by Dee Willson
Tess stirs, and I leap to her side. “It’s me, Bryce. Listen to me. For many lifetimes you were the princess of Lemuria. You were an amazing woman. You are an amazing woman. Back then you were powerful, gifted at levitation, telepathy . . .” I shake my head, trying to stay focused. “More importantly, you were capable of controlling your body temperature to fight infection and heal. I know you don’t remember, but somewhere deep inside I know you feel it, feel the knowledge of your soul’s past lives. I’m going to help you, but you need to search for the connection. Please, please try.”
I shove the extra bag into my coat pocket and grab my cell. Mrs. Maples answers on the first ring. “It’s done,” I say, steadying the phone between my shoulder and ear. I rub my hands together, creating heat, and Gertrude asks if I’m alone. Her tone is gentle, but I detect a slight warning. I lie and tell her everyone has stepped out, even though Stephen is hunched a few feet away, drooling.
Gertrude tells me to remove any pillows and lay Tess flat.
I shimmy my hand under Tess’s neck, gently lifting her head from the pillow.
“Tess, can you hear me?”
Her barely-there nod is accompanied by an image of me in my black sweater, sitting across from her at dinner.
“Try to relax. I need to touch you. It’s going to hurt, but you have to try really hard not to cry out.” I’m not worried about someone catching me. I’m worried they’ll attempt to stop me. “Can you do that?”
Another nod.
Even without the monitors buzzing, I can hear her heart beat fast. Pulling the pillow out from under her, I lower her head to the mattress, forcibly averting my eyes from the fresh blood leaking from bandages covering her shoulders and forehead.
I reposition the phone. “Now what?”
The smell of blood and decay fills my nostrils as I peel the covers back and drop them to the floor.
Bloody hell.
Please tell me I’m not too late.
I repeat Gertrude’s instructions in my head, over and over, and rest my hands on Tess’s chilled arm, just above the needle that directs my blood into her vein. Goose pimples bloom across her skin. Concentrating on the heat flowing to my hands, I run my thumbs along the inside of her arm, applying pressure. Her elbow is wrapped with gauze and I know there is either a cut or bite hiding underneath, but I try not to think about the pain she’ll feel as I push my fingers into these spots.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
Tess’s chin quivers and a tear eases its way through the folds of swollen skin surrounding her eyes. Her mind fights to keep control over the pain.
“I’m at her shoulder,” I mumble into the phone.
I emulate Mrs. Maples, a low hum vibrating in my chest. Our future lies in the fate of my scorched touch as I direct blood through veins and into bandages that implode, seeping from the pressure. I press hard, both hands flat on Tess’s chest, fingers wrapped around her collarbone, and Tess’s back arches from the bed, her chin high in the air.
“She’s in pain!”
Mrs. Maples stays calm, her hum picking up momentum until I’m on par, the sound lodged in my throat.
“Around her neck?” I repeat. “What if I strangle her?”
The hum omitting from the phone stays steady, so I wrap my hands around Tess’s neck, not a speck of white showing. I squeeze and the buzzing from my throat rises to the back of my mouth, the taste of tin coating my tongue. Tess gasps and her fingers fumble over my face. Her mind is a chaotic mess of excruciating pain and confusion.
“Please forgive me!”
Mrs. Maples’ humming stops then continues. A silent slap of discipline.
Concentrate! This could save Tess! This could mean the difference between life and death!
Tick Tock.
I steal a glance at my watch. What feels like forever has only been seconds in real time. Still, I’ve got to hurry. I can’t have Martine trying to get back into the room or Stephen coming around. I tighten my grip and the pressure from under the bandages pushes against my strength. Fresh blood leaks from around the staples in Tess’s scalp and her thoughts fade to black, agony sweeping her in and out of consciousness.
My fingertips feel for broken bones in Tess’s face, and she finally cries out, the pain too much to bear. Mrs. Maples’ voice raises another octave, forcing me to follow suit. Begging for forgiveness, I fumble about Tess’s shattered sinus cavity until her arms fall limp at her sides.
What the . . .? No. I’ve killed her!
