by Dee Willson
She’s in a park, its dark, cold, but she doesn’t mind. Sitting on a rock under her favorite tree, a man approaches her. He steps into the moonlight. His eyes glimmer a strange blue hue. She drops her pen and the letter she was writing to me, gaping at the man before her, the lost soul from the café.
This is how I die, she thinks. This is how I always die.
Beeping sounds cut through the connection in my head, and I pull away, glaring at the machine beside the bed. Red lines jump then fade, the tenor quickening. I turn back to Tess, attempting to concentrate on the flashes of memory playing out in her head.
The predator paces, a feline stealth working a man’s body. Tess slides from the rock and stands tall, fists at her sides. She’s afraid, but not afraid. And the lost soul knows it. His chin-length hair falls in reckless curls around his face, the light catching intricate tattoos that trace down his neck, into the folds of his white silk shirt. Tess can smell him, an intoxicating blend of honeysuckle and mandarin that wafts from his skin. He grins.
Out of the corner of my eye, I witness Tess’s fingers inch closer to mine. I search her hand, desperate to find an unmarked spot to touch, to grasp, but the entire surface is discolored and taped. I should have been there. I should’ve protected her. I should have known she’d run from me. I shift my bodyweight, veiling my shame in shadows.
Tess sees this man, sees his soul. He knows she sees and he’s pleased. She steps to the left and he mimics her movement. She glides to the right and he follows her lead. Not a word is spoken. This is the dance of death. Tess halts, bone still, her chest the only body part in flux. It rises and falls, every breath rallying control. Her eyes lock with his. A breeze rustles the tree’s bare branches and her hair blows across her cheeks. The lost soul reaches, gently tucking wisps of hair behind her ear. Her lip quivers, and he smiles.
“The doctor should be here any minute,” says Stephen, shattering my connection with Tess. “The nurse said he checks her every hour.” He fidgets beside me, avoiding his sister’s face.
“I think she needs something for pain,” I say, worried. She needs drugs to dilute these traumatic images, something to help her forget so she can heal. I need her to get better. “She needs to rest.”
The lost soul touches Tess’s cheek and she flinches, ever so slightly. He’s got her mesmerized, stunned, but she’s trying to suppress the sensation of concrete drying around her. His fingers follow the contour of her chin, her lips. She suppresses a whimper as something inside her tugs and pulls toward his touch, a magnetic anomaly. A wicked smirk ignites his face, and a hum lingers at the base of his throat. Her body quakes, fighting the urge to give her soul freely.
“She’s cold again,” says Stephen, diving for the blankets stacked at the end of the bed.
Tess shakes, the chill of trauma assaulting her a second time. The motion threatens to yank the IV.
“Shh, you’re safe.” I steady her arm with the lightest touch possible. Stephen drapes a blanket over his sister and I turn away, straining to hide my emotions. It’s killing me to watch him touch her, seduce her, control her. Knowing the replay is wracking her body and causing her pain is unbearable.
The dance continues, now shrouded in a haze of pain. Tess’s entire body aches to defy the lost soul’s demands. Again, he steps back, motioning for her to follow. She ignores his command and his teeth clack a warning. He steps closer, slow and deliberate, pausing at her side. He runs his palm across her hip and down her thigh. He grins, eyes narrowed. She backs into the rock, defiant. His snarl bellows into the night as he mats a chunk of hair in his fist and jerks her head back. Fire sears her skin as his lips ravage her neck, her screams echoing through the branches.
“The police haven’t seen a beating this brutal in a long time,” says Stephen, pulling me from hell. My hands are balled into fists. I want to pound something. I want to holler. I want something I’ve never wanted before. I want vengeance.
Teeth slice into flesh, the pain stealing her breath. Her arms flail until she falls to her knees, a stream of vomit coating the ground. Bites rip through her shoulder, her scalp, agony pushing her to the brink of consciousness. She lashes out, collecting layers of his skin under her nails. Blood splatters across his white shirt and he roars, the frenzy out of control.
Stephen grabs my arm. “What’s wrong?” He’s panicking.
