A pinch on my right leg jolts me awake. “Don’t sleep.” I try to obey Hayden, but my limbs are not my own, they are heavier.
“Ow.” That second pinch will leave a bruise.
“Sorry. Stay awake.”
I pull at the collar of Hayden’s flannel and several snaps break open. The air flows in and cools the sweat. It feels good to sit straight and press back against the metal seat. If only I could take off my helmet. I push the visor up. I can’t see well and the wind just makes my eyes water. It cools me, though, so I leave it up for a few minutes. The wide valley rises on either side to low mountains. Sagebrush and other hearty bushes speckle the hard ground. Beauty diminished by loneliness. Ahead, something lies on the side of the road. The closer we get, the clearer the animal. I glance away when I realize it’s a dead coyote.
The only benefit to a desert is the reminder that we are frail, needy beings. At least it’s good when you think about your enemies in those terms. I don’t much like the reminder for myself.
Some of the landscape looks white, shiny almost. We pass signs for a town called Lovelock. I hold up my sleeves and let wind blow into Hayden’s jacket. I’m playing, just trying to stay awake. The wind rhythmically whips Hayden’s T-shirt, but I can still see the definition in his shoulder blades. I want to trace them with my finger. It isn’t a sexual desire. He is pleasing to look at—I’m just curious what it would feel like.
Love. Being in love. Making love. I don’t want to love him, yet I find I’m already bound to him in a way I can’t control. Need pulls me, and not merely the need for a driver. Something inside him communicates with something deep inside me. An indefinable longing—like maybe he could satisfy the barrenness concealed inside me.
No. He won’t be able to. Sadness dams up, rising to smother my lungs. I’ve seen enough physical love to know that satisfaction it isn’t found there. I’ve read enough emotional love, to know it isn’t there, either. What is it I lack?
Hayden arches and stretches. He yells over his shoulder.
“What?”
“You all right?”
“Fine.”
“Need to stop?”
“Soon.” I lay my helmet back between his shoulders. What is it I want?
Hayden pinches me a couple more times before we pull into Winnemucca. The freeway exit is a long incline. Our slowing speed can’t pull me from my stupor. I’m so tired. At the first stop light, Hayden lifts his visor.
“Stay awake.” He squeezes my hands one at a time. The light turns green, and we pass a graveyard on our right. I don’t wish I were dead, but any kind of sleep right now would be good—even the permanent kind.
“Little further.” He pats my leg and pinches me. I don’t care anymore.
The sun is heading toward the mountain ridge, but if anything, the air is hotter. Hayden turns into a motel and parks in the shade. He takes off my jacket and tries to get me to follow him.
“I’ll wait here.” I lean forward and place my crossed arms over his seat. He tries to get me to walk again, but I ignore him. My legs don’t work. He bunches the jacket under my head and I sleep. At least I start to. In just seconds he’s coaxing me, poking me, and finally carrying me into a motel room.
“How sweet.” An old couple, wearing matching black, teal and silver western-shirts, wave and exclaim over us as Hayden maneuvers me over the threshold. “Happy Honeymoon!”
Hayden doesn’t answer them, just kicks the door closed. The cool indoor air swirls around me. He sets me on the bed, pulls off my shoes and…
I dream.
This is it. I have it. What I’ve been looking for. My arms and my face lift to the sky. Weighty, white suede drapes over me. Fringe dangles from my arms. Beauty rests on me. Strength, not from myself, lifts my feet to stomp the earth. I dance because I’m complete.
“Wake up, Sparrow.” Hayden is haloed by dim blue light. Muffled voices argue on a television. “You were crying.” He strokes my cheek. It’s wet.
“I…” I sob now. The dream is not real.
“You’re safe.” Hayden kneels beside me, stroking my forehead, my hair.
I turn and press my face into his chest. It isn’t safety I want, but that completeness. The wholeness from my dream. Hayden rubs my back. How many times have I cried with him? Why can I do this with him and no one else?
“Was there music in here?”
His cleft lift crinkles and his eyes squint with a secret. “Maybe.”
“Radio?”
“Naw. I was playing my harmonica a while.”
