by Marc Secchia
“A dark-haired Marilyn Monroe?”
Yolanda made her unique laugh, a cross between a chuckle and a chipmunk’s chattering. “Ah, I should visit my impish little sister more often. Thank you for the ego-upper. Now, we have not descended upon you without purpose.”
“No, our Yolanda never approaches anything without ominous purpose,” teased their mother. “Here, Zees. You’re making a right hash of that.”
She stripped the wrapping efficiently and popped a chocolate ball into Zaranna’s mouth. Heaven.
“We’re about to turn your flaxen straw into gold,” Yolanda intoned, with an extra sniff of disdain aimed in Susan’s general direction. “We have packed a salon’s-worth of multitudinous beauty products and diverse implements of womanly pampering.”
Her mother translated, “You’re having a bath and a spruce-up.”
“A bath? But I can’t –”
“We took lessons from Aunt Altosaurus,” said Yolanda. “Ouch!”
“Aunt Angela showed us the ropes,” her mother reprimanded. Yolanda sulked extravagantly, rubbing her bruised ribs.
Their Aunt had been a formidable opera singer in her day, and woe betide anyone who did not pay that history ample respect. The nickname ‘Altosaurus’ had stuck among her nieces and nephews since before Zaranna could remember, because her deafening the family was an annual Christmas event. Now, she was a volunteer nurse at a hospice.
“Yes,” smirked her sister, “because Zaranna’s essential bits are exactly like a demented, wrinkled old –”
“Yolanda!” Another motherly roar; this time, the windows rattled. Zaranna fancied that given the right mood, she could stun an entire regiment of veteran soldiers. Sweetly, Susan said, “Welcome to Salon Inglewood, Miss Zaranna. We do hope to delight you with our service this afternoon. Pick up the bags, flunky, and run a bath for your sister.”
“Yes, mother dragon.”
* * * *
Warm water, soapsuds, plastic shrink-wrap on her legs to protect the bandages and a handle dangling on a rope that Zaranna used to hold her plaster-encased left arm out of the water – well, it was a bath. Just about. She tried not to stare at her stubby legs. At least she could smell the scented bubbles. A low, bucket-shaped seat kept her from sliding anywhere unfortunate while her mother soaped and scrubbed as if she were two years old, and Yolanda prattled on about her new boyfriend, who was a true-life rocket scientist, a jet propulsion engineer with Rolls Royce.
“As straitlaced as a stick, but the most beautiful manners,” Yolanda sighed.
Her mom said, “Gracious, Zu-Zu, the mane you’re growing back here …”
“Aren’t you at all concerned that Mom and Dad have nicknamed you for a battery-powered hamster toy made in China?” her lovely sister sniped.
Zaranna closed her eyes. “The bath maid shall hold her silence whilst I luxuriate.”
Behind her eyelids, lights flashed, leaving streaks across her vision as she remembered how the car had juddered. Why in heaven’s name would the roof peel off like a banana skin? She should ask Mom. But the heat, the berry-scented shampoo and the soft rubbing against her scalp was far too enticing. She drifted into a pleasant daydream of riding Misty Dawn up into the hills above the Gordale Scar, where one could enjoy sweeping views of the Yorkshire Dales.
No. She must not entertain hope. Zaranna thrust that dream away.
The dripping of water from her long hair merged into the memory of a place she had been in a dream. The dungeon. Her eyes sprang open. How … she was tied to that infernal table again! Zaranna could not believe how tangible the dream appeared – perfect in every detail, from the dank air clogging her lungs to an unfamiliar, iridescent blue beetle lazily scaling the far wall. The insect was easily the size of her hand. She tried to shift her head, but the forehead and neck straps denied all but the slightest of movement. What she could see of the room was featureless stone. Rolling her eyes as best she was able, she glimpsed her own feet cased in slippers of an unfamiliar, medieval design.
Feet? Therefore, she dreamed – yet why dream of torture, so bizarrely linked to her accident?
One thought captured her mind. Zaranna knew she must escape. She fought with every fibre of her being, protracted minutes of silent struggling. This nightmare clung to her as if dark tentacles reached into her mind and their removal would spell injury, even death.
A footstep.
She writhed, wrenching her wrists repeatedly.