The monitors are going wild, buzzing and beeping. Bright red blood oozes though layers of gauze covering Tess’s head and shoulders. The cast covering her right leg bangs against the bed rail.
I lie. “I don’t know.”
Stephen looks horror struck. “I’ll get the doctor.” He sprints for the door.
“Tess, please, you have to stop,” I plead, an inch from her ear. “Don’t think about last night. Please. Christ, please, Tess, go to sleep.”
Nails dig into muscles in Tess’s legs and she wails. Gripping both calves, he flips her, her head hitting stone before she’s flung into a tree. She cries out. Branches tear at her skin and bones pop and snap, the sound melting with the sounds of splitting wood. She clambers, searching for purchase.
“No, Tess, please!” I fumble around her face.
Her leg throbs, hanging limp at an odd angle. He reaches for her foot, another snarl ripping from his lungs. Torn from the tree, she falls until stone shatters bones and she rolls to the ground, the earth red with blood. Crumpled and broken, Tess gasps for air as the lost soul towers over her, lighting a cigarette.
He’s not sated. And no longer smiling.
“Move,” says a man, pushing me aside. He’s wide and hairy and would better suit a stampede of buffalo.
“Give her something for pain,” I beg, moving out of his way. The short, high-pitched sounds coming from the equipment have me reeling.
“What’s happening?” Stephen cries from across the room.
A nurse hovers over the machines, tapping lines and pushing buttons. “Four over,” she says in English.
“Four?” the doctor repeats.
“At least.”
Stephen approaches the nurse. “Will she be all right? Please, tell me she’ll be all right!”
“We will see,” she says, nudging Stephen out of the way.
The doctor rips tape from gauze squares on Tess’s neck. “More ADB pads,” he says. He taps the IV feed. “Fentanyl, 50 micrograms IV,” he calls out as the nurse runs from the room. The doctor pulls back the covers and Stephen turns, facing the wall.
“Shit,” I mutter on impulse. Without bandages I can better see Tess’s injuries, the protruding welts and rows of thick stitches leaking fresh blood. The doctor cuts material with a speed close to my own, and I find myself grateful, grateful that someone here knows what they’re doing.
The nurse shuffles back into the room, handing the doctor a syringe. He sticks the needle into a capped tube taped to the back of Tess’s hand. “This will help,” he says.
Within seconds Tess’s trembling subsides and she melts into the mattress. Her mind drifts until all I catch is a drug-induced fog. The reprieve is overwhelming. I stumble to a chair and sit, sweaty palms kneading my eyes.
When I look up, I’m the only one in the room not freaking out. The doctor is pacing, and Stephen looks like he’s about to pass out.
The doctor tosses blood-stained gloves into the garbage. “She’s comfortable for now,” he says.
“For now?” says Stephen.
The nurse leaves the room and the doctor turns to Tess’s brother. “I increased her pain medication. It will help keep her calm.” He crosses his arms.
“Calm?” Stephen steadies himself with the IV pole. “She’ll pull through, right?”
The doctor sighs and opens the door. “Let’s see how she is in an hour or two,” he says. He points to the bin where he dropped the syringe. “That’ll keep the pain under control. She should sleep.”
Now, I have no experience with doctors, but it can’t be good when they flee. I look at Stephen. He’s the color
of ash. He’s thinking the same thing.
Not good at all.
Could've Should've
The monitor keeps a slow steady pace with Tess’s heart. Stephen and I sit, tightlipped, watching the contraption taped to her mouth rise and fall with every breath. The clock on the wall ticks between us. Like little girls, we’ve long since lost control over our emotions.
Stephen moans. “I keep thinking of all the ways I could’ve prevented this,” he says. “I can’t believe I let Tess go to the park alone. My sister is fearless. Did you know that? She does what she wants, when she wants. I love that about her.” He moans again. “But I’d have never let Gabriella go the park alone after dark.”
The park? I let her leave the country.
I look at Stephen. “Gabriella is . . .?”