“Harmonica?” A little laugh comes out my nose.
“I was bored. You were out a long time.”
“What time is it?” Pushing back from him, I slide out of the covers. Dizziness disorients me, and I lower myself to a hard chair near the bed.
“One in the morning. You’ve slept six hours at least. Not counting the two on the bike.” Hayden rises and stands on the far side of the queen bed. The covers are pulled back where I slept, the far side is unruffled.
“You didn’t sleep.”
“I tried…in the chair. I was worried about you.” A commercial ditty annoys in the background. Hayden picks up the remote and turns it off. We are left in only the illumination of the small table lamp.
I feel like I could sleep another eight hours. “Could you sleep now?” I point to the bed.
“Ah, no, not if you…” If he was uncomfortable being alone with me at the Jones’ house, what is this doing to him? A single bed. Just the two of us.
“I’m not tired.” A yawn starts, so I cover my mouth and make a show of coughing.
“No, y-you can have the bed.”
I take the single chair. “I don’t want it.” I prop my feet up on the edge of the bed. “I slept enough. Besides, I normally read myself to sleep, and I don’t have a book. I won’t sleep again.” I try to swallow. My tongue feels like fabric, but the bathroom is too far away. As soon as he sleeps, I’ll slide into bed—and just be careful not to touch him.
Hayden yanks on the door handle, checking the lock. He stretches out on the edge of the bed and lays face up. He crosses his left arm under his head and rests his right arm next to his side, close to his gun. “You can’t sleep without a story, huh? Would you like me to tell you one?”
His question feels like a kiss. Not a sensual lip kiss—a protective, forehead kiss. “Yes.” My voice is breathy.
“There once was a girl named Cinderella.” His chest expands with air. He holds it a second and releases slowly, evenly for several seconds. “She had long, straight, black hair. Dark eyes that smiled about some hidden joke that only she knew. She was strong, but didn’t know it…”
I interrupt with a guffaw.
“Okay.” He smiles at me. “She wanted to go to a ball. This wasn’t just any ball. It was an opportunity to meet a true love.” He pauses. I hope he doesn’t start describing himself.
“But her stepmother—” I picture Lorna. “Who was named ‘Sin,’ didn’t want her to go.” The skin on my arms tingles. This is about me, but not Lorna.
“She had two stepsisters. One was named ‘Law’ and the other, ‘Rules.’ They continually showed Cinderella why she should not go to the ball. Until a fairy named Iglesia came.”
“And gave her a dress.” I add.
“No. Iglesia could not give her the right gown. Many people would be wearing fancy gowns, but Cinderella had to go dressed like she was, in rags. Iglesia knew the Prince was looking for a bride who came only as herself, no pretenses. Iglesia told Cinderella that, since her stepmother and stepsisters forbade her to go, she needed to renounce them. Cinderella went. Unfortunately, so did Stepmother Sin. Sin was so angry that she shot an arrow to kill Cinderella.” Hayden pauses and holds his hands up. “There Cinderella stood, shivering in rags, as the arrow raced through the air, aiming for her heart.”
I sit up and lean in to hear better.
“The Prince stepped in front of Cinderella and took Sin’s arr
ow. The prince didn’t have to block it—it wasn’t meant for him—but he loved Cinderella so much that he was willing to die for her.”
“And that’s the end of your version? It sucks.”
“Hardly.” He smiles, and his cleft lip scar makes him look so impish, I smile back. “This is an interactive version. A kind of choose your own adventure,” he says.
“But the prince is dead.” I’ve read dozens of different Cinderella versions. An Asian Cinderella, an Arabian Cinderella, even a Native American adaptation, but I never heard anything like this.
His eyes hold my gaze. “Cinderella runs away at the stroke of midnight. So she didn’t know that the prince did not stay dead. He wasn’t obligated to Stepmother Sin’s arrows. His heart swelled with love for Cinderella and pushed out the shaft. So here’s the part where you can choose: the slippers fall from her tiny feet.”
I wiggle my size-nine foot.
“Do you pick up the slipper?”
“Hayden your story is strange.”