Another echoing footstep, approaching the table. Cold lapped against her awareness. She remembered the darkness beneath the man’s hood – was he even a man? Or a creature of evil? Either way, the tightness his presence engendered in her chest made it difficult to breathe.
She begged, “Misty, help …”
Misty? A horse? Could she not rather have summoned an avenging angel wielding a flaming ten-foot sword? Even in her dream, Zaranna was disgusted with herself. Another ominous footfall; a curl of air breathed midwinter’s chill upon her right arm and shoulder.
Escape!
The image of her favourite horse wavered above her, as though she lay on the ground and Misty Dawn loomed above, wanting to snuffle at her stomach, an invitation to play. Misty’s sea-foam mane tickled Zaranna’s cheeks. The strand that fell upon her tongue tasted distinctly salty. She faded like the foam. Slipped away toward the mists. Looking back at the fading dungeon, a faintly fire-lit chamber in an ocean of blackness, she saw the red-robed man standing in the doorway, clearly staring at her though she could see no detail of his face.
“There is no escape, child,” he called. The figure held something up, a battered and bloody hunk of flesh, splattered with crimson that seemed to glow with a light of its own. “My Dragon brought me a little souvenir. Now there’s no place in time or space that you can hide from my wrath.”
Zaranna’s dream-jaw dropped. Her leg!
Suddenly she was screaming, thrashing, trying to kick feet that weren’t present. Sardonic laughter chased her into the darkness. She sprawled on wet stone trying to run but she had no feet and there were snarls in the darkness, snarls of unseen animals hunting her, and all she could do was wallow like a beached whale, wailing her terror into endless, unheeding space …
Suddenly, light burst through her eyelids. Soapy water flooded her throat. She choked.
“– a fit! She’s having a fit!”
Someone shouted, “Get the doctor!”
“The cord – the red one! Pull the cord!” Strong hands flipped her over; thwacked her between the shoulders. Faraway, a bell rang. Zaranna coughed and coughed, each heave heightening the pressure in her already overheated head. She felt as if her brain had been set alight. Strange rainbow colours cascaded across her vision, the memory of glinting fangs and malicious mirth and fright so incomprehensible, her entire body convulsed in the grip of a cruel seizure.
“Come on, baby girl.” Her mom’s voice faded. “Stay with us …”
* * * *
A tickle in her nose woke Zaranna. Since her right hand lay on the starchy hospital pillow beside her cheek, she could wriggle her fingers to discover a plastic tube taped to her face. Oh. Oxygen. Not a good sign. But otherwise, she felt rather wonderful. Sound of Music, the hills were alive, dancing across meadows euphoric. Drugs, no doubt.
She opened her eyes, and saw a boy.
Well, a young man. Jet-black hair. Eyes of the deepest, warmest brown. Just a hint of stubble darkened a jawline that begged her forefinger to trace its definite contours. Oh, my. She blinked, but he did not evaporate into a phantasm of morphine-induced delirium. He was lanky, the muscles of an athlete hinted at in the curve of his blue uniform shirt over solid pectorals and the lay of rolled-up shirtsleeves upon his smooth, well-defined forearms. A neat wrap of pink carnations lay upon the table beside him. Sweet – and, for her? This instantly promoted him to the exalted status of the universe’s most charming and irresistible male. A clean, fresh tang of aftershave tantalised her nostrils. Clearly, the pr
ince had made an effort before gracing her bedside with his alluring presence, and holy smokes, what a superb package – only, who on earth was he?
Zaranna blinked again, but Prince Charming of Unknown Origin refused to evaporate in a puff of overactive imagination. Instead, he continued to peruse his newspaper, just … smouldering. Agreeably.
Mutely, she directed profuse thanks to her Heavenly Father for dispatching what was clearly an angel – an archangel, even – to warm that particular chair at this particular hour. Evidently, a divine apology for swiping her legs in a horrid twist of fate.
Dear God, she must look a fright. Was her hair mussed? She had no makeup on. She had been drooling on her pillow! Clean it, quick …
That tiny movement to clean the corner of her mouth attracted his attention at once.
