by Renea Mason
I waited for the miracle. I waited for the fang-baring, sometimes winged man to sit up. I checked one final time for a heartbeat or a pulse; there wasn’t one. My chest tightened even more at the grief of knowing he was gone. I held his head, placing light, tear-filled kisses all over his face, and said all the things I never dared to say before.
“Open your eyes.”
Kiss.
“I love you.”
Kiss.
“I need you.”
Kiss.
“Don’t go.”
One long, lingering kiss on the top of his head, and he was gone. I lowered his head back down to the snow. The snow was heavy now; no longer flurries that flitted through the air. He was no longer warm, and the flakes fell and started to linger on his skin, covering the russet-colored markings that adorned him. The wind blew hard, whistling past my ears. My tears were thick and stung as they cooled in the breeze. I stood and faced the wind.
The vista of the snow-covered mountains was a vast contrast to the brutal scene surrounding me. I closed my eyes, hoping when they opened the scene would be erased. But what greeted me was the pool of red surrounding him, our blood upon his lips, rivers of frozen tears, and drips from the tip of my finger leaving small crimson droplets in the snow. The wind ruffled the dark hair on his lifeless body and the image coalesced, forever etched in my mind. One last look, one silent prayer, and I ran to get help.
* * *
I arrived at my aunt’s house in record time; I called 911 and told them they would find Cyril in the cemetery and that I had no idea what happened.
I ran upstairs. After locating the book Cyril gave me, I grabbed a pen and opened it, smearing the cover with blood. Only happy thoughts, he’d said. Only happy thoughts. I wrote Cyril will come back to me. Cyril isn’t gone. Cyril will love me, as I love him. Cyril will save me.
Damn! The book was covered in blood. Would they take it as evidence? I couldn’t allow it. I closed the cover, grabbed the book, an old lunch box, and a Ziploc bag. I didn’t even bother to close the door when leaving.
I sprinted back to the cemetery. My breathing labored. A silly moment of hope crept through me. Maybe he’d be alive.
Just as before, his body lay still, a crimson backdrop accenting the blanket of snow. With each falling flake I lost a little more of my soul as reality took hold. Like a fool, I opened the book and read the passage I had just written. Not sure what I expected. Nothing happened.
With sirens in the distance, I found a place to hide the book. I stowed it in the lunch box, sealing it in the Ziploc. Shoving the box as far as I could to the back of a cannon, I collected some stray leaves for camouflage and covered it up. I decided it best not to be present when the police arrived. What would I say? Bending one last time, I placed my lips to his forehead and whispered, “Good-bye.”
As I ascended the front stairs, the police pulled up. With one look at my blood-soaked clothing, they grabbed me and rushed me inside.
Chapter Eleven
Paramedic
The officer stood in my bedroom, bagging my clothes. She called in a paramedic once she had everything she needed. My wrist had stopped bleeding, obviously not life threatening.
A paramedic entered, sat his bag on the floor and gestured toward my wrist. “May I?”
I extended my arm to him but said nothing.
He looked at it for a moment. “It’s not as bad as it looks.” He pulled out some type of antiseptic. “This might sting a bit.” He proceeded to pour it over the cut. If not for the numbness encompassing me, I might have felt the sting.
“It doesn’t look like you need stitches. I’ll just put a couple of butterfly bandages on it and it should heal fine,” he said as he reached into his bag.
I should have been relieved at the news, but all I could think was I didn’t cut deep enough. What if Cyril needed more?
The paramedic’s fingers were soft and warm against my skin. With each bandage he placed, he sought my eyes, but I gave him no response. When he placed the last bandage, he pulled out some gauze, and wrapped it around my wrist.
“Don’t get it wet for at least twenty-four hours; after that you can shower.” Even though his instructions were clinical, his voice was not.
“Hey,” he said softly, “you’re going to be OK.”
He stroked his hands up and down my forearms, trying to make eye contact. I refused. Maybe he had answers about Cyril.
I stared at the bandage as I asked, “What do the police think killed him?”
He bowed his head and took a deep breath.
“I don’t know if I should tell you this.” He paused to look at the floor. “They didn’t find a body.”
It took a moment for what he said to sink in. “What? What do you mean there was no body? What about the blood? Are you sure they looked in the right place?” My heart sped up as panic gripped me.
“Sweetheart, it was your blood. You cut yourself with a bottle. The only blood we found was a few drops from your wrist.”
“Drops? It was more like pints. I didn’t know a body held so much blood. How did you miss it? He died exactly where I said. I didn’t make that up. It was his blood.” Tears filled my eyes. I rose and started to pace.
A police officer came entered the room. “Hi, I’m Officer Hutchins. Ma’am, tell us again what you think you saw.”
“I saw a man bleeding on the ground. He was naked and I covered him with my jacket. He was dead.” My relationship with Cyril was none of the officer’s business.
He crossed his arms, tucking a notebook under his arm. “I’m sorry, but we didn’t find anything like what you’ve described.”
“Please tell me you are going to try to find his body.” It wasn’t like he could get up and walk away. Or could he? The wings…
He gave me a dismissive look. “We will if we find any evidence of a crime.” His voice remained dispassionate.
