by Ella James
I hold up a hand—the one that’s not holding her syringe. Fuck-up with the shaking hands, that’s who I’ll always be. I’m trying really hard to breathe right, but I can’t, and Finley won’t leave me alone.
Her hand is on my arm again. She needs to let go. She thinks she knows me, but she doesn’t; she knows who I want to be, and I’m not him. I can’t do this.
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing.”
“Here…” She tries to wrap her arm around my waist, but I step away.
“What’s that? In your hand?”
I hear her let her breath out. I shut my eyes. But with them shut, I lose my balance. I can feel my shaking legs about to give out, so I crouch down. Then my knees are shaking, so I end up sitting on them—kneeling. I’ve got my hand cupped around the syringe. I don’t want to see her. I don’t want to be here like this. I don’t want to be here. I see the gold lines, those waves. Why did I see those waves? What’s the point of getting brought back if I can’t do it? I can’t do it. I’m scared. I’ve never felt this scared before; I didn’t know before. I don’t think I can do this.
I’m shaking so bad. My teeth are chattering. Every time I go to inhale, I can’t, and I have to gasp to fill my lungs. I cover my face, or try to. My hand’s shaking, too.
“My darling Sailor. Is it empty?”
I lock my fingers around it.
“It’s all right. Just tell me what’s happened, and I can help you.”
“No…you can’t.”
No one can help me. I pull the top off the needle, jab it into my fingertip. Anything to get me steady, get my head back straight. Doesn’t help, though.
I can’t breathe, and now I really think I’m gonna pass out. Why is this happening, I wonder dimly. I open my eyes and find her face twisted. Tears shine in her eyes.
“I’m sorry.”
It’s the only thing I’m good at saying. I try to swallow…but I can’t. Her face is fuzzing black around the edges. I hold out the syringe, or I try to, but my hand can’t do it. It falls to the floor. In the breath of time when she looks down at it, I manage to fill my lungs with air.
She picks it up, I think, and then her hands are on my shoulders. “Breathe.”
One of her hands goes to my throat. I think she’s trying to get me to inhale, but I’m so cold and tired. I think of Laurent’s arm around my neck from behind.
“People are stupid and naive. Do you think this is about love? I’ll show you. It’s about comfort. For the body. You’re in shock right now from the news of what happened. You won’t remember this discomfort. And next time, when I come to bring us both comfort, you’ll be more ready.”
I can feel his chest against my back. I can feel his arm. I feel it. I don’t like it. Something’s wrong with me. Finley is climbing on me. She’s wrapping herself around me. Her mouth covers mine. I can’t breathe. My ears ring. I hear her voice, the firm words. Her hands on my shoulders, squeezing.
“You’re okay. Listen to me, Declan—you are fine. Look at me.”
Why’s she saying that?
I look up at her, or try to, but her mouth is over mine again. Am I supposed to kiss her? She blows air into my mouth, and I feel like I’m floating. Did she shoot me up, and I missed it? I’m slowing down now.
“Just breathe.”
Again, her hot breath in my mouth. She’s blowing air into my lungs. That’s weird. Her arms are around me. She’s warm and soft. I love her.
“Here we go again.” Her hands around my mouth. Her hot air that I breathe into my nose. I don’t like this shaking. Finley’s hand is rubbing my arm.
She kisses the corner of my mouth, and then, again, she’s blowing into it.
I must be hallucinating. Am I dead? I’m really tired now.
I manage to hold onto her so she doesn’t get knocked over as I shift so I can lie down on my side. I feel my heart pounding, my cold skin, the colder floor. I’m really fucked up. But there’s Finley. She’s beside me.
“There now.” Tears are dripping down her face as she strokes my hair. “It’s all right.” Her mouth on my cheek—just beside my nose. Her lips kissing my eyes. I’m confused. I inhale deeply, and she cups her hands around my mouth. I manage to kiss her. Just a little kiss.
I’m sleepy. Maybe this is just a dream.
“You’re okay. Take your time…we can just lie here.”
