by Kylie Key
"Oh, you're reading to him, that's good," she said off-handedly, giving me the impression she wasn't really listening.
"His father tattooed his face when he was eight," I burst out.
"What?"
"He was eight years old when his father tattooed him. Can you believe that? He said he had long hair to hide it." For a moment I felt like I might cry because saying it out loud I could hear how absurd, how abominable it was.
"That's outrageous," Mom said.
"He has no one, Mom," I said, "like his Grandpa can't visit and his Grandma died and his mother died and his father is in prison. He really has nobody."
“Well, you should keep visiting. It'll be great for your college application."
I scowled. Mom didn't get it. Malachi wasn't just about extra credits or a volunteer position. He'd become more than that.
"And if you enjoy it, you should think about going to med school, baby."
"Med school?" I exclaimed, "I'm not smart enough for med school."
Mom snorted. "You are smart enough, Dominique Strauss," she said briskly, "Keep your options open." My Mom was the full on career woman, driven to climb the corporate ladder. She'd been in this job a little over six months, relishing the responsibility it brought. It meant she worked long hours and traveled out of town more, but Mom was all about work, work, work. I sensed I didn't have her same hard-nosed ambition.
And to be honest, up until now I'd never thought about what I would study at college. All I'd hoped for was a gymnastics scholarship, and I'd assumed everything else would fall into place. Business, marketing, communications, media, maybe sport science, I had never thought that far ahead.
Time seemed to drag the next day and I was impatient to go to the hospital. I'd gathered the rest of the Benji Bear series of books, six in total, but I knew I couldn't go until the afternoon because Malachi would be having his bandages done and his physical therapy treatment.
Coming in from my swim, I'd let my hair dry naturally and then I pulled it into a quick braid. Having to wear a mask, Malachi never saw my full face so I decided to skip the makeup today, apart from mascara. I made sure to spray myself liberally in Mom's perfume.
Malachi was lying in the same prone position as yesterday and Jill lead me through, telling me how well he'd done in his therapy that morning, doing some exercises on his hand.
"That's great," I said to Malachi, giving him the thumbs up sign. Jill asked if he wanted the extra pillow, but Malachi said he was fine.
As soon as Jill had finished her checks and left us, our hands connected and Malachi grinned and said, "I think I do want another pillow." I rolled my eyes at him, again I was awkward in trying to fix it under his head. He did nothing to make it easier.
"You have that nice perfume on again," he said, as I leaned over him.
"It's called Floral Drops," I said. "Do you think you could lift your head a little?"
"No, I'm quite tired," he said cheekily, my face just inches from his, our eyes staring each other down, causing a nervous flutter of my heart. He really did have pretty eyes, an exquisite pale blue, framed by dark brown lashes. I reached across and pulled the pillow so it sat firmly under his one, and then I plumped up the one his head was on. And, in one swift movement, I snatched at his beanie and dangled it above his head.
"Dominique," he laughed, weakly waving his hand towards it.
"Yes Malachi?" I asked. "Is your head cold?" I bent down and grabbed my phone out of my bag. "Photo time!"
"No," he said, "my hair is too weird." But I'd already snapped it and showed him.
"That's not weird," I said and, with no thought, I reached out and ruffled his hair where the beanie had flattened it. I took another one.
"Take one of both of us," he said, and I crouched down, so my head was next to his.
"You should take off the mask," he said.
"And kill you with my germs? Anyway, I look better with it on."
"I doubt it," he said, and I took more photos because I hadn't moved, because my face was still next to his. I could feel the warmth of his cheek against the mask and even though my knee was straining, I stayed still.
"I should be the one in the mask," Malachi said, and he turned his head, our eyes close, inches apart. My breath whooshed and I turned my head, trying to find air.
"You don't know how many zits I have under here," I said, sitting back on the chair, feeling like I needed some distance to compose myself. "In fact, I should wear this all the time."
