A Keeper's Truth

by Dee Willson

  “But I thought . . .” I mutter. “This can’t be.”

  “I’m sorry,” says the doctor. “We’ll do our best but you need to be prepared if our best isn’t enough.”

  Stephen stumbles toward the door, almost falling over my knees. He’s about to hurl. “I need to check on Abby,” he says. The doctor follows Stephen out, promising to return after seeing to another patient.

  I lunge for the curtain, suddenly hot. I want to scoop Tess up, carry her out of here, home, as if none of this ever happened. I search her mind for traces of life, her face for recognition. She looks so vulnerable, so weak.

  “You can’t die,” I say, smoothing a patch of her hair, flattening it to the pillow. “I can’t lose you.” Tess doesn’t respond. Her body is shattered, her mind a sedated black cloud. “I love you. Do you hear me? I love you!”

  This cannot happen. Tess can’t die. I’ve got to do something. Now!

  But what?

  Christ, I’m a Keeper. I can recall every natural disaster that ever plagued man. I can read minds and lift objects a hundred times my body weight. I can manipulate cells and move faster than any other creature on this planet. I can control internal organs, telling my heart when to beat, my lungs when to breathe, sending white cells to heal.

  “I’ll fix this. You’ll heal. You’ll get better. I’ll find a way.”

  I scour the monitors, the machines, the IV bags, but everything capable of saving Tess is alien to me. All I know is considered folklore and ancient witchcraft.

  Gertrude Maples. Inspiration clips through my skull like the silver ball in a pinball machine. Mrs. Maples will know what to do.

  “Hold on, Tess. Do you hear me? You’ve got to hold on!”

  Unable to look away, I grope for my cell. If anyone can help, Mrs. Maples can. Not only is she an old soul, she’s the daughter of a Keeper, and the most powerful witch I know. She’ll know what to do. She must know what to do.

  There has got to be a way to keep Tess alive. I can’t lose her.

  Not again.

  Black Magic

  After checking the last set of stalls, I surrender the search for Stephen and opt instead to put my plan into action. Consoling Tess’s brother will have to wait. Time is of the essence.

  I take the stairs a half-dozen at a time, oblivious to passersby. The labs are on the bottom floor of the hospital, in the basement. I stop short at the blood bank. I cock my head, shaking out my arms and shoulders. I need to appear normal, calm. I’m just an ordinary guy. A Good Samaritan.

  Stepping inside, I scan the barren room. The walls are bare but for a ten-by-ten sepia print framed in metal and screwed to the wall. The smell of plastic permeates the room, from new chairs, I think. What isn’t office space with women in scrubs bustling here and there is room for waiting. Almost every one of the three-dozen chairs is occupied, some people reading books, some flipping through magazines, all bored out of their minds.

  “Excuse me,” I say, my French clear and local. I hit one of the ladies behind the desk with a bogus smile. “I’m here to donate blood.”

  The woman doesn’t even look up from her computer; she just mumbles something about taking a number. The next card is in the double digits. I’ll be here forever.

  Tick tock goes the clock.

  Tess doesn’t have that kind of time.

  Desperate, I overlook a personal code of ethics and focus my mind’s eye on the power of suggestion, insisting this woman move me to the front of the line. My thoughts are muddled, unpersuasive. I can’t concentrate when I’m so tense, so worried about Tess. I try really hard and for a moment I think I’ve done it, that this woman is about to tell me to go on back to give blood, but instead she says, rather huffy, “Take a seat, sir.”

  Bloody hell.

  Raising the collar on my leather jacket, I lean over the counter to whisper to the woman. “You are obviously in charge.” She’s the only one in a suit. “You must have the power to make this a quicker process.”

  The lady sighs but doesn’t move, and two nurses gawk at me from over their paperwork. One thinks I’m attractive but not that attractive. The other thinks I look like a bad ass. I glance at the clock. This is going to be harder than I thought.

  “Look,” I say, dangling a ring-free hand over the countertop. “If I’m not back in an hour, I lose my bet with the guys at the firehouse. And after donating blood once a month for a year, it would be a shame to go down in flames at the finish line.”