“A huge pool of blood isn’t evidence enough?” I wanted to slap the officer.
“Ma’am, no, I’m sorry but we didn’t find any blood besides yours. Only a couple trickles from your suicide attempt and your jacket. Now, if you’ll come with me, Officer Dutch and I will escort you to the hospital.”
“Suicide attempt? Hospital? The paramedic said my arm would be fine.”
“I’m not worried about your arm healing, ma’am. I’m worried about the fact you tried to kill yourself.” He motioned toward the door as if expecting me to comply.
“Kill myself? No! I tried to save someone, not take my own life.”
The paramedic spoke up. “Can I see you in the hall, Officer?” Hutchins nodded and walked out, closing the door behind them.
Sitting on the bed, I buried my head in my hands. How could this be happening? The numbness returned and seeped through my body and infiltrated my mind.
Several minutes later, the paramedic returned.
“Ms. Hill, I spoke with the police and they will allow you to stay here, but I need to keep an eye on you. They have placed you on suicide watch.”
“But I’m not suicidal!” I slammed my fists hard against my knees.
“I know. I’ll stick around for a few days, submit my observations, and you should be free and clear.” His voice held the tone of a parent speaking with a child.
The aftermath of the night’s events exhausted me. I curled up on the bed ignoring the paramedic. After grabbing a blanket from the cedar chest at the foot of my bed, he covered me with it. He took a seat in the desk chair across the room. I heard the door opening and closing in the other room as the hordes of people left.
A few hours later, I woke with severe chills. My hair dripped with sweat, but at the same time I shivered. I couldn’t believe on top of everything I was getting the flu. I moved and the paramedic came to my side, handing me a glass of water.
“Hi,” he said with a smile that quickly faded when he looked at me. “What’s wrong?” His hand went to feel my head.
Sitting up only made it worse. I collapsed b
ack on the bed but managed to squeak out, “I think I have the flu. You should stay away.”
“Not a chance.” He ran to the bathroom down the hall and grabbed a wet washcloth, rushing back to mop my face.
“Tell me what’s happening.” He checked my eyes with a light.
I winced at the brightness and leaned away from him. “I feel sick. Oh.” I groaned and pulled my legs up tighter, curling into a ball.
“What is it?” He placed his hand on my back.
“I don’t know… Pain. Terrible pain. Oh God!”
He scooped me up in his arms and had me out the door, placing me in his SUV. Part of me wondered what happened to the ambulance, but the pain came again and I didn’t care.
* * *
I woke in a hospital bed. The pain had not subsided. The paramedic was there.
“What is happening?” The tape from the IV pinched my skin when I moved my arms.
“We don’t know. Did you take anything? Poison? Pills?”
Angry again, I screamed, “No! I told you I didn’t try to kill myself.”
His voice lost its urgency and slipped back into the smooth tones. “It’s all right. I know.” He placed his hand on mine and whispered, “I’m just trying to help you.”
“Thank you. I do appreciate your help. What is your name?” I managed to ask between the waves of pain.
“Michael Green.” He smiled.
I wanted to thank him again but pain engulfed me, intense, and blackness crept in from the edges of my vision to swallow me.
* * *
My eyelids felt like sandpaper; I hadn’t the strength to open them. It took every bit of will I had to accomplish the task. Shocked, I absorbed my surroundings.
Walls covered in flowered wallpaper in shades of pink, and pastel blue ceiling tiles stained yellow with age reminded me of my friend’s grandmother’s house. Sandy’s grandmother made us the traditional Pittsburgh kielbasa and sauerkraut dinner every time I visited. The house was outdated and reeked of stagnation, enhanced with mildew and antiseptic. The room surrounding me smelled similar.
Trying to move my arms, I found they were too heavy, like wearing weights. An IV was inserted high on my arm. The tube dripping a clear liquid was attached to a bag hanging on a pole. The smallest of movements caused me to fumble with the monitor on my finger. I tried to sit up but found raising my head impossible. No strength. The tube protruding from my nose pulled when I turned my head. Dear God, a feeding tube. What happened to me?
I looked around, forcing my neck muscles beyond their limits. On the wall behind me were pink, blue, and yellow Post-it notes with writing on them. Strange. All of the notes were written by the same person. My eyes were too dry to make out what each one said. So odd. Were they there to log my medical progress? What kind of hospital used Post-it notes to track medical issues?
I tried to lift my head enough to find a call button. There was one, looped around the top of my bed, out of reach. I knew I would have to lie there and wait until someone showed up. I wiggled my toes to make sure I still had them, but my legs, like everything else, were heavy. The catheter between my legs caused both panic and relief. I didn’t have the strength to get to the bathroom, but was terrified to find out why I needed it.
On the dresser stood an army of small crystal figurines, a hundred or more. All types of animals in different sizes and varieties. They lined the windowsill and perched on chairs. There were almost as many animals as there were Post-it notes on the wall.
Sometime later, a tall, blond man strode through the doorway carrying a crystal goat figurine in one hand and a purple Post-it note in the other. I held very still and cracked open my eyelids enough to see the outline of his form. He placed the note on the wall behind me, giving it a smack to make sure it stuck.
