by Cassia Leo
Finn fumbled with the knobs on the old porcelain tub, trying not to think about what she looked like lying there, or what could happen. He focused on one step at a time: right knob hot water, left knob cold water. Plug the drain, test the water. More hot water. Test the water.
Jon stood in the doorway with Ana in his arms, naked and dead to the world. Finn felt a moment of clarity when he saw his brother's arms come around her sides, his fingers brushing the underside of her naked breast, his other hand resting under her bottom. Jon's face was all business.
He nudged Finn out of the way, and placed her gently in the bath as Finn stood motionless. “Go get Dad’s medical bag,” he instructed Finn. “Make sure the stitches kit is in there. If not, find it.” When Finn didn’t move, Jon said, with more force. “Finnegan. Please.”
It took a moment for Finn to register the request. He had almost forgotten Jon had been trained by their father. It was easy to forget, when Jon himself refused to acknowledge his abilities. But Jon was trained, and Jon had a gift. If anyone could fix her, it would be him.
Finn returned with the bag to find Jon kneeling next to the tub, gently cleaning Ana’s face with a wet washcloth. She was still unconscious, but there was some color in her face now. The ashen grey pushed back with hints of healthy color, she no longer looked dead.
“She has a pretty serious head wound. Also, I don't know how long she was outside in the cold or what effects that caused.” Jon turned to look at his brother. “Tell me truthfully, how long are we going to be stuck here with this storm?”
“I... I don't know.” Finn was pacing again, his voice cracking.
“Finn, calm down and talk to me. Finn.” He felt Jon’s hand on his leg. “I need you to help me. I need you right now.”
Jon had never said he needed him before. It had the calming effect that Jon had evidently been hoping for. Finn took a deep breath and predicted, “It might be awhile. Days, maybe weeks.”
Jon lowered his head and sighed. “I can stitch up her head wound. We can feed her, and keep her warm. But I don't know when she will wake up. Hell, I don’t even know what equipment still works...” Jon’s voice trailed off and Finn knew he was thinking of all the things in the medical office Jon had studiously avoided for years. “I have no idea how serious her wound actually is.”
Finn nodded. He understood what Jon was saying, even if he didn't like it. “You can fix her now, but she might not be okay, is what you're saying. You can do your best, but it still might not be enough…”
“Let's get her dried off and into something warm,” Jon decided, once again lifting her limp body into his arms. This time Finn didn't hesitate when he stepped toward them and wrapped a towel around her.
***
17- JONATHAN
Jon sipped his coffee slowly, watching for hints of the sun over the horizon. The snow continued to come down relentlessly, lasting longer even than Finn had expected. Through the thick falling white flakes, Jon could still make out the sunrise’s edge.
The adrenaline from the night had worn off, leaving Jon feeling weak, tired, and helpless. The gash in Ana’s head was deep. It was hard to tell for sure, but she seemed to have lost a lot of blood; enough that she might need a transfusion. He knew the equipment was there, and two healthy and willing donors were in the house, but without knowing her blood type he couldn’t give her their blood and risk killing her.
That he had even entertained attempting a blood transfusion told him how tired he was. He’d been awake for almost twenty-four hours now. The early morning was unbearably exhausting, but he was afraid to sleep. Every hour he went up to the bedroom to check on Ana, afraid if he didn’t see her chest rise and fall it would be because he had failed.
They had dressed Ana in their mother’s old flannel pajamas. Finn insisted they put more than one pair on her, but Jon explained they didn’t want her to overheat, either. She was likely to develop a fever once her body started to stabilize and that could make her worse. Finn then insisted on double pairs of socks, and Jon relented.
Finn was upstairs in the bed with her, holding her, but he wasn’t sleeping any more than Jon was. If Jon was anxious, Finn was far worse. He was watching her breathe vigilantly, worried she might have a deadly concussion they couldn’t diagnose in their home; that she might have a brain bleed, or a hemorrhage. Jon wanted to reassure him, but he had the same worries.