  Come on, lying has to work. Firemen are the gods of the twenty-first century.

  The woman rolls her chair back and stands, facing me. Her hand, the one twirling the thick gold wedding band, slaps against her hip. Apparently I’m not the first to spin this tale. “Too busy for this tonight,” she says, pulling a plastic card from the stand and sliding it across the counter. “Take a seat.” As she walks away, I hear someone behind me snickering.

  Okay, so it’ll have to be game plan number two.

  Tick tock.

  I swipe the card and turn, sweeping the crowded room. I pick through the thoughts of everyone holding a card. They aren’t seated in order of number but the single digits have congregated in the front row. A man in his late sixties looks up at me. The number seven card teeters between his fingers. He’s angry. His wife was diagnosed with cancer last month and his daughter has pressured him into donating blood. He doesn’t see the point.

  Luckily, I sense the number eight a few seats down. “Miss?” I say, and the lady rests her book on her lap. She smiles and a tinge of pink blooms across her sagging cheeks. It’s been a long time since a handsome young man has called her Miss. “I’m in desperate need of your assistance.” I squat, our knees touching. “I bet you’ve loved another in your lifetime.”

  “Gerard,” she murmurs. Moments with her late husband dance through her head.

  “Gerard.”

  “I loved him very much,” she says.

  Stick with the truth. “You see, Miss—”

  “Hanna.” Her eyes are a lovely shade of blue.

  “Hanna,” I say. “The love of my life is fighting for survival. She needs blood, lots of blood, and it’s killing me that I’m powerless, that I can’t help her. I hate to be from her bedside, but donating is the only thing I can do. I’ve got to help her.”

  Real tears threaten to spill so I look away.

  Hanna slides her card into my coat pocket and pats my three-day stubble. “You’d have saved some time if you hadn’t contemplated the old fart.” She points at the angry man being led to the back room.

  I stare at her in amazement. “You have no idea what this means to me.” I rest my hands on hers. A nurse calls the number eight, and I plant a quick kiss on Hanna’s forehead before diving for the door.

  The room is bright white and smells like rubbing alcohol. I’m seated in what looks like a dentist chair, and before the curtains close I spot identical chairs across the hall, one containing angry man. He spies me through a slit in the material, apparently entertained by my success with Hanna.

  “Bad day?” says the nurse, flicking the flap of torn leather on my jacket. She rocks onto the heels of her running shoes, chock full of energy. She reminds me of Ms. Rainer, young and peppy. I should lie and tell her I’m fine, but I’m too distracted, so I only nod in agreement. I watch her take my forefinger and poke it with a pin. A bubble of blood rises to the surface. “Hemoglobin test,” she says, noticing my expression. “Iron. We check your iron.” She ties an elastic band around my arm and shoves a thermometer in my mouth. “Blood pressure and body temperature too.”

  “Ah.” I’m clueless.

  Like a magician she pulls a rubber bag from her pocket and gives it a good shake before attaching it to a machine that rocks back and forth. The bag contains preservatives and anti-coagulants to keep the blood from clotting in transit. 450 ml is stamped on the front. Mrs. Maples said I’d need at least one unit, so I have to fill it and hope it’s enough.

  The bag
’s tubing ends with a needle, a needle the nurse stabs into my arm, a vein now surrounded by pumpkin-colored liquid.

  I look away. “How long will this take?”

  Growing up, my parents made a point of keeping my brother and me away from doctors. Having our blood tested would only lead to questions. Not only have I never had a needle, until today I’d only seen them in memories or on television.

  “A big guy like you,” says the nurse, smiling, “scared of a tiny needle.” She searches the table for something. “Where’s your paperwork?”

  “What paperwork?”

  The nurse frowns and walks away, shaking her head. A minute later she brushes open the curtain, handing me a clipboard and pen. “You’ve got fifteen minutes to fill this out.” She jams a rubber stick into my left palm. “Hopefully you write with your right.”

  Once alone, I toss the clipboard onto the table and concentrate on my heart. It’s easy to quicken the pace, I only have to think about Tess, about her suffering, how she might not survive the night. Fear, regret, yearning, they come racing back to torment me.