“Well, I’ll tell you the ending. The Prince lived and is returning for his Cinderella. He wants to make her his bride. He will know her by the glass slipper. When he comes in and she presents it he will scoop her up, take her to his kingdom and she will inherit all that he has.” Hayden rolls onto his side and asks me again. “Do you pick up the slipper?”
“Well of course, but only because you told me the ending.”
“The story is true, Sparrow. It’s a picture of how God loves you.”
God loves me. The only proof I have is people keep telling me that.
“And he is returning for his bride.” Hayden yawns.
I jump up and let myself into the bathroom. I know I don’t have a glass slipper. Everything he said niggles with a sensation that I can’t fully grasp. I splash water on my face, rinse out my mouth and pull the underwear from my pocket. I want to be clean. To wash the sweat from the ride, the lingering puke smell, everything since my shower yesterday morning. I strip and climb in.
Since I have to return to my dirty clothes, the shower isn’t as satisfying as usual. But at least I have the undergarments now. Hayden still lies on top of the bed covers, but now he snores softly. I pull the comforter from my side and lay it over him. Since he’s driving, he needs the sleep more than I do. I lie beside him, resisting the urge to align my body with his like we did on the motorcycle.
Trying to stay as still as possible, I realize I’m holding my breath.
“Don’t go…” Hayden mumbles. “Sabine, please.”
Though it’s muffled, it’s definitely the same name Malcolm Graves said back in Reno. Who is Sabine? Maybe that’s why Hayden wouldn’t want me here, lying beside him. I suddenly feel like I’m stealing, so I get up and return to the chair. If I slept on a moving bike, I can sleep here.
I don’t, though. Time ticks by, whether I watch the glowing red numbers or not.
Meow. Meow.
At about two in the morning I realize the meowing is consistent. The air conditioning kicks on and muffles the kitten’s cry. I turn off the thermostat and walk barefoot to the window. Maybe I imagined—nope, there it is again. It’s a little one. I don’t know if I have ever heard such a small cry. An hour goes by with me pacing the thin carpet. I can’t take it any longer.
“Hayden.” I squat next to his stretched out body. He doesn’t open his eyes, but his hand moves to his holster. “Hayden, it’s me.” I shake him hard.
“What’s happening?” He sits up quickly.
I can’t move from my squatting position fast enough, and I fall back on my seat. His thumb flips open the snap securing his gun and his right fingers trill across his hip. His partially opened eyes flick around the room. In the space of our shallow breathing and staring at each other, the kitten cries a half a dozen times in quick succession.
“Do you hear that?” I move my feet under me and take a couple crouching steps back to the window.
He starts using his hands to point while mouthing the words, “You heard a noise?”
The baby cries again, so pitiful. “There, did you hear it?”
Confusion, then a raised eyebrow. “The cat?”
“The kitten.”
He sighs and lays back. “How long did I sleep?”
“Less than two hours. Hayden, I’m sorry. You sat here all night while I slept. And I can’t…” The kitten cries again. “I’m going to look for it.”
“You won’t catch it.”
I reach for my sneakers anyway. “I have to try. I can’t let him die out there.”
“He’s got a coat.” Hayden stretches and yawns.
“Maybe if he was older.” The meows become frantic and quick again. “Listen, that’s not a cat singing in the night. That’s a helpless, baby animal.”
“You’ll get fleas, probably worms,” he says.
“You want me to let him die so I don’t get dirty?”
He sits up, his lips pressed together.
“I’m sorry, Hayden, I didn’t mean to yell.”
“You really want to head out in the middle of the night to look for some abandoned kitten that will run from you, and if we do manage to trap it, we’ll probably end up contracting some kind of vermin?” He says it gruffly, but I see a grin cross his lips before he ducks down and reaches for his shoes.
“Thank you.” After I tie my shoe, I reach for my backpack.
“Is that like your purse or something?”
“Yeah.” More like my life.
“You got anything to eat in there?”
“Unfortunately, no.” Now that he mentions it, I’m pretty hungry too.
“We can go to the grocery store down the street and get something. You’ll probably want to go and buy some flea poison anyway. Milk. Maybe a cute little sweater and fluffy pillow for the critter.”