Malachi smiled with a confidence I hadn't seen before, looking more assured of himself. I fiddled on my phone, needing to lighten the moment and I opened the filters app and proceeded to show him the photo of us transformed into llamas, clowns, puppies, gargoyles, adorned with leis, glasses and mustaches. Malachi's laugh sounded like Daniela and Ryder's, child-like, true, genuine. That something so simple, so basic could make his face light up in joy made me melt.
Upon hearing the laughter, Jill and Rosa, the OT, came in. They giggled at the photos.
"You're very photogenic, Spider," Jill said, "and you suit the puppy dog ears." For some reason it irked me that she'd called him Spider.
"Spider, I think you look better with the llama hair.” Rosa laughed. “You should get a perm when your hair grows out."
"His name's Malachi," I blurted, surprised at how abrasive my tone came out. Jill and Rosa stopped laughing immediately, both looking at me. I felt aghast that I'd spoken so petulantly and tried to correct it. "His real name is Malachi," I said again, this time softly.
Jill and Rosa turned to Malachi and I feared he wouldn't back me up, that he'd say he hated the name Malachi, but he was nodding. And smiling.
"I like it," Jill said. "I like Malachi better than Spider." She winked at me.
"Malachi is a great name," Rosa said, "and I'll be back to see you tomorrow."
After they left, Malachi reached for the Benji Bear book under his pillow. "I like that you did that," he said.
"Really?" I asked, feeling a little uneasy about my outburst. My Dad wouldn't like me speaking to adults in that tone; I'd apologize to Jill later.
He opened the book and pulled out the note I'd left him yesterday, handing it to me. Above where I'd written Malakey, he'd spelt out his name correctly M a l a c h i. Each letter was done in a different color marker and his printing was untidy, like a 5th grader's, the letters at all different slants.
"Oh, I'm sorry," I said, "that's unusual spelling."
"Benji scored the winning touchdown," he said.
I laughed, pleased that he had actually taken the time to read the book. "Yes he did. Benji is a bit of a star."
"I'm sensing a pattern with Benji," he said.
"He always comes through for his team?" I asked, as I reached for the next book.
"He never gives up," Malachi said, and in that moment I saw the irony of what the Benji books were doing for him. Silly, simple kids’ books, or so I thought, but Benji was, in fact, a beacon of hope.
"Yes," I said, "you're right."
"You'll get back to your gymnastics," he said, "I know you will."
I looked at him, dumbfounded. He was talking about me? The boy who was burnt on 60% of his body was thinking about me? Worried about my recovery?
"Dr Cash said you were hoping to get a scholarship to college," he said. "You can still get it, I'm sure."
I nodded, though my thinking was all confused. I was supposed to be helping Malachi, but it seemed he was the one helping me. I was supposed to be strong for him, but I felt like a lamb.
I stood up, wanting to hug him. Only a small part of his body wasn't bandaged and I knew that if I touched him in a wrong place I'd cause him pain.
I put my hand on his head, I knew that was safe. For a second his eyes couldn't register what I was doing, and even I didn't know what I was going to do. I only knew that I wanted to be as close to him as I could, but with a threat of infection my options were limited. I brought my forehead down to touch his, his eyes clos
ing as we connected and behind the mask my chin wobbled, but in that moment I knew I'd fallen in love.
CHAPTER 6
Dad was in his office with the door closed. That meant he was working, that meant he didn't want to be disturbed.
I burst in anyway.
"Not now, Blossom," he said, as his hand worked the mouse and he concentrated on the screen.
"I need a favor," I said. I peered at his work, seeing a text font design.
"I said not now Dominique," Dad barked, and the use of my full, unabbreviated name meant he was not in the mood to be defied.
"It's important," I said.
He ignored me, working studiously on a curved line, the veins on the side of his neck swelling and his lips tightening as he tried to perfect his piece. I let out a purposely loud sigh.
"For goodness sake, Dominique," he said, and he shoved the mouse away and pushed back his chair, adding a few more profanities. I stood defiantly with my hands on my hips.
"You need a break anyway," I said, "you've been in here for hours."
"Deadlines, Dominique, deadlines," he said, but he swivelled on his chair and faced me. "What's so important?"
