by E. R. Arroyo
She makes eye contact with me for the first time since I came back in the room. Her eyebrows pull inward, her mouth agape. “Why would you think that?”
It’s painful to see her so weak. “Some of the women…” I trail off, not sure how to finish.
“You did a good thing, Cori. They will figure that out in time.”
“It doesn’t feel like a good thing. There’s so much going on. Everything’s a mess here in Mercy. The women, the infections.” I exhale. “And I don’t have a clue what’s going on in The City.” I shake my head, realizing she probably has no clue what I’m talking about.
She sits up a little straighter, covering her chest while I scrub her feet. “You know about The City?” she gawks.
“Yeah… You know about The City?” I pause.
“Of course I do,” she says, like it should be obvious.
I ponder for a moment, resuming her bath. “They were attacked,” I tell her. “The same night we hit Antius.”
“Yeah…” She sighs.
“You don’t sound surprised by that.” I cock an eyebrow, glancing up at her.
“Well, I knew they were going.” She shrugs as I dip the rag in water again.
“They who?” I try to keep my cool to keep her talking, but my heart is pumping harder, anxious to hear more. Whatever she might know.
“A group of guys. I don’t know.” Her eyes are downcast. She’s being vague but I can’t tell why.
“Do you know what for?” I try not to sound too eager. I drop the cloth back in the bowl. Pause.
She glances up at me, her face strained. “I don’t know.” She shakes her head. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” I tell her, but I can’t help but feel disappointed. And I can’t shake the sinking feeling that Antius has done something horrible to Tyce’s people in The City.
* * *
I’d gotten her cleaned up and dressed and instructed her to talk to Henry, even if she didn’t have any useful information. That he could tell if she was being honest. And I hope she listened. But right now, I’ve got bigger problems. In fact, I’ve got nothing but problems.
I find Max down the hall sitting with his head in his hands. Something’s wrong, more wrong than he’s let on. When he hears me coming he looks up and gathers his composure.
I sit in the chair beside him. “Is everything okay?”
He takes a long, ragged breath, and I realize his eyes are red. “My son. His wounds are infected.”
“Your son?” I hadn’t realized he had one.
“Jason.”
“Oh,” I mumble, a heaviness settling into my chest. Jason was shot in Antius. He smoked their tower before I climbed it. He fought alongside us. “I didn’t know he was your son.”
“Yeah.” Max stands and walks toward the door.
“I’m sorry, Max.” He pauses and turns back to me. He reaches out and I lay my hand in his. He gives a gentle squeeze and nods, as if to say, It’s okay. He let’s go.
I take a deep breath. “Is there any way to convince Henry to send someone to The City?”
Max helps me to my feet and onto my crutches. It’s hard for me to keep letting people help me but I should be grateful everyone doesn’t hate me at the rate I’m going.
“Why are you so bent out of shape about The City?” he asks, with a mixture of concern and curiosity.
“I want to make sure they’re okay.”
We make our way to the corridor that leads outside before he offers, “I’ll talk to the leaders, see what they’re willing to do.”
“I want to go,” I offer, a little too intensely.
Max stops at the exit, his eyes boring into mine. “Cori, our actions will always have consequences, but you have to believe we’ve done the right thing.” I arch my brows, surprised to hear this considering his son is wounded and sick because of what we’ve done.
Dylan bounds across the yard toward me, concern growing the closer he gets. I turn back to Max. “Maybe they’ll allow an escort for me and Dylan? I can see for myself. Please.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Max says, walking away as Dylan reaches me.
“You okay?” Dylan asks.
“I’m fine,” I whisper, and almost laugh at what’s now becoming such a staple in my vocabulary. Fine. Exactly what I am not.
Dylan and I eat dinner in the main building where my room is. Piles and containers of people’s belongings line the walls as people have begun to pack up for the move. It troubles me that they are being forced to abandon their homes yet none of them seem resentful about it.
“We need to talk soon. In private,” I tell him, wiping the crumbs off my shorts, which I hate but it’s what they put me in when they patched up my leg and I haven’t bothered to ask anyone for pants yet.
