by Melissa Yi
I didn’t mean to scare her. At least the pillow was out of smothering range. I jerked my body straight, trying to form as large a barrier as possible.
Bastard transferred the gun to my forehead.
You know that Dirty Harry pose where the guy is standing back and his gun is out to the side, ready to fire? Like that.
“Don’t you fucking move, bitch,” he said. “I only need one doc, and you said the other guy is better at stitching.”
Tucker started to shoulder me out of the way, but I held my ground and told him, “Sorry.”
“Is that Dr. Sze?” said Olivia. She pronounced it like the letter C, which is close enough. I know I shouldn’t care about stuff like that now, but there you go.
“The Chinese bitch who delivered the baby,” said Bastard, but before I could process that charming description, he pointed the gun at Tucker. “I got some blond guy who stitched up her twat, too. Any wrong moves, and they both buy it.”
I wanted to laugh. Twat stitching. A vital skill to add to your c.v.
I was giggling in the face of death. Keeping up my spirits. Or maybe just cracking up.
“Dr. John Tucker,” said Olivia. “Both excellent resident doctors who will help Casey, once we locate her for you.”
I breathed a little easier. She was reminding Bastard of our names and ranks and skills. That felt good. They were at least somewhat on the ball.
“Where is she!” shouted Bastard.
“We’ll locate her very shortly, sir. In the meantime, you mentioned that you would like to release Manouchka Beauzile and her baby?”
“Yeah. Get rid of the niggers.”
My heart ached. Manouchka started rocking back and forth in the bed, indenting the mattress, while she cradled David. Bastard’s right arm twitched toward her, but I didn’t think he would shoot them. Not really. Not if he was even slightly scared of Ebola. And everyone should be scared of Ebola.
“We can arrange that, sir. We can let everyone know that she and her newborn will be coming out of the room and no shots are to be fired.”
“That’s right. You try to pull anything, I’m bringing down these doctors and every cop I can get.”
“No problem, sir. We’ll ensure that the area is secure for the Beauzile family, right away.”
Bastard moved again, but it was just him raising up his Ventolin puffer with his left hand while he swept his right arm, making the gun’s muzzle move across us in a loose arc.
We all held our breath and listened to the hiss as he pressed down on the canister and the gasp as he inhaled the medication.
“I’m sending the bitch doctor to the door behind them. You try and gas us, or shoot us, you’re shooting her.”
I gulped. Montreal is known for many things. Fine food, exquisite wine, historical architecture, art, and joie de vivre. But expert marksmanship is not one of them. If the cavalry tried to attack Bastard, more than likely, Tucker and I would kick it in the crossfire.
Bastard grinned at me. I noticed that one of his back teeth was silver before I wrenched my head away to gawk at his body instead.
He was chunkier than I’d realized. Now that he’d stripped off the burqa, I figured he was about 200 pounds. Mr. Potato Head and Mr. Potato Body, only made remarkable by the gun now threatening Manouchka and her baby.
His next words jerked my attention back to his flabby, pink lips. “Get out, niggers.”
CHAPTER 32
Ah. The bigot’s call to action.
Time for me to lead Manouchka and David to freedom.
And possibly get ganked in the process.
I tried to smile reassuringly at Manouchka while I took a millisecond to breathe.
Once Ryan tried to introduce me to Buddhist philosophy. I think it was because I showed zero interest in Christianity, and it was a gateway discussion, but anyway. He said Buddhism was about concentrating on one thing at a time.
True dat.
I forced myself to concentrate on the air zipping in and out of my nostrils and thought, Okay. Instead of spazzing out about how unstable both Bastard and the Montreal security system could be, I’d keep my eyes locked on one step at a time. Not “Will I get free? Will I get shot?” But Let’s see if, at this exact moment, I can guide Manouchka and David out of this hellhole.
And really, I’d rather be doing something. Even at gunpoint, I’d rather move around than freeze in position with my arms crossed and my teeth clenched.