"I want you to do a sign for Malachi," I said.
"Who's Malachi?"
I told Dad about Spider's real name, about how his father had tattooed him, about how he had nothing personal in his room. I told him about his latest skin graft and how he was learning to move his fingers.
I didn't tell him that I was in love with him.
"Sounds like you're taking a real interest in this boy," Dad said, crossing his arms, a smirk on his face. I felt myself blushing from the neck up.
"Mom said I need it for my college application," I snapped, "can you do the sign or not?" Dad blinked, I'm not sure if it was in astonishment or amusement.
"Sure," he said, "I can do it. Give me a day or two, okay?"
"Thank you Daddy," I said, hugging him, "you're the best." I spelt out Malachi's name and he asked me if I had any specific design requests. I said I would like it to be big enough to go on the wall above his bed and I would like each letter to be a different color. It had impressed me that Malachi had taken the time to write his name using different marker pens.
After that forehead thing, I’d grabbed the next Benji Bear book and gabbled through it quickly, with each minute becoming more embarrassed about what I'd done. Malachi hadn't reacted in any way; he'd kept his head on the pillow, his eyes focused on the pictures. When a doctor and a team of residents had come in, I'd said a hurried goodbye and disappeared. It wasn't till I was at my car that I realized I'd forgotten to apologize to Jill.
So the next day I had searched for Jill first, even though I was having heart palpitations about seeing Malachi. I'd watched a makeup tutorial about bringing out the best in hazel eyes, sprayed on Mom’s perfume and pulled my hair into a low ponytail, so yes, I guess I did want to impress him.
"Hey Jill," I said brightly, as I approached reception.
She looked at me twice, making me cringe. It meant I'd overdone the makeup.
"Dominique, you're looking pretty today," she said, confirming my fears that I'd tried too hard. My face heated as I placed a bakery bag on the counter.
"This is for your afternoon snack," I said, offering the lemon and poppy seed muffin. "I wanted to apologize for the way I spoke to you yesterday, and I meant to do it yesterday but you must have been busy when I left, and I didn't mean to-"
"Sweetheart!" Jill interrupted, "don't be silly. You didn't have to bring me anything." I blushed more. "And you don't need to apologize. You were right." She came out from behind the desk and put her arm around me. "His name is Malachi. And he likes to be called that."
Another nurse urgently came up to Jill, leading her away, so I took myself to Malachi's room. Butterflies were stirring in my stomach as I covered my hair and face, and I wished that Malachi could see me completely, but I knew that wasn't going to happen until the risk of infection lowered.
He was lying in the face down position and his eyes were closed. I wasn't exactly quiet as I shifted the chair closer and put my bag on the floor, so when he didn't open his eyes or speak, I had to assume he was asleep. I felt disappointed beyond reason, standing over him, almost willing him to wake, but knowing that sleep was a good thing for him. Any respite from the pain had to be a gift.
He had his beanie on and it was slightly askew and I had an impulse to straighten it. I leaned over and he spoke, "I can smell you."
"Oh," I giggled, seeing that his eyes were still closed, "in a good way, I hope." I lowered my voice, "I'm sorry for waking you, I just wanted to straighten your beanie."
“Yeah, in a good way," he said croakily, and with a tone of resignation said, “Okay, straighten it then."
"It's just that your ear might get cold.” I pulled it into place and my hand lingered, cupping his jaw and I had a ridiculous notion of climbing on the bed and lying next to him, of having our faces touching. His eyes peered up at me from beneath those stunning eyelashes and I daren't breathe, transfixed in that one moment in time, where this one boy was looking at me.
And then the door opened and in a flash I straightened up and turned, getting the shock of my life to see my father standing right behind Jill. He looked like a surgeon in his mask, hat and gloves, but he was carrying a large rectangular bag.
"Dad!" I said, wondering if he had seen me standing so close to Malachi. Malachi was trying to angle his head. I stepped forward, a ton of thoughts in my head: Was he checking up on me? Was Mom okay? Was Grandad sick? "What are you doing here?"