“Gabriella is my girlfriend. Was my girlfriend. She moved out a few days ago, from the student house we share with flatmates. Tess came to cheer me up. I wasn’t surprised to see my sister, because she’s always been there for me. She’s always known what to say to make me feel better, even when I’m being the ass.” He attempts a smile. “She appeared on my doorstep, and we talked the entire night, girl troubles and guy troubles.” Stephen glances at me, lips taut and cheeks puffed.
I’m the guy in “guy troubles.” One of them at least.
Picking my way through Stephen’s thoughts, I try to distinguish his feelings regarding Gabriella from Tess’s sisterly confessions, but they’re so tightly woven I can’t separate them. One thing is for sure, Stephen has no concept of Keepers or lost souls.
“She was upset with me,” I manage to say.
He seems surprised. “She has nothing but good things to say about you. She’s worried it’s too soon. She’s worried about Abby. Meyer’s accident was . . . I’ve never seen Tess take anything so hard, not even mom’s suicide.”
Too soon. The words sit heavy on my conscience. It was too soon to ask her to love another. Too soon for her share a bed. Too soon to think she could fight a lost soul. Thomas’s words add to my burden, She’s not ready for all your shit.
“If I’d have backed off maybe she wouldn’t have come to Paris,” I think out loud like a retrospective fool.
Stephen doesn’t argue my point. Misery loves company.
“At school yesterday,” he says, “I was so exhausted I could hardly take notes in class. By the time I got home I was a walking zombie. Tess and Abby had dinner ready. It was nice. It’d been a while since we’d eaten together as a family. After dinner Tess suggested I crash with Abby. She wanted some time alone.” Stephen shakes his head. “How could I let her go to the park alone?”
There is more than enough guilt to go around. I pushed her when she wasn’t ready. I spent two days worrying about the wrong thing. I should have known she’d leave Carlisle, that she’d run from me. I should’ve known the lost soul would follow her.
“I should’ve known this would happen.”
Stephen looks at me. “If you wanna talk could’ve should’ve,” he says. “I’ve got you beat. I went to school this morning without even realizing my sister was lying in a hospital bed. I didn’t know she’d been beaten.” Tears slide down his cheek, coating his lower lip. “What kind of brother leaves his flat without checking his sister is even home? I assumed she was sleeping with Abby, but I didn’t look, I didn’t make sure.”
I am a Keeper. My head is jam-packed with history, years and years of experience to pull from, to learn from. I was so determined to keep Tess in my life, so caught in the sheer joy of having found her, that I forgot the lessons of our past. I pushed aside all the memories I didn’t want to remember, ignored all the nightmares Tess had relived a hundred times.
I leap from the chair with a sudden urge to pace.
“People were talking about her at school today,” says Stephen. “Someone had the news on at break and I didn’t even pay attention. After work I grabbed pizza and went home, happy as a pig in shit, thinking that Tess and Abby would be there. Not only was Tess not there, but my five-year-old niece had spent the entire day by herself.”
“Abby is all right.” I work to sound positive.
She won’t be all right for long. Eventually she’ll want to see her mother. I look at Tess. She’s swollen and unrecognizable. This isn’t something any child should ever have to witness.
“Abby had no idea where she was or how to call anyone. None of my flatmates were home. She watched French cartoons and ate bread with chocolate milk. For ten hours!”
I’m relieved Abby stayed home with Stephen when Tess went to the park. I shudder to think of what would’ve happened to Abby had she been with Tess when the lost soul attacked. Even if he hadn’t touched a hair on her head, the sight of her mother being beaten would’ve scarred her for life.
“Abby is safe now,” I mumble.
“Thank God the police found my sister when they did.” Stephen fiddles with the blankets. “They said an elderly couple taking a midnight stroll heard her screaming.” He closes his eyes and shakes his head, trying to dislodge the image of his sister being beaten.
It’s a tough scene to let go of.
The nurse waddles into the room making a beeline to the monitors. “How we doing?” she says, pressing buttons. She pulls a wire from a machine and plugs in another cord before turning to us for an answer.
Stephen’s brain fires questions by the second. None of them make it to his mouth.
I say, “She’s been sleeping since you left.”