“I’ll walk you to your room.”
I nod and we get up together. Dylan takes our plates to the kitchen on the far side of the massive common room. I rise from the long table and wait for him over by the sofas. There were men sprawled out all across this room the night before we left for Antius. The energy in this place that night was remarkable. The anticipation. At the time, it felt exciting. Electric. Now I realize how dumb I was to relish war.
When Dylan steps away from the kitchen door Marge, the older lady who runs the kitchen, mumbles something to him, smiling wide. The people here really like him. It makes my heart swell with pride.
We’ve just stepped into my father’s room. It’s not lost on me that my stomach always feels a touch sick when I step into this space. I cast my eyes downward when Dylan finds the switch and turns on the lamp.
I wait for him to close the space between us and then open my mouth to speak. But someone knocks. I clear my throat and open the door.
Max stands on the other side, stepping forward slightly, but not moving all the way into the room.
“I will escort you to The City,” he says. “A kid named Aaron will drive us halfway there and camp out until we come back. We’ll need to go to Wisdom no later than four days from tomorrow. Acceptable?”
Dylan cocks an eyebrow at me. It’s the look he gives me that keeps me from thanking Max as enthusiastically as I’d like to.
“Thank you,” I say calmly.
“We’ll leave tomorrow after breakfast.” Max retreats as suddenly as he’d arrived and I close the door behind him, the small click of the knob echoing in my ears.
Cautiously, and a little slowly, I turn to face Dylan.
“That,” I begin, pointing at the door, “is what I wanted to tell you.” I lean the crutches against the wall, hobble over to a chair nearby, and sit down.
Dylan sits on the bed, which I notice is a good distance from where I am. His jaw is tense and his eyes are tiny slits directed at the floor. He props his hands on his knees. “When were you going to tell me?”
“Right now. After dinner. I didn’t want to bring it up in front of everyone.”
“I see,” he says, not looking at me.
“I’ve been asking about The City and no one seems to care, so I volunteered to go myself.” I play it back over in my head, sorry that I’d made up my mind without consulting Dylan. Just as well, he goes where I go. He’s made that clear to everyone in Mercy by following my every move. “I suggested Max find an escort for you and me.”
“I’m not going anywhere right now, Cori,” he tells me, his bottom lip a stiff, straight line.
I’m stunned. Not sure how to respond. “Then…” I shake my head. “Then I guess I’m going without you.”
His eyes dart up from whatever he was looking at on the floor. He narrows his eyes, scrutinizing me. I hate the way that, so suddenly, a rift has sprung up between us. And I want to fix it. But I cannot back down. I tilt my head back, square my shoulders. I never expected to need to defend myself to Dylan.
He starts breathing heavy. Cracks his neck. There’s tension building in all his muscles, his forearms straining as he grips his knees harder.
“This doe
sn’t need to be you,” he says. “They can send anyone else, someone able bodied.” He gestures toward my leg before he rubs his forehead with one hand, trying to calm himself and this temper I’m only recently getting to know. “You’re injured, you’re on crutches. And you’re lucky not to have an infection. So you want to go out there and expose yourself to more toxins, more bacteria, and God knows what other threats there are in The City.”
For a moment, I’m quiet. Processing. And it seems to make him madder. Suddenly, he bolts upright and stalks in my direction.
“Why are you so fixated on The City anyway?”
I rise from the chair, unable to sit through this conversation with him towering over me so much. “You don’t think what happened there had something to do with us? You don’t think they knew we’d been there? What if Antius hurt them because of me?”
The look in his eyes seems to shift, his aggression subsiding. “Is that what you think?” He grabs my elbows, his touch gentle.
I shrug. “How can I not?”
Grimacing, he backs away. To the other side of the room. Pacing. “If this has anything to do with Tyce … I just don’t get it.” He shakes his head, hands on his hips. He turns back toward me. “You were merely an object to him, I hope you realize that. He’s not your friend. You don’t even know these people.”