Lowering my ear to her chest, I hear the pounding of her heart, faint but there.
Thank you, thank you!
“I think she’s passed out!”
Gertrude’s hum cracks and alters to a chant, a low rumble in an ancient dialect I’m familiar with but haven’t uttered in centuries. I do my best to keep up while probing Tess’s head, the metal staples shifting under my fingertips. Tess’s body starts to tremble, and I have to grab the blanket so the cast on her leg doesn’t make too much noise banging against the bed rail. Gertrude yells into the phone, reminding me not to stop. I’ve got to guide my blood through Tess’s body, from her chest to her feet, paying special attention to internal organs, quickly. Once I reach her ribs, I’ll have to increase the pressure.
I can’t imagine pushing Tess’s torn and broken body any harder than I have been, but I do what I’m told. This has to work. I have to save her.
Tess screams and I smother her mouth with my hand. She breathes heavy, gasping for air.
I’m so sorry.
I thrust a hand into her cracked ribs, the throb of her heart pressing against my palm, and Tess thrashes, her dull nails scraping over my shirt collar, desperate for purchase.
Please forgive me.
I tear my eyes away to inspect the blood bag. It’s almost empty. I’ve got to hurry. A minute has passed since I knocked Stephen out. I’m running out of time.
“I’m at her liver!”
Gertrude’s voice softens to a purr and I try to match the tenor, but my voice is breaking down, my throat dry, my tongue sticking to the roof of my mouth. I watch as tears flow from Tess’s eyes, soaking her hair and the sheets around her head. Her nostrils flare with every breath. I grasp the cast covering her shattered thigh. I’ve got to get heat through layers of plaster without crushing the outer shell.
“Almost done, the bag is almost empty,” I mutter into the phone.
Tess’s left foot has several fissures that crackle from my touch. Tess moans, then the trembling stops, and she lies very still.
Please make this work, please.
I gulp a mouthful of air and inspect the deformed blood bag. “It’s empty.”
Mrs. Maples says I’m done; we’ve done all we can do. She sounds exhausted, sad. She reminds me to switch the bags so Tess continues to get the transfusion she needs and the nurse doesn’t have reason to suspect. I’ll need to be patient, to give it time. The first hour is critical. Tess’s body might reject my blood. And we have no way of knowing if her internal organs are too severely damaged to be healed.
Mrs. Maples warns me for the second time that if I don’t call my father and tell him what I’ve done, she’ll have to. She doesn’t want to be the one to tell the Keepers, and I don’t blame her.
“He’ll understand,” I say, not really convinced this is true. “He knows I love her.”
Gertrude sighs on the other end of the phone line. I owe Mrs. Maples my life, and I tell her so before tucking the phone away.
Stephen groans, a hand flitting to his stomach. He’s very pale. I watch as Stephen’s eyes roll then squeeze shut. He tries to sit up but falls back into the chair with a thump.
The door handle turns.
Quickly, I wash my hands, drape the blankets back over Tess’s body, and plug in the machines. In one fluid motion, I pull the chair from under the door and ease myself into what looks like a comfortable sleeping position. A breeze crosses my face with the opening of the door.
“Hmm,”
says Martine, fiddling with the door handle. She hates calling maintenance: the guys down there are as old and decrepit as the building itself. Snickering, she closes the door and waddles into the room. She stops two feet from Stephen. In a flash, Stephen slumps forward and pukes on her shoes. I hear her sigh. Guilt should have me jumping from the chair to help, but exhaustion takes over, and pretending to sleep becomes easier and easier. Martine drags the garbage pail in front of Stephen before pressing the red button beside Tess’s bed. She calls for maintenance.
One last thought of Tess and I drift off, the empty bag folded neatly in my coat pocket. My blood should clot, closing Tess’s wounds. She won’t bleed to death. If this works, her body should start to heal, broken bones will fuse, organs will repair, and tissue will rejuvenate. Rest is what she needs now.
Ditto for me.
In the Name of Love
“You were really out,” Stephen says, watching me wake from the edge of the hospital bed. He looks to be in better spirits.