I look up into her eyes. I love her. I can’t get my mouth to say it.
“I love you,” she murmurs back.
I laugh—inside my head, at least. She read my mind.
Finley holds me, and it’s me and her. It’s slow and dark, and all that bad stuff feels a little bit better.
“This is my worst day.” It’s barely a murmur.
She hugs me closer to her. “Close your eyes, Sailor. I’ll play with your hair… You’ll tell me later.”
My friend died. Because I was stupid and a coward, and I didn’t tell. I imagine saying it. I see his face. I always see his face, especially when I dream: it’s blue, with purple lips. I killed him. I kind of want to tell her that. So she can tell me it’s okay.
“What’s wrong with me?” My eyelids feel so heavy. “Did you give me something?” It’s a whisper.
“Carbon dioxide.” Her lips press against my cheek. “Just my breath. You were having an anxiety attack. But now you’re okay.”
I was?
“I messed up,” she whispers. “The refrigerator… I’m so sorry.”
I stare at the ceiling. “Would you go with me?” The question burbles up from nowhere. “Finley…will you marry me? If I get better?”
Her arms tighten around me. I feel her ribs expand. Her lungs expand. I love her lungs. More than I hate myself, I love her. Does it work like that? Does getting better work like loving something more than wanting to be dead?
A triangle moves across the ceiling. Something long and pale. I focus on it without knowing what it means.
“I would love to marry you, Carnegie. But—” Her voice catches. “Declan—”
Finley jumps up. I sit up in time to hear her loud gasp. “Doctor!”
Two figures congeal before someone flips the light switch.
I blink at the priest and someone else—a short guy with gray-brown hair. I’m getting to my feet when Finley runs into his arms.
He chuckles: a deep, Santa sort of laugh that doesn’t match his small frame. “It’s my wee wifey!”
Fourteen
Finley
When my world implodes, there’s silence. Silence as I’m crushed against my husband’s chest. Silence as Father Russo spots Declan on the floor. I hear a smack, but I can’t turn around because I’m locked in Doctor’s arms.
When I do, I find Declan lying pushed up on one elbow with a dazed look on his face, and Father Russo standing over him.
“What’s this then?” Doctor frowns from me to Declan and then back to me, with drawn brows. “What’s he doing here?”
“He’s sick,” I manage.
Father Russo crouches down beside him. When my gaze moves to Declan’s face, I find his eyes are locked on me. His face is white as bone, but his eyes—they’re blazing. I feel myself whither.
When I look to Doctor again, his hard eyes are on me, too.
He frowns at me, then strides to Declan. “Hello there. I’m the physician over this clinic.” He kneels beside Declan, and I feel my legs shake. “Dr. Daniels. Or, as they call me, simply the good Doctor.” He casts a glance over his shoulder at me. “Intoxication?”
From my angle standing over them, I see Declan’s jaw lock. He shakes his head. “Tree nut allergy. Got near something with cashews.”
I watch, wordless, as he somehow stands, putting a hand into his pocket for a moment before looking dead at me.
“Thanks for the Benadryl, Finley.” He quirks a brow at Doctor. “Nice to finally meet you, Dr. Daniels.” He nods, just the barest motion of his chin, and walks out of the clinic.
The sensation in my chest is one of tugging. It’s as if my heart is trying to leave with him.
When the door clicks shut, Father Russo and Doctor speak at once.
“That is the strangest—” Father Russo begins, as Doctor exclaims, “Who the devil managed to get cashews?”
Father Russo shakes his head, purses his lips. I can feel his eyes move over my face as I glance down at the floor.
Doctor steps back over to me. He snakes an arm around my waist, then drapes his hand over my backside. “Who has cashews?” he asks lightly, as his fingers pinch.
His hand roves up and down as the priest shrugs. “I’ve not seen them offered in the catalog since ’17.” He gives me a pointed look, then steps toward Doctor, hand extended. “Welcome back, Daniels.” They clasp hands, and he meets my gaze. “You’ll do better with him here now.”
“Yes.”
