Broken, Bruised, and Brave

by L. A. Zoe

  Fifty thousand a month. Plus food and shelter. Paid college. One hundred thousand dollar Christmas bonuses.

  And I only had to work once every two months. The rest of the time, I could study or whatever I liked. Party. Go with other guys so long as I didn’t contract any diseases or get pregnant.

  I wondered if even Mr. Cunningham could afford to keep a string of mistresses costing that much? Or even one?

  Without Rhinegold, how I made money didn’t seem important.

  Why bust my ass at the Sunshine Garden forty hours a week if I could make almost a hundred times that on my back, in just a few hours, six times a year?

  I would live in a large, nice apartment in a safe apartment complex, far from the street crime of the Spanish Quarter.

  Without Rhinegold, I was going to sleep alone anyway, so why not share a luxurious place with a few other young women?

  Finally, I set the cellphone down and just stared out at the falling snow.

  Georgie’s hacks sounded so deep, he must be coughing out his liver.

  Tomorrow morning I would have to call one or the other.

  Rhinegold?

  Or Greco?

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Early Morning Phone Calls

  Snow-whitened sunlight barely shone through Rhinegold’s bedroom window when his cellphone rang out with Blind Guardian’s track Banish from their Sanctuary album.

  Loud power and speed metal. Just what he didn’t need waking him so early.

  He felt every beer he drank the night before with Helena. Their sour hops coated his tongue and throat. His stomach lining burned. His head pounded.

  He stumbled from the bed, and fumbled with the phone, looking at the Caller I.D.

  Groan.

  Why now? Forget it.

  He turned the phone off, then fell back into bed. He used to drink many beers, but he’d gotten out of practice, so his tolerance must have gone down. Plus, his body was still working hard to heal his lower arm.

  His mind was again drifting through clouds of oblivion when someone knocked at his door. Hard.

  “Mr. Cunningham,” a maid called out in a Hispanic accent. He couldn’t remember all their names. An agency sent Sybille new ones every day. “Senor! Your girlfriend, she is calling. Emergency. Is emergency. Answer right now, says she.”

  Still groaning, Rhinegold pulled on a bathrobe and trudged to the nearest landline phone. “What is it, SeeJai?”

  He must have sounded angrier than he intended, because her voice went soft, almost apologetic. “I’m sorry if I got you out of bed with Helena,” she said.

  “Just out of bed,” he said in a neutral voice. How did she know Helena visited last night?

  “But I thought you’d want to know, since he’s your friend too.”

  “Huh?”

  “Georgie,” and sniffles cut off her voice. “He’s in the hospital, Rhinegold. He caught a cold or something, and now he can hardly breathe.”

  Four days later, he stood beside SeeJai and her mother under a small tarp in Cromwell National Cemetery.

  A stout, red-faced Army chaplain stood at the head of the grave, reading from a tiny pocket Bible in a loud voice, so he could be heard over the the steady, boulders clunking roar of the small earthmover that dug the grave in the frozen ground, and stood ready to fill it in. The shivering groundskeeper standing next to it couldn’t shut off the engine without risking the fuel line freezing up.

  The poles and lines holding the dark brown, flag-draped coffin looked frail, shaking as the wind blew. One display of white and red carnations, with a bright blue ribbon, stood across from the chaplain, courtesy of Mr. and Mrs. Cunningham, Esquire, after Rhinegold pleaded with Father, hoping a few flowers would please SeeJai’s mother. However, now the gesture seemed as empty and futile as trying to clear all the snow with one shovel.

  In all directions, it covered the cemetery, burying the flat, ground-level markers with the names of the deceased soldiers and their spouses.

  The snow had stopped, for a time, anyway, but clouds covered the sky like bread dough mixed with mud.

  Rhinegold wiped his leaking nostrils with a quick swipe of his arm, sure Georgie would understand and forgive him.

  SeeJai and her mother didn’t notice. The widow of less than two months’ marriage frozen in grief, her daughter with an arm draped around her shoulders ignored.