"I finished your little project, so thought I'd see if it got your approval," he said.
I gasped. "Already? But you said a few days." I couldn't contain my excitement and I pulled Dad over to Malachi's line of vision. And some sort of confidence took over. "Malachi," I said, bending down to his level, "this is my Dad. You can call him Trey."
"Hi Malachi," Dad said, looking amused. "And yes, you can call me Trey."
"Hi Trey," Malachi said, trying to lift himself up. Jill raised his bed up a little.
"I asked Dad to do a poster for your bed, with your name, just to brighten up the room," I said. "I only asked him last night, so I wasn't expecting him to have it done for a few days."
“Well, after you interrupted me," Dad mocked annoyance, "I couldn't get back to my work, could I?" He playfully put his arm around me, squeezing me.
"I can't wait to see it," I said, and Dad brought his work out of the bag. He'd had it mounted on a canvas, Malachi's name in a variety of pastel shades against a dark blue background that looked like the night sky. A star dotted the i and the letters looked like they were floating in outer space.
"This is my StarCrossed font," Dad said, "but it's only a suggestion. I can change it, or change the colors."
I loved it, I thought it was perfect. I looked to Malachi, to see his reaction. He was smiling, no, he was beaming and so was Jill.
"Wow," Jill breathed, "that's outstanding."
"It's awesome," Malachi said.
"Malachi means messenger or angel, so that's why I put these angel wings here," and he pointed beneath the star dotted i. Dad waved his hand about, and I knew he could go on describing the technical aspects of the design, as he had a habit of doing, but he said, "And these letters are all flying off, like in space."
"It's beautiful, Dad," I said, "and what a beautiful meaning." I hugged him tightly, feeling so proud.
"Is that what my name means?" Malachi asked, looking overwhelmed. Dad nodded vigorously.
"It's official," Jill said, "you are our angel, Malachi." Even with his tattoo and blotchy skin I saw him blush from Jill's words.
But I was thinking the exact same thought: Malachi, you're my angel.
Jill hugged him from behind. I watched how she did it, placing one hand on his head and the other on his shoulder. I could do that; hug him without hurting him.
And that's what I wanted to do.
Dad had brought along some adhesive hooks and Jill directed him on where to hang it over his bed, but Malachi stopped them, saying, "I won't be able to see it there."
They marched to the other side of the room and positioned it below the television. Malachi approved, and Dad set about with his tape measure to get it perfectly aligned. He stayed and chatted with Malachi and any thoughts that it might be an awkward conversation were quickly dispelled. Just as Dad had engaged easily with Taylor, so he did with Malachi. He wasn't embarrassing, talking in stupid lingo or telling stories about me. He asked Malachi how Cassian was treating him and told him how much Cassian loved his job.
Then Dad asked, "Were you still in school or working?"
My ears perked up. I'd never asked Malachi that question, assuming he had been about to graduate. At nineteen he was a little older than Damon, but it all depended on what month your birthday fell.
"I was working in a warehouse," he said. And a vision of a long-haired Malachi in coveralls and work boots sprung to mind.
"How did you like that?" Dad asked.
"I liked it good, sir," Malachi said. "We mainly supply engineering bolts, nuts, rivets and hinges, and chain and rigging equipment."
I had no idea what he was talking about, but I could see that Dad was impressed. I wasn't sure if it was from by being called sir or if was from that stuff Malachi was talking about.
"Were you working full time?" Heck, Dad was nosy.
“Yes sir. Since I finished high school." Now Malachi was answering as if he was being interviewed.
"You graduated last year?"
"Yes sir." For a moment I felt fiercely proud of him. He had graduated high school and worked a legitimate job. He wasn't an unemployed loser into drugs and gangs and guns at all.
Now he was my Malachi, my angel.
Dad excused himself and said he had an appointment and Jill lead him out. Malachi thanked Dad again, his sincerity obvious.
I let out a long sigh after Dad left, but it was only because I wanted Malachi to myself. I actually hadn't minded Dad being there.
And Malachi seemed to agree. "Your Dad is cool," he said.