I sit up and he hands me a paper cup coated in tacky coffee bean graphics. I take it, even though I don’t drink coffee. My hands are unusually cold and the heat feels good.
“She’s better,” says Stephen, pointing to his sister.
Tess is better! Alive! I rise from my chair for a closer look, but a sudden spin sets me back in the chair. A boundless weight lifts from my shoulders. I am so grateful it worked, that my blood clotted and my touch didn’t kill her. Had Tess died, I’m not sure I would’ve ever forgiven myself.
Tess looks a tad more purple, but alive. She’s alive! Pulling the chair forward to see Tess clearer, a blanket I hadn’t noticed I was wearing falls off my lap.
“That was me,” says Martine, stepping into the room. Her arms are full of supplies so she kicks at the blanket on the floor. “You were shivering in your sleep.”
After a quick peek at Tess sleeping peacefully, hand in her brother’s, I retrieve the blanket and drape it across the back of the chair. With my back turned from probing eyes I let loose my true emotions, squinting for clarity. Everything seems foggy, almost surreal. Since when do I get cold? I didn’t wake when the nurse covered me with a blanket? I didn’t hear her in the room? Studying my watch, I count backwards. There is no way I’ve been asleep for five hours. I turn slightly, the wall clock slowly coming into view. Nineteen minutes after four.
Stephen smiles when he sees me analyzing the time. He’s wondering how I slept for so long without moving a muscle, especially in an uncomfortable hospital chair.
I’m wondering the same thing.
A voice booms from the hallway. “Try to stop me!”
The door flies open and Thomas blows in, all three police officers in tow. Thomas halts at the end of the bed, mouth agape. The younger officer moves forward, handcuffs in hand. “You don’t want to do that,” says Thomas, eyes still locked on Tess. The room falls quiet and the cop stops mid step. In this state, Thomas is quite intimidating. He stands like a superhero without the cape, his expression resolute, dark. His tension is tangible.
I face Stephen. “This is my brother.”
“Thomas,” mumbles Stephen. Talks with his sister go through his head before he addresses the policemen. “Thomas is my sister’s friend.” He says it, but isn’t quite sure he means it. Tess has told him about Thomas’s temper, about his possessive nature.
“I don’t care if he’s the pope, when I ask for ID, I expect to see it.” The cop looks tired, too old to be working the night shift.
Thomas rounds the bed and slides his hand under Tess’s. His thoughts are focused, as if no one else is in the room. Tension rolls from him.
“Here,” I say, lifting the hem of Thomas’s jacket and reaching into the back pocket of his jeans, “we don’t want any trouble.” I hand the folded passport to the cop and watch as he forces the pages flat, scowling.
Thomas edges his way into my thoughts. I blame you for this. If you’d stayed away, none of this would’ve happened. She’d be with me. She’d be happy, unbroken.
The cop looks at Thomas before his stare pans to me. “Your brother’s last name isn’t Waters.”
“No, it’s Tanis, his late wife’s name.”
Our parents went ballistic when Thomas took his bride’s name. Which is, of course, exactly why he did it.
Again, Thomas fumes with his mind. Where the fuck is this lost soul? I’m going to tear him to shreds.
I shake my head. I look at Tess and my heart pounds sharp in my chest. I’ve never wanted to hurt anything as much as I want to hurt the man that did this to her. My entire being aches for revenge. I don’t want Tess hurt again, but there is no way we can kill, not even for this.
The cop jots information on a notepad before tossing Thomas’s passport onto the table at the foot of the bed. “Next time,” he says, pacing toward the door. He’s thinking about how he doesn’t get paid enough for this shit.
I apologize to the officer, offering palatable excuses. We are all seriously stressed. We’re tired, tense.
I look to Tess, battered and torn, her mind a blank slate, and then to Thomas, attentively stroking her hair. He whispers affectionate condolences in her ear, and the slimy tentacles of jealousy creep over me. The fact that my brother loves Tess isn’t the problem. How can I blame him for that? It’s that he doesn’t care if his love is reciprocated.
Thomas throws me a glance, a sinister squint. Fuck off.