  As soon as the chaplain finished a prayer, two young soldiers in uniform thick brown coats folded the flag, and presented it to SeeJai’s mother. She took it without seeming to think or react, as though drunk or sedated.

  One of the young soldiers hit a button on a boom box. Nothing happened, so he pressed it again, then hit it. Bugle music burst out of the speakers starting in mid-note. Taps. After a minute or so, either the batteries died or the cold air killed them, for it fell silent.

  A few more words from the chaplain, and the groundskeeper used a winch to lower Georgie’s casket into the ground.

  No church service. Georgie never attended church, unless to sing hymns at a religious shelter for his supper. No other family. Georgie never mentioned having living relatives. No other friends. He left his street buddies behind when he quit drinking and married SeeJai’s mother.

  Pneumonia, the doctor said. An acute upper respiratory tract infection, complicated by acute cirrhosis of the liver. Complicated by weak kidneys. Acute pancreatitis, causing Georgie’s recurrent stomach pains. Untreated diabetes.

  Low iron. Probably lots of other damaged organs. Weak heart. Weak immune system. If they could do an autopsy, the doctor said, and more blood tests, they’d probably find, typical of older alcoholics, Georgie’s test results across the board would indicate his body had just been barely holding on to life. Biologically, he was closer to one hundred years old than sixty.

  Since he had quit drinking and was eating well, if he could have avoided catching the pneumonia he may have recuperated and survived for a few more years. Maybe. If he’d remained on the streets he would have died weeks ago.

  Father lent Rhinegold the third family car, a 2005 brown Mazda. He took SeeJai and her mother back to the Englewood Garden Apartments and pulled into the front drive to let them off by the entrance.

  “Come in, Rhinegold,” SeeJai said from the back seat, still holding on to her listless mother. “If you don’t mind.”

  So he sat in the dark living room, eyes closed, resting, trying to figure out how he thought, what he thought.

  The tri-folded American flag lay on the couch next to him.

  SeeJai was in the bedroom with her mother.

  It was so quiet he could hear the electricity thrum through wiring inside the walls. He wanted to smash something just to hear the noise. By now, Georgie would have turned the TV on, checking out ESPN.

  The odor of that morning’s coffee filled the air.

  His absence wasn’t even notable. The apartment complex owned all the furniture. Georgie brought nothing but a few clothes probably still hanging in the bedroom closet. Except for his best slacks and shirt, now buried with him.

  On one shelf sat a double picture frame. Two shots from the city hall wedding. One of just Melissa and Georgie, arms around each other, both smiling so hard Rhinegold could barely recognize them. The photo on the left included the entire wedding party: SeeJai and Rhinegold on one side of Reverend Ewing, Melissa and Georgie on the other.

  Why didn’t anybody think to take a picture at the Sunshine Garden during the one month anniversary dinner?

  How would Georgie’s death affect Rhinegold’s little kingdom? He was not a direct part of Rhinegold’s fantasy world, but of course this would devastate the princess’s mother with grief. And the princess, SeeJai, loved her mother. This could not affect SeeJai’s magic, but would certainly affect her emotionally.

  Would drive SeeJai back to him? Or farther away?

  SeeJai came out of the hallway and dropped into the seat beside Rhinegold. “Oh God!” She held her face in her hands, and he
r shoulders shook, so naturally he put his arm around her.

  “It’s okay,” he said in a soothing voice.

  But when SeeJai pulled her hands from her face, her eyes were dry. She rolled them to the ceiling, and then collapsed back, cuddling against his side.

  “What’s she going to do now?” SeeJai asked. “She was getting better. The doctor was cutting back her antidepressants. She smiled. She cooked dinners you could eat. Now … “

  “Is she sleeping?” Rhinegold asked.

  “I don’t know. I called the doctor and he told me to go ahead and give her the full dose of sedatives. She just lays there, staring into space. Just like I remember … so much of my childhood. Not talking. Or anything.”

  Rhinegold didn’t know what to say, so he just continued to hold SeeJai.

  “I called a few people this morning, before we left. She can’t stay here, even if she wanted to, since now she’s not a couple, just a single, but they’ve got another apartment will be ready in a few days, if you don’t mind—”

  “Of course not,” Rhinegold said. “Just tell me, I’ll help you move her.”