I glanced at Tucker. He stared back at me. I could feel him willing me to be calm, to be stable, to do this right.
I could handle that.
Manouchka sniffed and huddled David against her chest. “Are we leaving?” she asked me in French. Her voice shook on the last word, but she sat up straight. Like a queen.
“You and David are leaving,” I said, also in French. My lips widened, but I know the smile didn’t make it to my eyes.
“Thank you,” she said, with dignity.
She tried to heave herself out of bed and winced. The Lidocaine must be wearing off, or maybe it was never much good in the first place. My heart melted at her bravery. Nerves of titanium, that woman.
I offered her my arm, but she wouldn’t take it, even though her arms were full with David, making it difficult for her to balance, and she must’ve been aching from the waist down.
Bastard clicked his tongue. Still, even he didn’t have the gall to yell at a woman who’d just delivered a baby.
It seemed like an hour, but it probably only took a minute or three for her to shift one buttock, and then another, inching her way to the edge of the bed so she could dangle her legs.
Finally, she consented to take my arm with one fingertip and hop to her feet. I heard her breath puff out, but she didn’t cry out at all, and she kept her face blank.
Tucker reached to assist her, or us, but Bastard pointed the gun at his ear and said, “You stay right where you are, buddy.”
David had sunk back into a deep sleep. I marveled at his teeny chest, heaving up and down, while his eyes stayed mostly-closed and 100 percent oblivious. I’ve heard about sleeping like a baby, but here was the living proof. Thank goodness. The less he remembered of this, the better.
Manouchka steadied herself and promptly released me so that she could continue to support David with both arms.
I knew better than to offer to hold him. First of all, she wouldn’t let him go, and secondly, this was their one collective chance at escape. If it were my baby, I’d kill anyone who tried to come between us.
Bastard stood at about one o’clock, in line with the incubator and guarding Tucker, so I made sure I was on Manouchka’s left, shielding her slightly, as we walked toward the door.
Bastard had ordered me to open it, to maximize the chance of me catching any stray bombs, but for now, I tried to drop back a little, so that I could block her slightly from our greatest immediate threat.
She held her head high as she walked, no, marched, away from Bastard. Didn’t even glance at him. No thank you for letting her go, no curses for calling her a nigger. She treated him like he was irrelevant, and even though I didn’t look back, I imagined Bastard’s eyes smoldering and his thumb rubbing the gun’s trigger.
Tucker cleared his throat. I caught my breath, wondering if he’d engineered some brilliant move for all of our deliverance as soon as I cracked open that door.
The second passed. I started breathing again, shadowing Manouchka and David, one footfall at a time. The chances of any of us manifesting a miracle right here, right now: unlikely. This ain’t Hollywood.
I didn’t hear any cavalry outside. I know stealth must be one of their specialties, but I didn’t detect anyone tiptoeing in the hallway, or shifting weaponry around.
Still. We should be prepared to hit the floor. I wondered if I should signal Manouchka, but she motored to the exit fast enough that I sped up my stride.
My eyes focused on that door. The crack of light spilling from underneath it seemed like heaven
to me. The promise of a brightly-lit space, open and relatively free of blood and gunfire.
I ached to thrust open the door and run for it. A mad dash toward liberty and justice. I’d just scream, “Come on, guys! Viens t’en!” and sprint like we were World War I combatants trying to scale Vimy Ridge.
But I knew I couldn’t do that, because Manouchka couldn’t outrun me. She and David would bring up the rear and die, horribly deserted.
So when we were a foot from the door, I said, in English, mostly for Bastard’s benefit, but also for any lurking cavalry members, “I’m reaching for the doorknob, to let Manouchka and David go.” And then I glanced at Bastard. I hadn’t wanted to do that, hadn’t wanted to ask him for permission, but I did it instinctively, and hated myself in that moment.
Bastard gave a miniature nod.
Manouchka grasped the door handle first.
CHAPTER 33
The door handle was a bar, easier to grip than a knob, even with a babe in arms.