After placing the goat on the chair, he strode to my bedside and kissed me softly on the cheek. When he pulled away, I ventured a more detailed look. The paramedic?
Michael sat in the chair to the left of the bed and said nothing. I remained still, needing to buy time to gauge my options.
On one hand, I needed to be strategic, but part of me was compelled to move so he could see my responsiveness. I willed myself to stay still, but watched my hand move. I groaned. In a second Michael was at my side. He yelled for the nurse.
“Linden, sweetheart, it’s OK. I’m here. Oh, thank the Goddess. Can you hear me? Everything will be fine.” He raised my hand to his lips and kissed it softly.
Michael’s actions were strangely intimate. I didn’t remember having any type of relationship with him, but maybe I suffered from memory loss too.
I pointed toward my throat, conveying my inability to speak. Michael got the hint. He placed a pen in my fingers and held a tablet so I could write. Writing was difficult, with very little muscle control, and it looked as though a three-year-old wrote it.
What happened?
“Sweetheart, you’ve been in a coma.”
How long?
He hesitated, running his hand through his hair. “Seven months.”
Cyril?
“Who?”
The man who died, did they find his body? My script shook as what little energy I had waned.
“Sweetheart, you tried to kill yourself. You must have been dreaming while you were out. There was no man.”
Grief grew heavy in my chest. I dropped the pen.
Five days later, after careful observation, and to the astonishment of the medical staff, I was released.
“Linden, I brought some boxes to pack your things. We need to talk.” He carried several folded up cardboard boxes. After placing them on the floor beside the bed, and moving aside the swing arm table that held my breakfast tray, he leaned in and kissed me on the cheek.
My voice had returned but remained raspy and faint.
“Aunt Eva will be surprised to see me.”
“Linden…” I felt the worry in his words.
“What?”
“About your Aunt Eva, I tried not to tell you until we knew everything was OK.”
“Michael, spit it out!” I moved to stand in front of him.
He shifted his weight from one foot to the other and he spoke just above a whisper, “She killed herself.”
“What? When?”
“About two weeks after you came here. She jumped from a bridge over the Youghiogheny River. Her body was never recovered, but there were witnesses.”
My face tightened and tears flowed. My aunt was all I had left. She and I may not have been close, but she provided for me. There might not have been love, but there was respect. It occurred to me that I was all she had. I couldn’t help but feel responsible. “Oh, God. I wasn’t there to take care of—”
“Shhh…” He placed a finger to my lips. “It’s OK. It’s not your fault. You didn’t mean to get sick. I took care of everything. There’s a memorial in the cemetery near your house, so you can have a place to visit. I’m so sorry.”
My thoughts wandered to Cyril. The memories of him were more like a dream, but if he wasn’t real, why did I feel so hollow inside? Was my misplaced grief meant for my aunt?
“Michael, what am I going to do? I don’t have a place to live.” The thought brought a crushing feeling in my chest. “I’m homeless and I’ve lost my aunt. Just put me back in the coma.” I hid my face in my hands.
Michael folded me in his arms. “Sweetheart, I’m taking you to my house. Don’t worry, everything will be all right. I’m here now.”
“Why are you doing this? You don’t even know me.”
Michael stroked his long fingers down the side of my cheek and under my chin. He lifted my face to meet his. He looked at me for the longest time. “Linden, I knew from the moment I saw you there was something special about you. I wish I could give you a better explanation than love at first sight.”
“Love? Are you kidding me?” He was crazy.
“I don’t expect you to feel the same but know that I have every intention of waiting p
atiently.” He bent and kissed my forehead. “Enough of that; let’s get you home.”
Home? I didn’t have a home.
* * *
Michael’s place, a spacious Victorian, sat on the outskirts of town with the nearest neighbor several acres away.
“This is beautiful, but excuse me for saying you seem too young to be able to have a house like this. What are you, twenty-five?”
He laughed. “You’re right. It’s my parents’. They bought it for me when I came of age and I enjoy the solitude. I like to paint when I’m not working and I find it peaceful.”
Came of age?
“Why did you become a paramedic?”
“I like the perks.”
“You like helping people.”
“Yes. That too.”
Michael led me down the hall and through two large double doors.
“Wow.”
“You like it? It’s yours.”
The room was huge, with the focal point a large canopy bed draped in rich purple linens. It looked incredibly inviting.
“Isn’t this your room?” I noticed several bottles of men’s cologne on a dresser.
“Yes, but only this room is fitting enough for a goddess, so it must be yours. I’ll be right down the hall. The room was far too large for me anyway.” Michael shot me a devastating smile and ran his hand through his wavy locks.
He led me to the bed, urged me to sit, and then he removed my shoes. I was still very weak. When I looked down at him I realized I had been far too preoccupied with everything to notice just how handsome Michael was. Even though I would always have a special place for the illusion that was Cyril, Michael’s beauty contended.
“Here, let’s get you in bed.” He helped me stand and pulled back the covers. He tucked me in and went about putting away my things.
I lay there for some time staring at a reproduction of A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte. My eyes eventually drifted closed.
* * *
