by Rosa Sophia
She shook her head.
Clara leaned against the table, crossing her arms. “You said your dad was getting dizzy. This has probably been going on for a long time. Longer than we realized.”
Instead of replying, she picked up her fork and continued eating. The food had become tasteless, the air suddenly chilled.
The last thing Tammy wanted to do was visit her father. But she knew she would have to. Sooner or later, she would have to.
28
Chapter Twenty-Eight
When she arrived at the library, Alex wasn’t there yet. She went upstairs and grabbed a book of Shakespeare’s plays and sank into a comfy chair in the reading area.
The only sound was that of paper rustling as an old man nearby read the local newspaper.
Tammy leafed through the old tome and sniffed the pages, a habit she’d picked up as a child. The scent of the old paper and ink brought her to a place where she was safe and content. She couldn’t deny the euphoria she experienced with a book in her hand.
“What are you doing, young lady?”
Tammy startled and looked up. Old Bruce was standing there, his one bad leg stuck outward like a rotting tree trunk as he leaned on his gnarled cane.
“Hello.” She nodded to the chair beside her. “Have a seat. I was just reading.”
“Looked more like you were gettin’ ready to eat the thing.” He chuckled.
“I like to sniff books.”
“Sniff ’em? Really? My sister does that.”
“I didn’t think anyone did that except me, or maybe Clara.”
“Who’s Clara?” he asked, keeping his voice low.
“My cousin. She loves to read as much as I do.”
“Good for you, reading books.” He held a worn copy of a Charles Dickens novel. “Looks like you and I both like the old stuff. Reading got me through the war. I was in Vietnam. Hell, total hell. But this—” He patted the cover of the book. “This got me through. Don’t know what I would’ve done without books.”
“You…you saw a lot of action?”
The wrinkles around his glistening eyes seemed to deepen, and for a split second, Tammy saw darkness and horrors, people being cut down like weeds. She blanched, her stomach turning.
“Tammy, war is hell. Don’t let nobody tell you different.” Their gazes met, and he nodded in understanding. “Something about you, kid.” He brandished the book as if to make a point. “You’ve seen things. You’ve seen the shadows in a man’s heart.”
“Yes. Yes, I have.”
In that moment, their connection deepened, and she wanted to hug Old Bruce. She wanted to pat him on the back and console him as though he were a little child.
But she didn’t. Instead, they stayed there and chatted for a long time, until the librarian came over and asked them to quiet down.
Bruce chuckled and leaned in close to whisper. “We’re gonna be the talk of the town, you and I.”
She didn’t mind.
* * *
The historian’s office smelled like old newspapers and dust. Alex was running a little late, but the telltale rumble of a Harley Davidson had announced her arrival. She’d rushed in, the buckles on her motorcycle boots clinking, clad in dark blue jeans and a leather jacket, looking more like a bassist from a heavy metal band than the town historian of Clearwater.
Now, Tammy sat in front of the computer in the office, after Alex had shown her how to enter details about various documents and photographs into the archives.
“See, right there,” Alex said, indicating the screen. “Just type in whatever you can—names, dates, any other pertinent information. Don’t forget to save it. Hopefully, as long as the town implements it,” she added with a huff, “this’ll be put online so residents, students, researchers can access our archives easily.”
“You mean, none of this is backed up?” Tammy gave her an incredulous look.
“Well. It is.” She nodded toward an external hard drive. “It’s just not online. Makes me damn nervous, I’ll tell you that. Hey, how’s Orion doing?”
“He’s all right. He’s just trying to hold himself together until his appointment with his neurologist.”
She didn’t know what it was like to go through what he did, day in and day out, and she didn’t want to know. Her inner self warred with the desire to take his pain away, and the terror of it. And every time she mentioned it, he insisted he wouldn’t wish trigeminal neuralgia on his nastiest enemy, that it was called the world’s worst pain for a reason.
She looked up at Alex, who eyed her forlornly. “I don’t know what to do for him.”
“Just be there for him. There’s nothing else you can do.” She averted her eyes to the filing cabinet, then grabbed a stack of papers to continue her work. “Believe me,” she added. “I know what I’m talking about.”
“What do you mean?”
“My mother had trigeminal neuralgia.”
“Really?” Tammy turned the wheeled chair so she was facing her, almost forgetting the task at hand.
“Yeah. She had it as long as I can remember. She was in a car in London once, years ago. There was a bad accident, and her head was hit from behind. She was thrown forwards.”
“Ouch,” she mumbled.
“Right, ouch.” Alex flipped through some files, carefully slipping papers into their designated places. “She didn’t get checked out right away, and even if she had, they probably wouldn’t have figured out about the neuralgia until later, anyway.” She turned grabbing another stack. For a moment, she stood there with a faraway look in her eye. “The rosary I gave Orion belonged to her.”
“Oh!” Tammy’s eyes widened. “I forgot about that. I’ll make sure he gets it back to you.”
Alex held up a hand, shaking her head. “No. Let him keep it.”