Finn had calmed down long enough to get Ana cleaned up, dressed, and settled in bed before he lost it again. He rambled on about keys, and how the whole thing was his fault. Jon insisted he take a valium, and Finn reluctantly complied.
“I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t been here. God… if you had stayed later with the McElroy dog, or if we had waited until morning to start the shoveling. Jesus Jon, did this really happen?” The medicine had calmed him, slowing his emotions to a steady stream of guilt and fear.
“You can’t think of the ‘what ifs,’” Jon said. What else could he say? Finn was right, but those things happened every day. Paramedics arriving late to a crash scene; a pedestrian unknowingly walking past someone who can’t cry out for help. This is why he went into medicine. To be the one who could make the difference; to make the seconds that counted, count for something. When he was tending to Ana, his awkwardness and anxiousness around her vanished. He was a doctor, at his father’s side, his only concern keeping her safe. As stressful as the night was, it was the first time in a long time Jon felt alive.
Once Ana had been stabilized, Finn buried his face in his hands and cried. Not tears of the moment, of fear, or of anxiousness, but real tears. Jon felt his heart lurch for the only person he really loved.
He put his hand on Finn’s shoulder. “Why don’t you go lay down with her. It might help you relax, and I’m sure she will want a familiar face when she wakes.”
Finn looked up. He was a young boy again. The thirteen-year-old who wanted to be a sailor. “Will she? Wake up I mean?”
“Of course,” Jon lied. He honestly couldn’t say when, or if, she would. The brain was a mysterious organ and doctors still had so much to learn about the effect of trauma on a patient. As much as he wanted to comfort Finn, he really needed to be alone. He put his hand on his brother’s shoulder and squeezed. “Go on.”
Finn nodded without another word and went upstairs. When Jon checked on them throughout the night and morning, Finn would be staring at her, one arm propping himself up, the other wrapped protectively around her. Her face was still and unmoving, but her breathing was steady. By some miracle she hadn’t suffered any frostbite so he hoped the worst was over.
In a couple of hours, he would need to insert a catheter and start her on fluids. If she was still asleep by the evening, he would need to begin a feeding tube to filter her nutrients. These were all things he remembered how to do; had, in fact, done them many times at his father’s side. He presumed all of the requisite supplies would be easy to find in his father’s office, but he wasn’t ready to go in there. He wanted to enjoy what was left of his quiet morning.
As the sun continued to rise—now a hazy orange glow pushing through the blizzard—he thought again of his father. Andrew St. Andrews would have been both proud and ashamed of him last night. Proud of how well he acted under pressure, proud of him for saving that girl. Ashamed afresh that Jon gave up his career in medicine.
He never understood, Jon thought. No one did, but especially not him. Jon didn’t need understanding, though. Mostly he needed to be left alone.
I’m not you, he had said to his father, when he delivered the news that he had left medicine behind.
No… you’re sure not.
He finished the rest of his coffee and gave another glance outside. When Finn was more alert, he would have to ask him what he thought about the weather... if things were going to get worse. He laughed to himself that he, a pragmatic man of science, would believe so deeply in his brother’s senses. Explanations notwithstanding, Jon couldn’t deny his
brother’s abilities.
As he stood at the sink, fading fast, Jon knew he needed to sleep. Who knew how many days or weeks they would be snowed in? The snow was around fourteen inches now, and it wasn’t letting up. They had a patient upstairs who was going to need help under difficult circumstances, made even more complicated if he was not alert and able to function properly. Two hours, he told himself. Then I’ll go in and get the equipment.
He climbed the stairs, stopping at the door of his parents’ old bedroom. Finn still lay wrapped around Ana, but his eyes were closed now and he was snoring softly. Jon added another blanket on top of them, checked her breathing and vitals once more, and then let them sleep. Finn would want Jon to wake him up, but they both needed rest.
Jon closed all the doors, and placed his slippers at the side of his bed. Before succumbing to his exhaustion, he reflected how much life was about to change for all of them.
