.”
But in reality, it takes only a few seconds, because—thank the Lord and Baby Jesus—I pass out from the pain.
***
If I trust in you, oh, please, don’t run and hide . . .
He’s singing the Beatles to me again.
I open my eyes and find Cassidy in the rocking chair on the other side of the end table, guitar in his lap, fingers gently strumming, eyes closed, lips moving softly.
“Cass?”
His hands freeze. His eyes open and slide to mine. “You’re awake.”
I nod. “Can I have some water?”
“Yep.”
He places his guitar on the floor, reaches for a glass on the end table, and holds it to my lips as I lean up to drink. When I’m finished, he puts the glass back down and squats beside my bed.
“How you feeling, Brynn?”
“Like I’ve been through something,” I mutter, letting my head fall back on the pillow. “What happened?”
“One of your incisions got infected,” he says, his eyes heavy. He grimaces, looking down at the mattress between us. “I had to open it, clean it, and re-suture it.”
“Doesn’t hurt,” I say, surprised to find I’m telling the truth. I don’t feel it. I don’t feel much of anything, in fact.
“I gave you a full Percocet,” he says.
Percocet is a weird and funny word, I think, trying to focus my eyes on his face.
“Cass?”
“Hmm?”
“Are you a doctor?”
“No. But I’m as good as a certified paramedic.”
“As good as?” I ask, turning my head slightly to look at him. The movement is sluggish, like my head’s encased in molasses.
“I studied hard and took all the tests. I mean, I took them here from the back of a textbook, but I did good. I would have aced them in a classroom.”
“Your eyes are . . . different colors,” I note aloud.
His lips twitch like he wants to laugh, but doesn’t. “Yes, they are.”
Cocking his head to the side, he stares at me hard, like he’s trying to figure something out.
“What?” I say, working hard to keep my eyes open. “Ask.”
He clenches his jaw, and I don’t see his hand reach up, but I feel it resting gently on my forehead, and I don’t mind that he’s touching me. “You’re cooler.”
“Is that what you wanted to ask?”
“Don’t do that again,” he blurts out in a rush.
“Do . . . what?”
“Be sick.” He looks away, his jaw clenched and tight. “You scared me.”
“You called me angel,” I say sleepily, my eyes starting to close.
When did he call me angel? I can’t remember.
His head jerks up and his breath catches. I hear it. I hear it . . . catch.
“It’s . . . okay,” I say on an exhaled breath, closing my eyes because I am just too damn tired to keep them open any
more. “I don’t care . . . if you call me . . . angel.”
“Brynn,” he says. “I should have . . . I mean, I shouldn’t have left you . . . I should have been here. I’m sorry. I’m so dang sorry.”
“I was hot,” I mumble. “Scared. Jem . . .”
“I’m sorry.”
“Hold me,” I whisper, “while I sleep.”
I am drifting off, but I don’t surrender until I feel the mattress dip under his weight and his body slide onto the bed next to mine. One arm slips under my pillow. The other falls gently just under my breasts.
“Good night, angel,” he murmurs.
I breathe in the smell of Cassidy.
And then I sleep.
***
When I wake up, the sun is rising through the windows, and Cassidy is lying beside me. He’s on his right side facing me, while I’m on my back. But in my sleep, I have turned my neck to face him, our noses almost touching. It’s warm and intimate, and I am fully aware that we don’t know each other very well, but it doesn’t feel like that. I feel . . . I feel . . . I feel like I trust him, like I need him, like I want him.
Not sexually, although he is definitely a hot-looking guy, but viscerally. Like, for survival. He has become my lifeline, and without him I would have died too many times to count.
Suddenly, I have this existential notion that there can’t be a me without a Cassidy. This thought isn’t romantic or poetic. It just . . . is. But it’s solid and real, and I don’t mentally recoil from it. In fact, I lean into it . . .
There is no me without you.
. . . and it’s not like anything I’ve ever felt before.
Unfortunately, I can’t lie beside him and savor the feeling because my bladder is full again.
“Cass?” I say.
“Mmm?” he mumbles.
“Cass, I have to go to the bathroom.”
“Yeah. Okay.”
I lean back a little so I can look up into his face, and his eyes open slowly.
“Angel,” he breathes, his eyes slowly focusing on mine.
Angel?
I hear myself chuckle softly. “No angels here. Just me. Brynn.”
His eyes snap open now, fully aware, fully awake. “Oh. Right. Yeah. Sorry. I just . . .”