  “They weren’t married long enough for her to get anything. His Social Security check. Nothing, so she goes back on SSI next month. I have to go to the Social Security office tomorrow.”

  “A lot of business, a lot of paperwork,” Rhinegold said.

  “They’ll let me stay with her for a while. I don’t think they’ll care if you stay on the couch tonight. How’s your arm?”

  Rhinegold held it up. A dull ache, but all the skin was now white, and below the bandages came a cracking itch. A scab forming. Good. “I haven’t thought about it much,” he said.

  “You’re taking your antibiotics?” she asked.

  “Like clockwork,” he lied. He left the bottle behind in his room at Father’s house. But never mind.

  “Thank you for helping so much,” SeeJai said, in a tired though sincere voice.

  “Georgie was my friend first,” he said. In truth, until SeeJai came along, Georgie was just another one of the homeless he recognized when he passed them sitting on a park bench or hanging out on a liquor store stoop or huddled around a trashcan fire. Always friendly, always inviting Rhinegold to take a drink from the bottle in a brown bag even though Rhinegold always refused.

  For a few moments, SeeJai said nothing. They sat together, sharing the silence.

  Maybe she fell asleep. He could carry her into her mother’s room—no, that might strain his lower left arm. Just make her comfortable on the couch, then take the floor.

  “What about you, Rhinegold?” SeeJai murmured before he could stand up.

  “What about me?”

  “Are you still a golden knight? Am I still a princess?”

  He took a deep breath, wondering how to answer. He didn’t want to say yes and start an argument. But if he said no and she detected the lie, the argument could be even worse.

  She sighed, and raised her head. “That’s what I was afraid of. Nothing’s changed, has it?”

  “If you mean I haven’t enrolled in college, you’re right. But let me ask you a question, all right?”

  She gave him an irritated, tired look. “What?”

  “The morning Georgie went into the hospital, you called me.”

  “You came right away.”

  “You asked me if I was sleeping with Helena. How’d you know she visited me the night before?”

  “I knew she wouldn’t waste any time.”

  Rhinegold rubbed his face. “I don’t understand. How’d you know?”

  SeeJai blinked her own bleary eyes. “What’s the point of this? I told your father I couldn’t heal you, you wouldn’t listen to me. I hoped you’d listen to Helena. I guess she failed too, or needs more time. Isn’t she a princess too?”

  Rhinegold groaned. He stood up and began pacing back and forth. “Helena? Are you kidding?”

  “I can’t read your mind, Rhinegold. I’m not crazy enough. You loved Keara, and Helena looks so much like her, and is friends with Keara, and she plays such beautiful music on the violin—”

  “Her one good attribute,” Rhinegold said. “If you could read my mind, you’d know I could never love Helena.” He shivered. “Maybe she sort of looks like Keara, her hair and eyes and face, but that’s not the point. Is it?”

  “I don’t know. I’m too tired from sitting around the hospital round the clock.”

  “You’re even more beautiful than Keara, but you don’t look like her—not superficially—except where it counts.”

  SeeJai turned onto her back, and closed her eyes. “I was going to tell you something important, but I can hardly think what it is.”

  Outside, the sun was giving up trying to light the world, just as it gave up trying to warm the world in October, so the darkness deepened. Huge gray piles of snow sat around the apartment complex parking lot where the snow plows left them. High enough to reach second-story windows. Dirty with mud and slush and gravel and rock salt, and motor oil and green radiator leakage.

  If they lived in Westeros, they’d be in the north. Not in the wilderness beyond the Wall, but where it was cold and snowy. Winterfell weather. House of Stark weather. The Old Gods reigned. Spring might be ten years away.

  Could fiery dragon blood flow through SeeJai’s veins like Daenerys Targaryen?

  Dire wolf blood, like Sansa Stark?

  No, SeeJai was her own kind of magic, her own nature spirit, her own radiant soul.

  Of course, she should resent him trying to fit the magnificent reality of her into the tiny hole of some author’s fictional character.