***
18- NICOLAS
Ana had called every night since arriving in Maine. Even if the conversation was limited to, “Hi and goodnight,” she still called. One evening she had lost track of time and called him at past one… but she had still called. And now it had been several days since Nicolas last heard from her. He knew something had gone wrong.
On exactly the fourth day since Nicolas had heard from her, Oz stopped by unexpectedly.
Oz was by himself, which Nicolas found odd, given how rarely he left Adrienne alone. Oz was perpetually terrified of Adrienne having a breakdown of some kind, which might result in her running away again. Adrienne had not been the same since losing her memory years ago, and Nicolas’ gut told him she never would be. But while Nicolas accepted the change, he wondered what Oz would have done differently if there weren’t two children in the equation. Probably nothing, he thought. Old boy loves to feed his tireless hero complex.
Nicolas cared for his half-sister, but he respected Oz for having the patience and love to deal with her utterly broken spirit, because he could not.
“And to what do we owe this extraordinary pleasure?” Nicolas asked with an exaggerated bow.
“Do I need a reason to stop by?” Oz ignored him, brushing past with a distracted look.
“You usually have plenty of reasons to stay away.”
Oz turned back toward him, shocking Nicolas into a sudden realization of how long it had been since they’d seen each other. His friend’s shiny black hair was somehow duller. His brilliant green eyes looked more like the fading shade of aging moss. Oz’s skin was drained of color and life, as if he hadn’t eaten or slept in some time. Nicolas opened his mouth to say something, then decided not to.
“What do you have for liquor around here?” Oz had walked into the large kitchen, and Nicolas heard him flipping through the cupboards.
“You know that’s not where I keep it. I mean, it’s not like we’ve been sneaking liquor since we were thirteen or anything,” he chided Oz, and led him out into the study. Nicolas opened the sliding doors to a large oak bar built into the wall. “Where is your brain, Ozzy? Did you leave it at home with your balls?”
But Oz didn’t react to the teasing as he normally would. He took the drink Nicolas held out to him, quaffed it down, then handed it back for a refill. Nicolas stared at him in astonishment, then made him a second.
“How is Ana?” Oz asked, in an especially offhand way.
Nicolas cocked his head. “Are we making small talk? How’s your mother, then?”
“Quite well,” Oz responded, clearly missing Nicolas’ sarcasm. “So Ana’s faring well in Maine?”
“‘Faring’ better than you I hope.” Nicolas continued to watch his friend closely: the odd, wild look in his eyes, the complete disengagement from his words, the way he kept flinching and brushing his hair from his eyes... hair that was not even in his eyes.
“Hah,” Oz choked out, lacking emotion. “I’m fine. Thought we could have some guy time.”
“‘Guy time?’ Really, Oz? What the fuck?” Nicolas was not interested in hearing about the complexities of Oz Sullivan’s mind, but he was utterly bewildered at his bizarre behavior. “I doubt we’ll be doing anything, with you on the verge of a complete nervous breakdown.”
But Oz was hardly listening, instead stirring his drink with a finger, seemingly fascinated with the swirling ice cubes.
Nicolas, never fond of mysterious behavior, was not sure what to make of any of this. It was unnerving to see his friend minutes from going off the deep end.
He leaned over toward Oz and waved his hands obnoxiously in his face. Oz looked up and met his eyes with the same glazed look he had since he arrived. “Sorry, what?”
“You know it would have been quicker to drink at home, instead of driving almost an hour out here, right?”
Oz set his glass down. When he looked at Nicolas this time, Oz appeared slightly less dazed, though it seemed to take great effort. “I’m sorry. I just... things have been kinda stressful at home lately. I needed to get away.”
“Stressful,” Nicolas repeated, eyeing him skeptically. He was waiting for him to do something desperate, like jump out the window. “Well, marriage and brats would be the end of any man, but how is this different from normal?”
“It isn’t... I mean... it’s... I don’t know...” Oz stood up suddenly, bumping the table so that his drink sloshed over the sides of the glass. “I should go.”