“But—”
“That rosary kept Mom alive for years. The condition worsened as she got older. She was in horrendous pain every day. She clutched that rosary all the time. I swear to God, it kept her going some days. Somehow. Orion needs it.” She leaned against the cabinet for a moment before adding in a soft tone, “I don’t want it back.”
After a long silence, punctuated only by the rustling of paper and the clicking of the computer mouse, Tammy said, “I was reading about it. I read that sometimes, trigeminal neuralgia can be caused by a tumor.”
“That’s true.”
“My father’s dying of a brain tumor.”
Alex turned and stared at her. Their gazes met. She was well aware of the fact she’d shared this information as though she were talking about the weather.
“I’m sorry,” Alex said. “When did you find out?”
“Just recently. And anyway, I’m not sure how I feel about it.”
“Why?”
“My father and I, we…things aren’t good.”
“I see.”
“Alex, can I ask you something?”
“Sure, kid.”
Tammy fought off the annoyance she felt at being called a kid. She wondered how old Alex was, then dismissed the thought. “My mother wants me to go visit my dad. I don’t want to. Should I?”
Seeming to sense the weight of the conversation, Alex sat down across from her. “It’s that bad, huh?”
“It’s worse,” she said softly.
“How long do you think he’ll live?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, if it were me, I’d want the closure.” She shrugged. “Of course, I don’t know what really happened. But it may be something you need to face up to.”
Tammy cringed. “What about your parents? What happened with your mother’s trigeminal neuralgia?”
Alex placed her hands on her thighs and stared off for a moment before replying. “She couldn’t handle the pain. She killed herself.”
Without missing a beat, she stood from her chair and got back to work.
29
Chapter Twenty-Nine
It was nearing ten o’ clock at night
when Ryan drove his SUV up to the ER entrance of the hospital and rolled his window down. The bright fluorescent lights from the lobby cast an odd glow across the cracked sidewalk.
Herschel, the security guard, toddled over to the vehicle and straightened the faded blue hat on his head. “Evenin’, Sheriff. How’s that boy you brought in the other night?”
“Oh, he’s fine.”
“Didn’t look fine.”
Ryan knew Herschel was questing for information. A man couldn’t say much in this town without everyone getting wind of it. Instead of taking the bait, he slipped the extra cup of coffee out of the cup holder and held it out the window. “For you,” he said by way of explanation.
“Well, thank you, Sheriff.” He glanced at the writing on the cup. “From over at the café, eh?”
“Yep. I thought you might need a pick-me-up.” Every once in a while, Ryan liked to bring Herschel a hot drink when he was on duty. And he always followed it with the same wink, and the same words: “Don’t expect this every night, now.”
“Oh, no, Sheriff. I’m grateful for it, believe me.” He took a careful sip. “Mm, black with just a little bit of sugar. That Jennifer knows how I like my coffee.”
“Yeah, she’s a whiz with the—” Ryan stopped talking when the radio crackled to life.
“Sheriff, this is dispatch. We’ve got another disturbance call over on Grizzly Lane.”
“What is it, Cindy?”
“Bennett house again, Sherriff.”
“Damn it,” he mumbled. He turned and waved to Herschel. “I’ll see you later. Try not to fall asleep.”
“I won’t, Sheriff.” Herschel raised his coffee in thanks as he turned and walked back toward the ER entrance.
Ryan rolled the window up and drove off.
* * *
It was worse this time. When Ryan approached the house, he saw the pale light from the front porch extending outward. And he heard shouting.
As he pulled the car into the driveway, his headlights illuminated the closed garage door. Leaving the engine idling, he hopped out of the car.
He had showed up late. It wasn’t clear what was happening. Or what had already happened.
“Goddamn you!” the boy’s father shouted, the front door slamming shut behind him.
Orion stumbled backward, clad in jeans and a t-shirt in the growing cold, his bare feet pressing into the unkempt browning grass. He bowed forward, holding his hands before his face, as if he wanted to clutch his head but dare not touch his skin.
“Why…why…” His voice emerged in strangled gasps, and his eyes squeezed shut, tears streaming down his face.
“Don’t use that bullshit on me, son,” his father barked. “You don’t get to tell me how I run this family, you don’t…Sheriff, we don’t need you here, this is between me and the boy.”
“The boy looks like he’s in pain,” Ryan said gravely, nodding toward Orion, who’d slumped down onto his knees, sobbing.
“He’s just weak is what he is. No ambition to get out of that shit job he’s in, no motivation…look at ’im, can’t you see it? Jesus Christ. He’s milkin’ it, acting like a—”
“Sir, I need you to quiet down, you’re disturbing the neighbors.”
A few people had emerged from their houses and were watching. Or, they’d stayed inside but were listening at their windows.
“Look, you do what you want, I’m sick of this bull—”
Ryan started to say something, started to step forward as the blue and red lights danced across the furious expression on Mr. Bennett’s face. But before he could do anything, the boy shrieked, and with anger that could only be rooted in deep, horrendous pain, he rocketed forward and attacked his father, slamming his fist into the older man’s jaw.
As Ryan jumped toward them to stop the fight, he caught a glimpse of the door opening and Mrs. Bennett looking out, her face streaked with tears and her mouth gaping.