  My arm throbs. Closing my eyes, I try to relax tense muscles. I force the blood to pump faster, directing it toward the crook in my arm, and sneak a peek at the bag still riding the teeter-totter.

  Only half more to go.

  “How are you doing?” says the nurse, and I practically fall from the chair. The paranoia is getting to me. The nurse is behind the other curtain talking to angry man. I can spot three quarters of his frown.

  Focus.

  The bag is bursting at the seams with ten minutes to spare. So far, so good. I yank the needle from my arm and the puncture wound heals immediately.

  Showtime.

  From the inside pocket of my coat I produce the bag of blood I’d pilfered from the nurse’s station down the hall from Tess’s room. It’s only half full, the other half I flushed down a toilet. Trying hard to slow my movements, make them accurate, deliberate, I peel the sticker off the front and stick it to the bag filled with my blood. Not bad, it matches the bags Martine attaches to Tess’s IV, only the blood is a few shades brighter. Tucking it into the hidey-hole in my coat, I pat it gently. This is going to work. This has to work.

  Easing the curtain back, I’m ready to bolt. The nurse is gone and angry man is watching me, wondering what I’m doing. He’s seen enough to know I’m up to something. Leaning, he looks past me, at the machine beside the chair. I’ve forgotten to fasten the blood bag, so it flops back and forth with the machine’s momentum.

  “Ma’am,” yells angry man.

  Shit.

  I move quick, lunging for the door. The last thing I hear before the stairwell door slams is the voice of the nurse. She’s never seen such a scaredy-cat.

  Seconds later I’m stepping onto the fourth floor landing, my stash warm against my chest. My breathing is heavy. Not because bounding up six levels of stairs is exhausting, but because I’m nervous as hell. Thievery, deception, these aren’t my usual gig. I round the corner, anxiously spying the officers outside room four-twenty-eight. They’re frenzied, Stephen in the mix.

  No. No. No. Please tell me Tess hasn’t . . .

  I pull Stephen aside. “What’s going on?” His eyes and nose are covered in ruby blotches.

  “The police thought Tess was married,” he says. “They wanted to know why her husband hasn’t come back.” He glances at the officers, wiping his nose with his shirtsleeve. “Apparently someone was here this morning, before me. Some guy named Beck Morgan, with a Canadian passport to prove it. He claimed he was Tess’s husband, even told the cops personal stuff about her.”

  Like me, Stephen assumed the police discovered Tess’s identity when he called in search of his missing sister. In the mayhem, he hadn’t noticed the cops knew her name before he’d called, that she’d already been claimed. Stephen hadn’t been contacted because the police already had Tess’s fake husband, Beck Morgan.

  The older cop steps forward, the resulting stench of constricting polyester moving with him. “We had no reason to doubt the man,” he says. “He spent about forty minutes with his wife and left to make long-term arrangements for their daughter, Abby. We didn’t think anything of it until he didn’t return.”

  “When they asked for the whereabouts of my brother-in-law, I thought they meant you,” says Stephen, pointing at me.

  I’ve no time to be flattered.

  Who the hell is Beck Morgan and why was he here? Could he be the lost soul? Would he try to finish what he’d started? I try to make the pieces fit, but the blood bag sits heavy in my pocket, making it hard to concentrate. Tick tock. I don’t have time for this now. I move toward the door and a young nurse, previously hidden behind an officer’s burly physique, steps in the way. She’s Da Vinci’s Mona Lisa without the smile.

  “I was on shift when Mrs. Morgan’s husband arrived,” she says. “This guy was pure Depardieu.”

  Depardieu is the guy American director’s flag when in need of a French actor. His nose is practically a French icon.

  “He was hovering over the patient, worried and concerned. Seemed the real deal to me.” She describes him as attractive and well dressed. “Thirty-five maybe, ’round your height,” she says, waving at me.

  This guy doesn’t sound like the lost soul that attacked Tess. “Tattoos, did he have tattoos on his neck?”

  “Hmm, no. Don’t think so.”

  The older cop turns to me. “Do you know something you’re not telling us?”

  Do I know something? What I know would rock your world.