I stare back. We’ve got to stop fighting. Tess needs us to work together. We can’t just wait to see if this lost soul comes back for her. We need to know he’s moved on, that he’ll leave her alone.
Thomas investigates the machines. I’ll hunt him like the animal he is.
“Meyer’s grandparents will be here any minute,” Stephen says, following the officers as they step back into the hall. He hangs from the doorframe. “The Morgan’s.” He’s worried the cops will give them a hard time.
He has no reason to worry. The police are exhausted and Grams is a pit bull in the coat of a poodle.
I have no idea how to find this lost soul, but we’ve got to find him, and soon. I doubt he’ll come anywhere near Tess with us here, but when Tess gathers enough strength to think straight, she’s going to panic. She’s going to worry he’ll come back for her, or worse, hurt Abby.
Thomas huffs. He won’t have limbs to touch her with when I’m done with him.
I look away, frustrated. Hurting this man is not an option. How do we stop a lost soul bent on the kill? We don’t. Keeper’s offer guidance and history to learn from. We teach in hopes of repentance, knowing every soul is here to learn, to experience, to contribute. Like every soul, this lost soul will pay for his crimes, if not in this lifetime then another. I have to believe he’ll pay without more violence. How could I ever live with myself if I acted upon my impulses, my anger? What kind of man would that make me?
I’d give a lifetime to protect Tess and Abby, but not by becoming the very thing I exist to save, not by losing my purpose. We’ve got to find this lost soul and make sure he stays away from Tess. How is the question—how do we do that? We are educators, not bounty hunters.
Stephen closes the door. “Thomas, how did you know my sister was here?”
“I phoned him.” I smile an apology.
A strange look comes over Stephen and he turns, hiding his face from me. “Look, my sister’s been through enough without the two of you at it.”
Ah, so Tess has told her brother about the constant bickering. I stop myself from pulling Stephen into a hug. His need to protect his sister only makes me like him more.
“We’ll be on our best behavior,” I say, patting Thomas. “Won’t we, Brother?”
Thomas shrugs me off. “What has the doctor said?”
Stephen goes through Tess’s struggles from start to finish. “She’s doing better,” he concludes, “she’s out of danger now.”
I’m relieved to hear this, so unbelievably relieved. My attention gravitates to the clock and
I’m reminded of the hours I’ve slept, apparently through doctor visits. Thomas watches me, prodding the sudden blockade in my mind. He can tell I’m stunned, but nothing else comes through clearly.
“It was a close call,” I say. “The doctor didn’t think she’d make it.” My intention is to hint at the severity of Tess’s injuries, but it comes out defensive, fueling Thomas’s scrutiny.
“Where’s Abby?” says Thomas.
“A neighbor is watching her at my place,” says Stephen. “She had trouble going to sleep, so he and his wife brought her back to my apartment, thinking she’d be more comfortable. The Morgan’s called from the airport. They’ll be here soon, and I’ll head home for a while. One of us should be there when Abby wakes.”
Good plan.
More I slept through.
Stephen sits opposite Thomas, holding Tess’s other hand. The two of them caress her gently and the sight churns my stomach. My touch caused her nothing but pain.
“Let me get that,” says a voice from outside the room. She speaks in English, obviously Canadian, and familiar.
The door swings open and the backside of Mrs. Morgan, Grams, eases through the frame, pausing to check that the wheelchair bolts have cleared. “How is she?” she asks, spinning her husband’s chair around to the edge of the bed so quickly that none of us have the chance to assist.
Thomas moves to stand behind a chair, and I rise to offer my seat and give them space. I grab hold of the door, slightly dizzy, I think. I’ve never been dizzy before.
Meyer’s grandfather clings to the seat of his wheelchair, precariously propped so he can study his daughter-in-law. His features appear to melt, his heartbreak so profound I have to turn and stare at the wall. Behind me Grams sobs into the crook of her arm, her mind a medley of questions. Stephen has told her what to expect, but hearing it and seeing it are two very different things. “Who would do something like this?” she mutters into her sleeve.
A person who has lost their humanity, their purpose. A lost soul.