But David started to slip, and when she clutched him with both arms, I opened the door. What Bastard asked for, Bastard got. For now.
I did it slowly. No sudden movements that might trigger off either Bastard or the cavalry. I flexed my arm, drawing the door inside, while I squinted at the growing light at its edge.
You know the poem about the exquisiteness of a tree? Nature was beyond my reach, right now, but I burned for the paradise unfolding before me. The fluorescent lights, the relatively fresh air, the grotty telephone just a body-length away in the nursing station, the unseen-but-they-have-to-be-here police, and Ryan’s presence.
I know it sounds strange, since I hadn’t checked my phone or heard anything since Manouchka delivered her baby, but I sensed Ryan was nearby, or at least closer than he’d been. Which was both a great and terrible feeling.
I’d rather he was safely stowed away in Ottawa, but I swear he was either outside the hospital or making his way toward me.
I wanted to fling my body toward his.
But Tucker hung back in the shadows, his life at the mercy of a madman.
It was one of the hardest things I ever did, but I announced, “Everything looks okay,” and stepped to the side, within the room, holding the door open.
Manouchka and David escaped alone into that lovely brilliance.
I peeked through the door jamb. My eyes had adjusted to the light, and my throat burned as I lingered on the threshold to nirvana.
Yes, the heretofore unrecognized glory of soiled linen bins, and the alcove with the broken ice machine dispenser, and most of all, the cavalry that must be, had to be trumpeting toward us, even though the nursing station across from me looked suspiciously empty.
I imagined that around the corner, massing the stairs and blocking the elevators, lurked officers with guns and canine units and high tech equipment, just waiting to break me and Tucker free.
They had to be. Someone had carried June away. True, that could have been hospital personnel, but we’d been here long enough for the Canadian version of the SWAT team to kick some motherfucking ass.
Through the gap, I watched Manouchka dash down the hallway to her left. I’d assumed she couldn’t run, but she sprinted like Donovan Bailey in the 100-metre race, with David tucked securely under her right arm while her left arm pumped in the air.
I watched her go.
Bastard said, “Close the door, bitch.”
Manouchka hit the ward doors, and then she was out in the elevator lobby. Free. Away.
I released the door. It clicked shut behind her.
She was safe. Or at least safer.
Bastard crossed the room and slammed the wooden door with the palm of his hand. The walls reverberated with the force of his blow. He pointed the gun at me. “There. Now the Ebola bitch is gone.”
I glanced down at my bloody scrubs, not to unnerve him this time—my heart was still fleeing down the hall with Manouchka and David—but more out of confusion. If she was contaminated, we were all contaminated.
Bastard surveyed me from hair to sneakers. My heart thumped when I realized his eyes paused not just at the blood stains, but at my breasts and hips. He wrinkled his nose and said, “Clean yourself up.”
“You mean—” My heart pounded. He’d let Manouchka and David go. Could he free me, too?
He jerked his chin to the right, to the destroyed bathroom. “Wash up and get rid of your clothes.”
“But...I don’t have a spare set of scrubs in this room.” The way he checked me out, I’d just as soon keep my biohazardous greens.
“You had that blue thing. You know, the one that you tied around your neck when you delivered the baby.”
“I think there’s only one gown per room,” I lied. I’ve gowned up occasionally at the same time as the OB/gyn, but they try to ration them. They’re expensive.
“She’s right,” said Tucker.
Bastard waved his hand at the cart. “Just put one of those yellow things on. I saw some other chick wearing it. They keep them on the wall and throw ’em away. I bet you got tons of those.”
He meant isolation/infection control gowns. I licked my cracked lips, trying to think rational Buddhist thoughts. On one hand, I wanted to distract him from Manouchka and David as they made their way to safety. Bastard’s sudden interest in my personal hygiene pretty much guaranteed their escape.
On the other hand, I felt off-kilter. Somehow, the fact that half of us had managed to break free had made me fantasize that maybe Tucker and I could bolt, too. Instead, Bastard seemed to be getting more nuts.