He had drawn a chair right up to her bedside and draped his lean frame over it in a manner that suggested gentlemen smoking cigars in elegant drawing-rooms, so his regard was alarmingly close, as intense as the summer sun. Either the room had shrunk, or she felt perfectly dizzy. Her lips quirked into a smile. An eat-him-for-breakfast, dazzled, utterly … embarrassing smile! Yet she seemed incapable of tearing her gaze away, especially when he smiled back with a refreshingly unguarded crinkling of cheeks that spread upward toward his eyes.
This must be heaven, glistening white clouds and angelic harpists and all that malarkey.
“Awake?” he inquired.
“H-H-Happy,” she stammered.
His smile broadened. Above that, the dark eyes drew her in like magnets.
“I mean, hello?” Zaranna managed, flushing like a feckless preteen spying her favourite pop idol. Great. Now he must think her an idiot.
“You must be wondering who I am?” he offered, not entirely steady of voice himself, she noticed, gratified. His pulse leaped visibly in his throat and the newspaper had evidently been abandoned to the dogs.
“No. Stay,” she said.
His deep chuckle triggered a rather odd quivering sensation down in her belly. “I wasn’t about to leave.”
Ooh, he was a Scot, she realised, placing his accent. She had always loved a soft Scottish burr. As long as he did not wear a kilt. That would give her the worst case of giggles in history. The image of Mister Demigod in a kilt wreaked havoc inside her treacherous brain.
“Oh. Yes, I’m … uh …” No, not the kilt. Forget the dratted kilt! “I’m Zaranna.”
Wow. How clever to remember her own name. He arched an eyebrow and her mind turned into ten thousand fans screaming at a rock concert. Good Lord, what was the matter with her?
Stumbling, she managed, “I guess you must know that. My name, I mean. And you are –” she squinted at his breast pocket “– Paramedic A. C. Murray. Well, Paramedic Murray –”
“Alex, please.”
“Paramedic Alex.”
“Just Alex, unless you intend to make me blush.”
“Very well, Alex.” She could not believe herself. Flirting! With him. “I don’t mind if you stay.”
Oh, for heaven’s sake! Zaranna wanted to scream and kick herself – only she had no feet left for kicking ever again – or better still, dive under the covers and sob with humiliation. What the blazes was her stupid tongue doing? Yet he seemed amused; charmed, even.
Unfolding himself so suddenly from the chair that she bit back a gasp, Alex reached for the flowers and offered them to her. “Gracious lady, might I be so bold as to purchase with these, a moment of your gracious company?” the proffered flowers, and asked him to arrange them in a spare vase at her bedside. Her mom must have organised her belongings – the obligatory collection of get-well cards, four vases of flowers and a framed picture of their family from last Christmas. Next time, she should warn Alex her favourite colour was not pink. Next time? May it be!
“I … I had a fit,” she said, indicating the oxygen tube.
“Fluid on the lungs, which made you choke and triggered a fit,” he explained. “Possibly a side-effect of the drugs you’re on. You also had further complications from your injuries, but Doctor Patel informs me you’re on the mend now.”
“You appear to know a great deal about me, good sir.”
“Oh, I do, I do,” Alex agreed. Oh, that quirky grin! That dimple on his chin! He had just launched a fireworks display in her belly. “You are Zaranna Inglewood, sixteen year-old female, blood type A-negative, body weight o ne hundred and eight pounds – recently reduced, and I am sorry for that loss – you live in the Dales Park, and your sister calls you Beauty.”
Weird, or kind of cute, that he had memorised her details?
She struggled up to one elbow. With a low cry, Alex swooped. “Don’t.”
“Help me sit up. Please?”
“Yolanda also revealed a case of incurable stubbornness.”
“Great. Thanks, family, for keeping my secrets.”
“Hardly.” Leaning so close he made her shiver, Alex said, “Excuse me for handling your person.” He slipped his left hand beneath her body. Managing her weight with ease, he raised her expertly into an upright position, while with his free hand he operated the bed to raise the head-end. He popped a pillow behind her back and smoothed the blankets over her lap. “Comfy?”
Gracious, he was strong. Zaranna rather wished to be handled a little more. “Thank you, kind sir.”
Her gaze dropped to her foreshortened legs, hidden beneath the blanket. Yes, reduced. Ugly stubs.