“I can’t stay here doing nothing.” Growing tired from putting all my weight on one leg, I grip the dresser. “Watching these people suffer. The women are sick and angry, the kids are confused, the wounded are getting infections. Mercy is having to pick up and move, leaving their home. This is all because of me and there’s not a single thing I can do about any of it. I’m not stupid. What happened to The City is my fault too, and I can’t stand not knowing what’s going on there. They sent for help and someone should go. It might as well be me.”
“That’s—” he starts, but stops himself. He exhales, calms himself. “That’s a copout, Cori.” He shrugs. “It just is.”
I steady my resolve. This conversation has only served to make me more determined. “No matter what you think of him, he saved our lives. You and I are both indebted to Tyce. And we owe it to him to check on his people.”
In the little time I’ve known them, I’ve learned that the people in The City are self-sufficient. And if they sent for help, they need it. Dylan has to get that.
“So you just want to run away then? Like old times?”
“It’s not like that,” I insist.
“What if I say no? That I don’t think you should go.”
I scrub my hand across my face, feeling my chest tighten. “Please don’t say that.”
“It doesn’t appear what I say matters,” he states. He storms across the room. With his hand on the doorknob, he looks over his shoulder at me, defeated.
When he leaves the room and shuts the door behind him, everything I’ve pent up for the last two days threatens to overtake me. I rub small circles on my temples, try to fight the frustration that Dylan doesn’t understand. I had been so sure he’d support me.
To keep from wallowing, I head down the hall to find Karen, which doesn’t prove difficult—she’s in the common room sitting across from Dylan. When he sees me, his eyes narrow and his lips become a straight line. He eyes me for a beat before calmly rising from the table and disappearing down the hall. I watch the empty hallway, not sure if I should go after him and apologize, or try to convince him to come with me. Grimacing, I take in a few labored breaths. I rake my hands down my face releasing a low, frustrated groan. I plop down next to Karen and sigh.
“Need something?” Karen asks, jarring me from my thoughts.
I peek at her through my fingers. “I was going to see if you could loan me some pants. Unless you’re busy—”
“I’m not,” she says, eyeing me. She glances down at my legs, bare below the hem of my shorts. “I’ll get you fixed up.”
In her room, she pulls a couple pairs of long pants from her dresser and holds them up to me. She makes a face and then digs around some more.
“Aha,” she says, popping up from her crouch holding a belt and two shirts. “You’ll need these too.”
“Thank you,” I mumble, taking the clothes and trying my best to smile. And failing.
“Of course.” She sighs, her mind seeming a long ways off. She grabs my hand and squeezes it, not looking at me. After a moment of caressing my cold hand, she kisses my forehead and pulls away. I scrunch my face, pondering everyone’s strange behavior.
“I have a bag for you,” she says. She drags a backpack out of her closet. Clears her throat. “If you’d like to pack up some of…” Tears pool in her eyes, and I think she’s finally going to tell me what’s been bothering her. “…some of your father’s things.” She takes a ragged breath while a tear escapes and tumbles down her flushed cheek.
“Are you okay?” I step closer and touch her arm.
“Don’t forget to check his dresser. There are pictures in the top drawer.”
Clutching the bag, I stare at the floor wondering what pictures he could have and how Karen knows what’s in Dad’s top drawer. Before I have too much time to ponder, Karen wraps her arms around me, giving me a tight squeeze. She rushes out, leaving me stunned once again.
I walk to my room and tiptoe inside with a new reverence for the space. My father’s space. I take in the tiny room again. Nothing has changed since the first time I laid eyes on it. Yet everything has changed. The small room feels smaller. The dark wood of the dresser looks dingier. The lamp seems dimmer. My dad feels farther away than ever and I’m a little more lost somehow.
I start sifting through things in the closet first, finding a couple of good coats and some other items that might fit Dylan. On the shelf I find a thin metal case. I try to open it but it’s locked, so I lay it on the bed.
I go through the books stacked on the floor, realizing it’s not feasible to carry books around, but maybe there’ll be one that grabs me. I want to know more about my father, but in the two days I’ve spent here I haven’t looked at any of his things. I didn’t think that would be okay to do.