I feel like I’m drowning as he moves toward the door. The air I’m dragging through my nostrils doesn’t seem to make it to my lungs.
This time, when the door shuts, I’m alone with Doctor. The room seems to buzz around me as he grabs my upper arm. “Perhaps you’d like to explain where your undergarments are. And why I walked into my clinic to find my wife down on the floor embracing Homer Carnegie!”
His gray eyes widen slightly, and I note he’s grown a bushy mustache.
I shake my head. “He came here…craving.” My voice quakes, and he loosens his grip on me.
“That’s why his hands were shaking?”
I meet his eyes, nodding slightly.
“That’s why you were with him?”
I nod. “He arrived quite unexpectedly, leaving me no time to dress. He’d been drinking, as you noticed. He was out of sorts. I tried to help.”
Doctor nods, pressing his lips together. He gives me a small smile, and for a moment, I glimpse in him what I did when we met four years ago: a conviviality that, if not actually kind, could at least be companionable. “It’s been quite some time,” he says softly.
“You’ve arrived early.”
He reaches into his pocket and brings out something he holds pinched between his fingers. My pulse quickens when I see that it’s a ring with a large diamond.
“Oh—I—” I swallow. “Thank you.”
I take it from him, and he takes it back. “Hold out your hand, Fin.”
My fingers tremble wildly as he slides it on my finger. I hold my breath, praying he’ll mistake fear for excitement. When I glance up at his face, I find his thin mouth curled upward at the corners. “To replace that dingy one.”
Gammy’s. I nod. “Thank you, Doctor.”
I wrap my arms around his neck, stretching up a bit too high at first. As I hug him, my head begins to feel hollow.
I pull away, and his eyes search me up and down before they move across the floor—to the spot where Declan was.
“It’s been quite a journey. Lock up, Fin.”
He strolls toward the residence, and I walk to the clinic door on legs that feel like rubber. I pause for only a moment to listen. I hear nothing, but even if I did, there’s nothing I can do. I cross myself and walk toward the short hallway before I realize—the bed! My heart dips down into the hollow of my belly. I feel like I’m moving underwater as I rush over, straighten the covers. That’s when I realize—where is the syringe? Is it still on the floor?
My heart thuds dully in my temples. I turn around, thinking I’ll check the floor quickly. And there’s Doctor. He stands just behind me, staring without blinking.
“Did you have a patient?”
“Well, yes. Homer.”
“He was in the bed…then on the floor?” He arches one brow.
“I rushed to the door thinking it could be emergent. I was in my robe. I directed him here to the bed and went to dress.” I wave down at my pants and sweater. “When I returned, he was near the medication cabinets. Perhaps wishing for…well, who can know? Then he went down to the floor. I believe he’s quite poorly. Withdrawing, since he’s been here,” I say softly.
Doctor nods. He holds his hand out for mine, and we walk toward the residence together. Never has he held my hand. Not ever. As he closes the door linking the residence to the clinic, I can’t breathe for crushing fear.
I flinch a bit away, a habit borne of only three occasions—but they were…impacting.
Tonight, though, he gives me his tight-lipped smile. “It’s good to be home, dearie.”
“How is it?”
“Adequate, I suppose. Perhaps a bit stale.” Doctor sets the muffin down and shifts his gaze back to the newspaper.
“I’ll try for more moisture next time.”
He chuckles. “Oh, I trust you will. You’re baking for me again now.”
“What shall I make for you today?” When there’s an ebb in our patient flow, and I’ve nothing to do out on the slopes, Doctor likes it when I bake sweet things.
“Do you have dough for friendship bread? Something that you can’t foul up, and besides, I’ve missed the taste of it.”
“I don’t believe I do, I’m sorry to say.”
He frowns, tugging at the chain attached to the arms of his bifocals. “Plum cake, then.”
“Plum cake it is.”
I’m not sure he’d mind if I left the adjoining den and kitchen area, so I start to spray the counters with some cleaner. When I’m finished, I stand near the table where he’s sitting. “I’ll start on your laundry now, I believe.”