“Good.” She moves with efficiency, replacing empty bags of blood and clear fluids that hang from the IV stand. While removing soaked bandages from Tess’s shoulders, she muffles something unintelligible and a sound hovers in her trachea, unsettling me. I ask what’s wrong but she focuses on her tasks. She’s heard my question. She’s just pretending she didn’t. I take a deep breath, readying to ask again.
The door swings open and the doctor walks in. He heads straight for the bed. “I see you’ve got some shut-eye,” he says.
The statement wasn’t meant for Tess. She’s sleeping. Its sole purpose was to pacify Stephen and me. The doctor skims Tess’s chart, the chart that’s been hanging on a clipboard at the end of Tess’s bed. The chart I hadn’t thought to read. The regrets just keep coming. The doctor asks the nurse a few questions and she answers curtly. Her name is Martine. This is the first time I notice the name embroidered on her smock and that she speaks learned English without all the subtleties of a born-and-bred.
Stephen slides in close to the doctor, attempting to decipher medical jargon. “Was she . . . ah, did her attacker . . .?” Images of Tess being raped flash through his mind.
“No,” I say without thinking.
Stephen throws me a disparaging glance then softens. “Sorry,” he mumbles.
The doctor’s stare drifts from me to Stephen and back again. I see the connection take place in his head. “Rape kits are standard procedure in these kinds of cases. Whoever beat her either wasn’t aiming for sexual assault or didn’t get the chance.”
I lock my jaw, the words he tried almost pushing their way out.
The doctor instructs us to step outside the curtain while he peels back layers of blanketing. Martine tugs at the gathered material, gently shooing us out of the way. The sound of metal rings irks me and within seconds we’re separated from Tess, in a room within the room. The disconnect feels oceans wide. Stephen stands beside me, as worried as I am. He’s hoping his parents arrive soon. He strains to hear the muffled commands of the doctor as he inspects Tess’s wounds. I can hear every word, but he’s talking in medical terms, a foreign language I don’t speak. The machines make a new sound and seized wheels drag over linoleum. Every few minutes, Martine sighs.
The clock, now in our territory, ticks louder. I shove my hands in my pockets to keep from yanking back the curtain and demanding answers. And to stop myself from tearing the clock from the wall.
Eventually Martine eases herself through a crack in the cur
tain. She walks past us and out the door without a word. Stephen and I eye each other, but before we have a chance to speak, the doctor steps out, closing the gap in the curtain behind him and hiding Tess from sight. I’m torn between the urge to barge my way through to Tess and needing to hear what the doctor has to say in terms I comprehend.
The doc clears his throat. “I’m told you have family flying in.”
“Yeah, they are on their way.” The doctor contemplates the timing, and Stephen stares at the floor, seeing where this is headed. “I told them she’s been through the worst of it,” he says. “Broken bones and cuts will heal. With time she’ll be back to normal, right?”
“I’d rather discuss this with your family present,” says the doctor, “But by morning . . .”
“What’s wrong?” I’m trying to keep my cool.
The doctor folds his arms over his chest, a neurotic tendency I’m quickly becoming accustomed to.
“Tess has developed complications,” he says. “The clinical term is disseminated intravascular coagulation. It’s a blood clotting disorder we see in patients who have suffered massive trauma. Basically it means that her body can’t stop bleeding. We’ve been trying to staunch the flow, but her blood isn’t clotting. I’ve ordered another four units of blood for transfusion, but she’s bleeding faster than I can replenish it.” Years of experience tell him we need time to absorb such a harsh diagnosis, so he just stands there, a slight twitch in one eye.
I pace backwards, hitting the wall. “What does this mean?”
I catch a glimpse of Stephen. His skin is bleached.
“I’ve got the lab mixing a drug called Leudifor. It’s somewhat experimental, but there’s a chance it might help. If I can’t get her blood to clot, her wounds won’t heal, and she’ll bleed out.”
“Bleed out,” Stephen repeats. His body tilts as if a wind pushes him to the right.
I lower my face into shaking hands.
Tess is dying. The doctor thinks she’s not going to survive her injuries. He can’t wait until the rest of the family gets here because she won’t live that long.