I dawdle a bit, going through everything else until there is nothing left for me to explore but the dresser. Karen could be right about the pictures in the top drawer, but I’m not sure I want to see them—afraid of what memories they’ll bring back. Or afraid I won’t recognize them at all. I haven’t been doing a good job of not crying, and I’m sick of it. Sick of feeling so weak. I don’t want to do it anymore. I’m done with tears.
The bottom three drawers contain more clothing with a few boxes of .45 caliber ammo hidden between folded shirts. I set the bullets aside and draw a plaid shirt to my face, inhaling, hoping for comfort in my father’s scent. But the shirt smells like soap. I fold it across my lap and move on, every so often reaching down to run my fingers across the soft flannel.
The fourth drawer contains a random assortment of trinkets. One in particular is a teacup with a little handle and tiny plate to match. The burgundy floral design is accented by the gold paint along the rim of the cup and plate alike. There’s a chip on the bottom of the cup, but otherwise it’s flawless and beautiful. Like a gemstone among pebbles, this item stands out. The other things faded, dull, and unremarkable.
I pick up a small tin and the contents clink around inside. When I open it, there are all kinds of coins and medallions that are silver and gold colored. I’d read these metals were once considered valuable. They must have been important to Dad if he stored them with such care. Of all the things in this drawer, these appear the least fragile, so I decide to take a few with me.
Fingering through the coins I notice something out of place. A key. I glance toward the locked case on the bed. The lock clicks when I twist the key, then I slowly open the case. Inside are a small knife and a .45 Glock. It’s dark gray like the clouds, with brushed metal. And it matches the ammo I found. Grinning, I whisper, “Thanks, Dad.” It’s perfect.
I set the weapons as
ide and return to the dresser. I close all the drawers but the top one, staring at it, my good leg aching from standing for so long without my crutches.
I lay my fingertips on the faded brass handle and take a deep breath. Pausing a moment to gather my bravery, I grip the handle and tug the drawer open with a swift motion. I lay my eyes on a bunch of socks. I snag a few pairs and toss them on the bed with the other clothes I want to keep.
Examining the drawer further, I reach inside again and feel around until I touch something plastic. Holding my breath, I latch onto it and pull it out—a clear bag with a small stack of photos inside. The bag has a plastic zipper keeping it sealed, probably to protect it from moisture. The way I’m holding it, the photos are facing the ground. I could see them if I wanted to. It would be easy to flip them over and just look at them. But I’m not ready. Instead, I stuff them into the backpack Karen gave me.
I end up keeping a book called Oliver Twist. For some reason, I’m drawn to it in particular. It’s more weathered than Dad’s other books. And I purposefully dismissed several works by Shakespeare.
With my bag packed for my departure in the morning, I have nothing left to do but sleep. And I would love to try, but there’s a knock at the door as I’m crawling into bed. Sitting up, halfway under the covers, I call out, “Yeah?”
The door cracks open. “Can I come in?” Dylan whispers.
“Of course.” I exhale, relieved to see him despite everything.
He shuts the door. Kneeling beside my bed, he takes my hand and kisses it. My bag slumps over onto his leg and he shoves it aside. “All packed?” he asks, his voice revealing a hint of sadness.
“Mmhmm.”
Reaching over me, Dylan clicks off my lamp and crawls onto my bed, on top of the covers, and lies beside me. I lean back while he tucks the blanket around me. I settle my head onto his shoulder, and he kisses my forehead. It isn’t long before his breathing evens out. No explanation for why he’s in my room tonight instead of the one he’s been staying in. I haven’t been sleeping much, but having him here comforts me. And I finally sleep.
Lips on my neck startle me awake. I’m ticklish there, so I pull back, grinning, but when I open my eyes, I can see that Dylan isn’t teasing. He kisses my cheek, my forehead. My chin even. He finally plants an agonizingly tender kiss on my mouth, and I squirm to get my arms free from his embrace so I can touch his face and hold him close.