  “If you think Helena is magical like you and Keara, you don’t understand me at all,” he said sharply, then hoped she wouldn’t take offense.

  She didn’t seem to notice, just lay unmoving on the couch.

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Telling Rhinegold

  So I lay on Mom’s couch, feeling as messed up as any time in my life, even when I first watched Helena’s Facebook video “outing” me as a lesbian.

  When my best friend betrayed me to the entire world, at least I had only myself to worry about. Now, bad as I felt, I knew Mom felt worse. For the first time since the accident, she experienced a brief moment of happiness, only to have it snatched away from her. She would grieve for the rest of her life, and how long would that be? Antidepressants. Could I keep her off the booze?

  So how could I have the strength to tell Rhinegold what I needed to?

  My blood sugar level wouldn’t sweeten a cup of coffee, so I felt weak, sick, and dizzy, but the idea of eating made me want to heave. Even the leftover coffee smell twisted my stomach like a wash rag. My tongue tasted thick, and furry as an alley dog.

  When I closed my eyes, strange, colored shapes flashed and burst, fireworks of phosphene after-images from staring at a bright light.

  Rhinegold’s harsh words sliced at me like sword blades, but couldn’t reach me.

  I already hurt too bad.

  Greco. Ami. How could I?

  Because my side hurt as though Rhinegold and I had been Siamese twins, and somebody just separated us with one chop.

  The same phantom part of me that always ached with emptiness when I thought of JaeSea. That I wanted to heal by leading a normal life. Working a regular job. Living by myself. Saving up to go to college, and eventually have a career where I could be proud of myself.

  Just when I thought the scab fell off, leaving only pink, tender scar tissue, Rhinegold came along and made me love him, joining himself to me.

  So I wasn’t alone anymore.

  For a time, I thought I could have both: someone who loved me and a normal life.

  I went to work. Mom married Georgie. Rhinegold and I loved each other.

  Helena irritated me by refusing to remain in my past, but with Rhinegold, I felt bulletproof.

  Until Rhinegold’s imaginary demons and a real-life enemy caught up with him.

  I tried, but I fail
ed to convince him to live as a modern knight, to discover how to be a 21st century hero, not something out of the Middle Ages as it never really existed anyway, except in fantasy novels and movies.

  And now I had an opportunity to make more money than I ever dreamed of.

  I couldn’t refuse.

  Much as I hated it.

  “Tomorrow,” I said. One word was a start.

  “Yes?” Rhinegold sat down by my head. When I looked up, I could see half of his face—upside down.

  “I decided … Mother will need a lot of help, maybe doctors and hospitals Medicaid won’t pay for.”

  Rhinegold nodded. At least he listened well.

  “I need … college … a real job … something, well, almost normal.”

  He reached for my hand, and squeezed. I couldn’t help but squeeze back.

  “Alone … so long. I thought, you, but—I can’t handle it, Rhinegold. I love you, but I’m not a princess.”

  “You don’t have to believe it,” Rhinegold said. “People used to believe the world was flat, but it was round anyway.”

  “I don’t care. I can’t stand watching you throw your life away. I mean, it’s nice you helped that lady. But the cops would have arrested that bath salts guy anyway. That’s their job.”

  “He would have hurt those kids before anybody could have called 911, and they arrived.”

  Water teased the inner corners of my eyes, but I didn’t want to cry. Not now. Later, I could lose control later.

  “I shouldn’t be picky,” I said, sniffling. “I’m skinny and ugly. You’re my first real boyfriend. The first man who says I’m beautiful.”

  “You are,” he said.

  “See? How can I believe you, knowing you’re looking at me through the glasses of your inner fantasy world? Your delusions? You don’t see me. You see all the characters you’ve read about and watched in movies. I’m not any of them.”

  “They’re just metaphors for what you are.”

  “I don’t even understand that, Rhinegold. I just want to be me. I’m not spiritual. Not royal. Not magic. Not special. And I love you too much to let you live in your fantasy world, like one of the schizos I’ve seen when I visit Mother in a mental ward.”