Alex said, “I know what’s under there.” He read her shame so clearly. Tears pricked Zaranna’s eyes, unshed. “I was the first responder at the scene. I – well, I’ve an unofficial radio on my motorbike and I heard the call come in. I was fifteen minutes down the road. Got there in five. Helped your mother pull you off the tracks. Stopped the bleeding.”
He fell silent. Zaranna peeked; he was staring at his hands, just like her father had done. His throat bobbed. When he spoke, his words emerged half-strangled. “I thought you were dead. I mean, that car was crushed like a Coke can, almost cut in half. Worst I’ve ever seen.”
Such a fragile silence linked them, she feared to break it. Just two strangers flung together by fate, on one level, yet on another …
“How fast were you driving, Alex?”
“Fast? Oh – north of one hundred and eighty, I guess. I didn’t really look. At that speed, a glance can kill you. Maybe we could go for a spin, one day? I bet you’d enjoy it.”
“I won’t be riding anything anytime soon.”
Bitterer than lemons. Zaranna gulped, the understanding she sensed in his manner simply too much to bear.
He said, “Hmm. Well, the point is –”
“That you’ve touched me before. No need to apologise, therefore. In fact, it sounds like I have a crazy biker to thank for my life.”
“Just doing my job.” Yet his eyes communicated more, so much more. Zaranna wondered how far he had come to visit her? How many times? Even more quietly, he said, “The nickname suits.”
Zaranna resisted the urge to wipe her forehead. The room suddenly felt unbearably hot, and the situation awkward. What could she say? Thank him yet again? Protest that she was a broken, wrecked husk of a thing, and his flirting made her so happy and yet so sad, knotting up her feelings into a mess that just hurt?
She peeked; Alex was blushing up quite the dozen roses there himself! He practically dived for his bag and fell to rooting about its innards.
He muttered, “I, uh – I brought you something else. Something you may have missed. Here.” Alex produced a sorry-looking, charred and stained Bible. “The edges are a bit crisped, which is odd, because there was no fire at the crash site. I tried to clean it up, but I’m afraid it suffered a bit. Sorry.”
“Oh, thanks. How did you know?”
“I’m a Murray. My grandfather –”
“Chaplain Murray? Of course! Sorry, I’m a bit slow today. One too many knocks on the head.”
Abruptly, he stood, swinging his leather jacket off the ba
ck of his chair. “You must be tired. I should go.”
“Must you?”
With a smile that wobbled every atom of her body, Alex said, “My shift starts in two hours and I should not break the speed limit too often, even if it is to rescue gorgeous damsels in distress. I’m glad to see you’re recovering so well, Zaranna. You take care.”
Oh, open the heavens and hear him speak her name once more! Words would not come. Following him to the door with her eyes, Zaranna wanted to scream, ‘No! Stop! Stay a while.’ With a slight bow and a nod, he departed.
“Alex!”
Ugh. Squeaky-voice number three. But his head popped around the doorway almost instantly. “Aye, Beauty?”
“You might … need your keys?”
“Well, I would’ve been back sooner than I could have hoped for,” he grinned, his long legs making short shrift of crossing the room. He plucked his keys off the table. And there he paused, twisting his jacket in his hands. Hesitating long enough to blast her heart with storms of hope.
“Alex …”
“This was fun. Zaranna, might I –”
She blurted out, “You might. I’d like that.”
“It’s a date. Saturday?”
“I’m sure I can squeeze you into my packed social diary.” Zaranna winked at him. She had no idea which day of the week it was, but Saturday suddenly came with the pealing of bells and a heavenly choir of angels thundering the finale of the Hallelujah Chorus. “See you Saturday, Alex.”
Fabulous! She leaned back on the pillows, clutching the Bible to her chest. That was unexpected. Joyous. Now she might actually get through Rehab, especially if she had Saturday to look forward to. Oh heavens alive, might Alex have resuscitated her with mouth-to-mouth? Mmm … a hint of a well-remembered smell touched her nostrils. Zaranna dropped the book with a yelp. No! She had to check. Be sure. With a quivering hand, she reached out and lifted her leather-bound Bible, which her parents had gifted her on her twelfth birthday, from her lap to her nose. She inhaled cautiously.
Sulphur and jasmine.
Zaranna bit her knuckles to stifle a sob of horror. Was she going mad?