He says nothing. Likely too absorbed in what he’s reading. As I step into the bedroom, I note that the clock on the bedside table says it’s 4:49 a.m. Normally, Doctor is up at 5:30, but he’s been in Cape Town—west—so his biological clock is a bit “off.”
I sprinkle lavender oil atop the sheets to mask the musty, unused scent before making the bed. I had no time to do so last night, but it’s better late than never till I get a chance to wash them.
I hold still a moment, listening. Then I walk to the room’s doorway, holding my breath as I point my ear in the direction of the kitchen. When I hear nothing, I slip into the hallway and walk silently but briskly toward the door adjoining residence to clinic.
I find my torn panties beneath one of the pillows on the bed I shared with him. Scooping them up, my heart seems to skip a few beats, and my eyes throb awfully. It’s the first bit of emotion I’ve felt in a number of hours—a stinging needle-prick of deepest longing for him. It’s there then gone. I stuff the panties into my bra and walk quickly down the clinic’s short hall. When I make it back to our room, I pull my contraband from my bra and nearly fall to my knees with relief.
A moment later, he clears his throat. “What’s that you’ve got there?”
I whirl around, my body vibrating with terror, my blood roaring in my head. “What do you mean?” My voice is hopeless—weak and cracked.
He strides closer. “What’s this then? Something you fetched from the clinic.”
I hold the panties up, my fingers bending desperately to mask their torn appearance. “If you mean these—”
He snatches them from my hand. Holds them to his nose, inhaling.
“From the drawer,” I whisper.
The back of his hand connects with my mouth, and I taste the stinging tang of blood.
Fifteen
Declan
I leave Baby in the house with a fresh lamb nappy and a full belly and walk down to the village.
It’s really cold out. I think colder than it’s been so far.
When I get to Upper Lane, I notice all these lanterns on the porches, and I remember that it’s solstice. The twenty-first of June’s the longest night here.
Every time I take a breath, I feel it in my chest. My chest is sore. It’s kind of weird how bad it hurts. My whole body hurts. I kind of like it. It gives my mind an anchor.
When I get to the clinic, I don’t know what to do. I just stand there in the dirt-patched grass beside the door and watch my breath fog. I forgot to wear a coat. I guess that�
��s why it’s so damn cold.
The sky is orange and pink this morning. Usually, then sun’s nowhere in sight, so dawn is always blue or sort of purple. I rub my arms and sort of pace around for a minute. I spend a second being careful with my breaths, doing the breathing from my nose and letting it out my mouth.
It’s okay. It’s weird how when I think shit like that now—when I tell myself something to calm me down—I hear her voice saying the words. Thinking of that makes my throat ache.
I need to get going. Earlier, I used my radio, which has spent this whole trip at the bottom of my bag, to talk to someone on the Celia, and I don’t think they want to wait around too long. I need to get going.
I reach into my pocket and pull out a square of paper. The paper’s folded around the stolen syringe, which is still full of Fentanyl. I step closer to the porch. I don’t know where to leave it. The note doesn’t say much.
I’m sorry I took this. I kept it cold, so it should still be good.
Thank You.
I underlined the “Thank You” twice with slash-looking lines, like maybe I’m just someone who likes underlining things.
I thought hard about leaving the syringe at her Gammy’s place, but I thought of a few ways that could go wrong. Someone might think Finley gave it to me, for one.
I go around for a few minutes about where to leave the note and syringe. I rub my sore chest. It feels weird to hold the note, knowing that the Fent’s inside it. I’ve had it on me for so many hours now, it doesn’t tempt me quite as much.
There’s no flower pot or anything on the clinic’s stoop. And it’s a little windy. I decide to walk back to the other porch. The one by their door.
I gulp down some cold air. Walk around the building’s back corner. I think she’ll find it here. There’s an empty pot with just dirt. I set it in there. If he finds it—the doctor—it’s not like it tells him anything. It shouldn’t put her at risk.
I suck in some more cold air. Stuff my hands deep into my jeans pockets.