Father and son had toppled to the porch, and the weight of them snapped a board in the rotting floor. Mr. Bennett’s jacket caught on it and tore as he tried to roll away from Orion’s fist, which was slamming repeatedly into his face.
Blood.
The older man crying out, fighting back, punching his son in the mouth.
Ryan shoving his body between them.
He wasn’t sure how it ended, but he managed to drag the kid away from his father.
And he did the only thing he could. He put Orion in handcuffs.
30
Chapter Thirty
In the back of the sheriff’s SUV, Orion sank against the seat, bracing himself against each vicious stab that crossed his face along the branches of the nerve.
Sometimes, there was a second so brief—so fleeting—where the pain receded. He took a breath, like a swimmer ready to go under again. Knowing he might drown. Slip into the pain and never return.
Then it came back. Worse than before.
Fuck. The tears made his vision blur, and he could have sworn someone was sitting beside him, gouging a knife into his face.
How does that feel, the entity murmured. Does that feel good? It doesn’t? Let me do it again.
Stab. Slice.
The knife cut from his eye to his temple, the throbbing shot down along his cheek, the lightning bolts staggered into his teeth. Around his jaw.
I want to die I want to die I want to die.
The SUV turned a corner. He thought he heard a voice, and he realized it was the sheriff’s.
“Are you okay? Orion?”
He realized he’d started rocking back and forth. Awareness set in, telling him the choked shrieks permeating the air were actually coming from his throat, from deep in his belly, like the guttural gasps of an animal dying.
The voice again. “Orion, should I take you to the hospital?”
A shadow. A suede hat, and beneath it, a glimpse of stubble on a pronounced chin as the driver of the vehicle glanced back at him. Headlights. Orion hung his head, hiding from the light.
The light…the light, it hurts.
“No,” he gasped aloud. “No hospital.”
“Are you sure?”
He rocked back and forth, his stomach turning as he wondered why the man who’d just arrested him was bothering to give a shit.
“No hospital, no hospital!” he cried out.
It seemed as if the drive took forever, but the vehicle finally lurched to a stop and Orion knew relief was on its way. The relief that came from vomiting, those brief seconds in which he could feel something else—his throat burning, his gut wrenching—something other than the horrific pain that made him want to kill himself.
When the sheriff opened the door and helped him out onto the pavement, he turned away, his hands still behind his back, still locked in cuffs.
He didn’t care.
In the back of his mind, confusion stirred as he realized the sheriff was gently rubbing his back as he puked all over the parking lot.
Orion stopped. He heaved, gasping.
In the bitter cold, it occurred to him he wasn’t wearing shoes. Metal clinked as his handcuffs were unlocked and his arms freed. The putrid scent of vomit wafted up to his nostrils. He thought of how cold his feet were as he accepted the bottle of water the sheriff handed him.
Every move mechanical, slow, he washed his mouth out and spat on the asphalt.
Then he stumbled, and the sheriff caught him, holding onto him, leading him carefully toward the building.
“Cold. So cold,” Orion wheezed.
“I know, kid. Don’t you worry. We’ll get you warm in no time.”
“Why did…why did you…”
“Save the questions.”
He did as the sheriff asked, and they stepped into the warmth of the police station. Orion thought he was going to jail. Instead, the sheriff led him straight into his office and shut the door behind them.
* * *
Time passed. Slowly. A pain attack seemed to go on forever. But when it was happening, and
when it was over, Orion often reminded himself that all things were temporary. Sometimes, he worried the attack would never end. But it always did.
There was a small, stained loveseat in Sheriff Ryder’s office, tucked between two bookcases. At this angle, laying on the firm cushions, Orion focused on thick law books and manuals on criminal justice. His vision blurred from the tears still leaking from his eyes. Every so often, the books would go out of focus.
The warmth in the room was cozy, comfortable. Orion wasn’t sure what had happened, but somewhere along the way, the sheriff had tucked a soft blue blanket around him, and a small pillow beneath his head.
He couldn’t figure out why he wasn’t in jail.
He’d attacked his father, who could easily press charges. Even now, Orion could’ve been behind bars for assault and battery. But he wasn’t.
A figure loomed over him, and he startled before he realized it was Sheriff Ryder.
“Relax, kid. You’re bleeding. Your father clocked you, after you got him. I just need to—”
“Don’t touch my face,” Orion begged, leaning away. “Please, please, please, don’t.”
“I’m gonna have to. I know it hurts. But I gotta clean you up. You’re gonna have a black eye on top of it. Your dad split your lip. I won’t do much, I swear.”
“You swear it?”
“I swear it on my mother’s grave.”
Orion looked up and met his gaze. The sheriff’s brow was crinkled, the corner of his lips turned downward in a slight frown. His expression showed deep compassion, a kind of caring Orion wasn’t used to.
“Okay,” he whispered.
He steeled himself and let the sheriff clean the blood away. When it was over, he released a breath, pressing his body against the cushions of the loveseat. His feet were covered by the blanket, but hung over the edge.
“How’s the pain?”
“Fucking sucks, Sheriff.” He spoke between his barely parted lips, not daring to move the muscles in his face.