I don’t mind his teasing because he stands and shoves the hotel key into his jeans. “Take my jacket again; you’ll get cold.”
He holds open the door and steps aside, so I can walk through first. It is chilly. I’m glad for the jacket.
“Brr,” Hayden says, while he locks the hotel door.
I wear his coat. Is there no end to his giving? Warmth, not from the jacket, rushes through my core. I slide my hand into his and lace my fingers through. “Hayden?”
He stops and squeezes my hand. “Yeah?”
“Thank you.”
We follow the sounds of the kitten and end up making a loop around the whole motel. A few times, one of us trips in the dark and we giggle, holding hands and keeping each other steady. We reach our room again without the kitten sounds to direct us. Maybe the baby doesn’t need help. Maybe cats do just cry out in the night.
Meow.
Hayden dives under a parked car and his legs wiggle in time with his grunts. “Here kitty, kitty, kitty.” I’d follow that gentle coaxing if I were a cat.
One last mumble and he starts to back out from under the car. In his right hand dangles a tuft of black and white striped fur. “It is a little one.” He holds his arm out to me.
I take the handful, and feel the fragility of its ribs, the soft fur and the tiny body. Tears fill my eyes. “It’s freezing out here. Do you think someone abandoned it?”
Hayden puts an arm around me. “Or the momma cat was moving her litter and she’ll come back looking for this last one. She’ll always wonder what happened to it.”
His joke helps me not cry. We walk, his arm around me, and the kitten under my jacket. Swaddled almost, the baby lays still and my heat transfers. He quiets immediately.
“She’s going to be hard to take care of.” Hayden’s voice seems tentative.
“Of course.”
“No, I mean, because she’s so young. You do understand she might die.”
There is no way I’ll let that happen, but I nod for Hayden’s sake.
“If she’s old enough to drink milk instead of nurse, you’ll have a chance.” I look up quickly, not hiding my surprise. He continues, “You
will have to rub a wash cloth on her to make her go to the bathroom. That what the mom does, she licks them. Otherwise, she won’t be able to go. You’re going to have to do everything for it.”
“Can we use a bottle?”
“I don’t know. Let’s just get some milk, take it back to the hotel and see if she’ll drink it.”
“It might be a boy.” I slide my hand in and rub lightly from the kitty’s nose to between the ears.
“True.” He smiles down at me. My Hayden.
“I…” I hope he knows how much I need him.
His arm is still around my shoulders and he tightens it. His face presses to the top of my head. A kiss on my hair. I leave my head at his shoulder and walk uncomfortably, leaning crooked—just to be close to him.
We visit the milk isle first. Hayden picks up and sets down heavy cream, then half-and-half, and finally milk. “I don’t think we want to feed her…or him this.” He smiles at me, “Let’s look at canned goat’s milk. I think you’re actually supposed to mix yogurt and egg yolk, there’s a thing you do for kittens this small.”
I’m glad he’s here, because I wouldn’t have thought of any of this. I follow him, a half step behind. He grabs my hand, and we walk together. I rub my thumb across his rough palm to memorize the feel. He turns spontaneously down an aisle, and we walk past diapers. He selects a tiny bottle.
“I’m not sure if it will work.” He smacks the bottle against his palm several times.
Next, we get a can of goat’s milk, a box of crackers, meat, cheese, a women’s fleece sweatshirt with zippered pockets, two pair of gloves and two bottled juices.
“I forgot my wallet.” At the checkout counter, Hayden sticks his hands in each pocket alternatively, as though it will materialize. It won’t; I remember seeing it on the desk next to the bed.
“I have some money.” I maneuver my pack around, and since I only have one hand available, I expect Hayden to offer to help. This is the only time he has ever hesitated to anticipate my needs. I dig out the little bit of cash I have. He doesn’t seem to want me to pay.
We have to put back the juice and most of the food because I don’t have enough. But we keep the crackers. We also choose the sweatshirt for me, so Hayden can have his jacket back, but no gloves for either of us. Even then, the checker forgives fourteen cents with a wave of her hand.
Sovereign Ground (Breaking Bonds) Page 19