  “Just taking stabs in the dark,” I say. “If I had a clue, I’d be sure to tell you.”

  Another lie added to today’s offences.

  Stephen pipes in, “Could this guy, this Beck Morgan, could he be the one who attacked my sister?”

  “There wasn’t a scratch on him,” says the officer. “Even if she didn’t fight back, that kind of beating would leave marks.”

  Stephen leans on the door, obviously overwhelmed. He’s sure his sister would have fought hard.

  The third officer says, “This bloke had ample time alone with Mrs. Morgan. If he was here to hurt her, he had the chance and didn’t take it.”

  Lost souls don’t need fake passports either. They don’t pretend and their victims rarely survive to seek justice. Tick tock. If Tess doesn’t survive, she’ll be no exception. My attention gravitates to the bag of blood in my pocket. According to Mrs. Maples, I only have an hour before the preservatives destroy the white cells in my blood. And Tess’s strength is quickly deteriorating. I’ll have to deal with this Beck Morgan later.

  Opening the door to Tess’s room, I pause to look back at Stephen. “You must be starving. Go eat something,” I say, urging him to the cafeteria.

  I could probably switch the IV bags without anyone noticing my movements, but for the rest I’ll need Stephen and Martine out of the room.

  “I’m fine,” he says, pushing past me. The thought of seeing his sister, knowing she might not live, has his heart racing.

  Mine is just as rampant. How am I going to get Tess alone? I close the door behind us, relieved that the majority of Tess is hidden behind the curtain. I can’t bear to contemplate the pain I’m about to cause her. And what if it’s for nothing, what if it doesn’t work—if this wild plan does nothing but end her life at my hand?

  “How is she doing?” I ask Martine.

  “Still in Neverland,” she says. Her mind adds, But I’ve had to change her bandages twice in the last hour. “What’s all the hullabaloo about?” She points her chin to the door.

  “Paparazzi,” I say too quickly. The police haven’t verbalized this hypothesis yet.

  Stephen doesn’t notice my slip up. “Makes sense,” he says. He collapses heavily into a chair, his lithe frame cracking and popping under the stress of the situation. “Assholes. French newspapers and magazines pay well for smut, enough to make an investigation and fake ID worth the effort.” He studies his watch. �
��The morning papers hit the stands by five. If the guy was here for pictures, the cops will have him by noon.”

  Martine clicks her tongue, shaking her head in disapproval. She mumbles something about the state of humanity and hauls back the curtain before leaving the room.

  One down, one to go.

  Tess looks at peace, even though the white mesh surrounding her head oozes bright red blood and nothing but blackness fills her thoughts. I’ve got to get her alone. Stephen won’t see my quick movements, but he’ll hear me, and he’ll definitely hear Tess. She’s bound to cry out, and the heart monitor will sound. I glance at the machines. I’ll have to unplug them. I don’t know what I’ll do if the police come to her aid. Maybe I should tell Stephen what I’m about to do, tell him it might save Tess’s life. No, he trusts me, but not enough to witness me hurting his sister. I cringe at the thought of moving her, even slightly. My blood will dull the pain, but it won’t take it all away.

  Christ, I’m going to wish it could.

  I move to the other side of the bed, a foot from Stephen. “You look exhausted.” I frown, regretting my decision already.

  “Just worried,” he says, slightly agitated.

  Staring at Stephen I try to remember the greater good. That Tess’s life hangs in the balance. He’ll yell for the police, and that’s a complication I can’t leave for chance. “Sorry,” I whisper.

  The words what for almost make it to his mouth before I apply a lightning strike of pressure to his carotid artery. I gently rest his head on a folded blanket, mumbling heartfelt apologies. I feel less like myself than ever before. Knocking Stephen out is something Thomas would do, not me.

  Tick tock.

  Moving fast, I jam the spare chair under the door handle and yank the plugs from the wall. The machines hum then fall silent. The blood bag hanging from the IV stand is almost full. I twist the tubing off the bottom, reattaching it to the bag of blood from my coat pocket, just like I’ve seen Martine do. It’s still warm in my hand. My blood flows down the line, into Tess, and I close my eyes for a moment. This has to work.