Nicolas shook his head in disbelief, smacking his cheeks. “You just got here! Ozzy! ARE YOU ON DRUGS?”
But Oz was already on his way to the door, and if Nicolas knew anything about his brooding friend, it was the impossibility of getting him to speak when he was in one his darker moods.
“Sorry again,” Oz called, pulling the door behind him. He stopped briefly, and then said, “Tell Ana...”
“Tell her what?” Nicolas snapped.
“Nothing,” Oz changed his mind. “Nothing. We will... I promise we will get together soon. Sorry for dropping in on you.”
“Don’t mention it.” Nicolas waved distractedly, feeling like he had been hit by a small hurricane.
Nicolas was genuinely perplexed at Oz’s behavior. He had always known that Oz was a brooder, and often accused him of being as moody as a woman, but he couldn’t remember ever seeing him act like this.
It had been so unexpected and bizarre that it was enough to distract him from his thoughts about Ana. Even when Oz asked about Ana—multiple times—which was weird enough on its own.
Finally, Nicolas shrugged it off, deciding if Oz wanted to talk, he would. Figuring out how to contact Ana was a more pressing concern.
He did not want to call her father. Augustus was a busy man, and if Nicolas bothered him with this, and then nothing was amiss, Augustus would be highly annoyed. On the other hand, if something was wrong, and it was something Ana did not want her father involved in, then Nicolas would feel her wrath.
There were no other Deschanels on the island, but there was that overseer. Whitman. He only knew the name because it was written on a piece of paper, folded inside his family Bible—a book he really should give to Adrienne, the more he thought of it, since she was the only Deschanel bothering to further the family line—listed as Emergency contact for Ana, in her handwriting. She would not have a cell phone out there, and with no one other than an overseer who didn’t even know her, she felt safer if Nicolas had the information. Under the number she had written: Peace out, sucka!
He put down his cognac, and picked up the phone in the study. Putting the receiver down again, he walked over and closed the double doors as an afterthought. He lived alone if you didn’t count the four people on staff, and he preferred this conversation be private.
Nicolas lifted the receiver again and dialed.
***
19- AUGUSTUS
Incompetence. Why did it feel as if Augustus Deschanel was constantly surrounded by it? People who did not understand the value of quality, going the extra mile, taking the requisite time to ensure delivery
was in-line with expectations. His expectations. An old boss, in another life, told him once the only way to ever be really successful was to hire five hundred versions of yourself. But then, you would never change, never innovate. Augustus embraced innovation, but not at the cost of doing things right.
The next best thing to hiring yourself? Hiring your progeny. Years before Ana was born, when the business was a single magazine, he had visions of grandeur. He pictured building a conglomeration of magazines, an empire founded on the highest quality publications, built leveraging the creative acumen of the best and brightest minds. Proudly, he envisioned his three, or four, children beside him. At first teaching them as children about the business, then slowly folding them in, with internships in high school, and jobs after college. They would work their way up until they knew the corporation’s ins and outs as he did. But Catherine had died and Augustus’ current wife, Barbara, could not have children. His dream stopped with Ana.
Ana did have skills that suited the family business, but they were on the other end of the spectrum. While she understood business, Ana had an artist’s heart. So had he, once upon a time, but it was that love of the craft which made him want this career to begin with. He hoped she might see the connection and embrace it the way he had, but so far her involvement felt more obligatory than passionate. He would never force her. Augustus’ ability as a Deschanel was the power of persuasion, and he had used it ruthlessly, and without remorse, countless times. But he had never, and would never, use it on his daughter.
He didn’t really understand Ana. It was a terrible thing for a father to admit. She had a brilliant mind. She tested at a genius IQ level as a child and graduated high school at sixteen; had won awards and national recognition for her writing and school projects; full scholarship to Tulane. But she had the dark mind of an artist. He should know, he had seen plenty of them come through the doors looking for freelance work. Her mind was never at rest. Her darkness shone through strongest when she was lost in her thoughts and unaware of herself.