I tried to grin like this was a massive joke. “You mean those disposable gowns? They’re made out of paper.” I don’t know what they’re made out of, exactly. They feel like soft, thin, plasticized paper towel. They’re translucent yellow and they don’t tie all the way around, just gape at the back, the way patients hate because their bums poke out when they’re trying to walk down the hall with their IV’s.
You’ve got to put two gowns on, one tied in the front and one in the back, to get any privacy. I doubted that was what Bastard had in mind. And that wouldn’t work because the material itself is see-through.
“You heard what I said, bitch. I don’t want that black bitch’s blood on you when you deliver my boy. Now do it, or I’ll kick you in the hall and shoot you in the head.”
Well, at least then I’d escape into the hall for a whiff of freedom before I went splat.
The whole thing made no sense. We still had a placenta rolling around the floor, albeit half under the bed, plus old and new blood splatters from both June and Manouchka. What good would it do to clean me up if I’d trot right back into what looked like a snuff film set?
When I silently surveyed the mess, Bastard gestured at Tucker and said, “He’ll mop up the room and then he’ll clean off too. You shower first.”
A shower. The mere thought of immersing myself in water, suds and steam made me want to sing the Hallelujah Chorus—
—except the part where I’d then have to traipse around the room dressed like a downmarket version of Lady Gaga. I mean, I’d do it for Tucker solo, although the yellow isolation gowns are no sane man’s idea of foreplay.
But Bastard? Even though he was supposedly on a cleansing kick for Casey and his baby, I didn’t trust him.
Still, I took a step toward the bathroom. Toward freshness. Clarity. Everything this man was not.
I just wished that I could search for a pair of scrubs first. That wasn’t worth the risk of getting shot, though.
Tucker murmured, “I’ll look for you.”
He’d figured out what I was thinking, somehow. I glanced at him out of the corner of my right eye and clenched my hand, trying to convey that I loved him and thanked him. Always.
Then I slipped into the bathroom and tried to swing the intact half of the door closed before I hesitated. It would keep Bastard out, but what if Tucker needed me?
“Keep the door open, bitch!” Bastard hollered.
&nb
sp; Well, that decided that. I lifted my hands off the wood. Tucker muttered something, but Bastard was already there, hauling the half-door open and looming in the entry before he jabbed the gun at my breasts. “Keep the door open, or I’ll shoot you here and lock your body in the bathtub.”
Ugh. I thought of Bluebeard’s wives, sliced into bloody bits. Or the more modern equivalent, men who had dissolved their wives’ bodies in bathtubs filled with acid.
Goosebumps rose on my arms, and I had to clench my teeth to stop them from chattering.
Bastard glanced southward, down my body, and I realized that my nipples had sprung to attention.
Totally involuntary. I wasn’t turned on, the room wasn’t particularly cold, but there it was. Or rather, there they were. I’d worn a light bra today—can’t really stand those things, so I pick the most minimal ones possible, especially when I’m on call.
I wanted to cross my arms, but he’d moved the gun close enough that I was afraid I’d nudge the muzzle with my elbows.
I froze.
Bastard exhaled slowly. He wasn’t wheezing now. And his eyes darted between my breasts, ping-ponging from left to right like he was a thirteen-year-old who’d never seen any before.
This man wanted me to shower with the door open?
In slow motion, his left hand began to raise in the air, rotating outward to cup my breast.
I checked my impulse to jerk backward. Or yell. Or hit him. None of these were an option now.
Instead, I snapped, “I’m contaminated.”
CHAPTER 34
“What?” Bastard’s eyes hiked up to mine.
We stared each other full in the face.
No use pretending that I hadn’t memorized his potato features. I’d signed and sealed my death warrant long ago.
And right now, I was past caring. I just wanted us to survive, if only for the next few minutes.
One minute at a time, I thought. Like Buddha Ryan might coach me.
“I’m covered in blood from Manouchka and June,” I said, trying to keep my voice even instead of edgy. “I’ve got to wash it away.”
