Chapter Thirty
In which there is so much blood.
Liria…
For a minute, all I can see is a wasteland of wounded, blood everywhere and I can’t hear anything beyond the pained moans of those trying to hold in their agony.
I'm almost back to that horrible night at my father's estate when I was sixteen, when they dragged in all the wounded from a botched heist.
"This is not the estate," I whisper. I force myself to recognize the differences. Here, everyone is immediately seen to as quickly as possible and categorized for immediacy of care. Those of us with limited medical experience are set to manage wounds, or assist one of the doctors or nurses.
This is compassion and competency, two things that were completely missing at my father's estate, where horribly injured men were dumped in the hall in the basement, their blood pooling under them, some screaming in agony. One man whose face I can never forget, crying for his mother.
Here, there's pain and fear, but everyone injured knows that the people caring for them will try to save them. Slathering my hands in antibacterial gel, I look for someone to tell me what to do. Further down the hall, room six is open and I can see Ava.
"I guess you're not squeamish about blood, huh?" She rips off her gloves and her mask, washes her hands and pulls on a fresh mask and a new pair of gloves, ready to tend to the next patient.
"I haven't seen a lot of it," I confess. "But you never forget. Tell me what to do."
"Talk to this one," she says, pointing to the next hospital bed pushed against the wall. "His name is Arkadi." I hurry over to the patient, who can't be more than nineteen. His shoulder is a bloody mess, but it looks like he's been stabilized and is waiting for surgery.
"How are you?" I smile before shaking my head. "God, that was a stupid question, wasn't it?"
He laughs weakly, his pale blue eyes searching mine. "It's okay," he rasps. "You're Mr. Morozov's new wife, aren't you? His forehead crumples as he tries to find the right words through the haze of his pain.
"I think you mean Alexsey," I nod. "There's too many Morozovs to count if you don't throw in a first name, right?
" I gently wipe the blood off of his face, checking his pulse at the same time.
"Yes, we've been married for about two months now.
How about you, Arkadi?" I try to pack in more gauze over the shoulder wound, there's an alarming bloom of red seeping through the bandage. "Do you have a girlfriend?"
His eyes light up at that, lips curving in a weak grin. "Yes. I just came here from St. Petersburg. My girlfriend Yulia came with me."
"That's so cool," I smile warmly, eyes darting back to his bandage. "I'm glad that the two of you could come together, it makes it easier settling into a new city, doesn't it? I have to say, your English is excellent. You barely have an accent."
"That's one of the reasons they let me come," he says, breaking off into a cough before forcing himself to continue. "Even though I'm considered too young, my English made them change their mind about the transfer."
"Have you been in the Bratva long?" I ask.
His shaking hand points to his chest, where the snarling head of the Morozov wolf is tattooed. "Since I was sixteen," he says proudly.
Shit, that blood is coming through the gauze faster than I can pack it. I look wildly around the hall. There are no doctors or nurses here, just volunteers like me. "So- um, so what about your girlfriend?" I ask. "Does she work for a Morozov property?"
"Yes, she-"
His eyes roll back and he goes into what I'm sure is a seizure, with violent shuddering and a bloody spray coming from his mouth. The vital signs monitor next to him shrills a warning.
"I need help! He's going into a seizure!
" I shout at the top of my lungs. In seconds one of the doors opens hard enough to bounce off the other wall, and Alexsey comes racing through.
He's a sight; blood splattered all over his white dress shirt and arms. He puts his hand on top of the bloody gauze and the other - his right one - on Arkadi's forehead.
"Go get my mother," he snaps, his eyes never leaving Arkadi's face. "She's in room three."
I run as fast as my shaky legs will let me, whipping the door open to see an exhausted Ella trying to change into a fresh gown. "There's a patient in the hallway- Arkadi," I stammer. "I think he's having a seizure."
Ella moves past me quickly, "Get me a sterile surgical pack, the M 36 kit."
I have no idea what the hell that means, but one of the nurses locates it for me quickly and I race back out into the hallway holding it.
"Open the package for me, but don't touch anything," she says, injecting something into his IV. The seizure slows down into occasional shudders. Carefully opening the package over a clean cover, I realize she's about to do surgery right here in the hallway and I sway slightly.
Don't you fucking dare be sick don't you dare! I think feverishly, trying to block out the sight of anything but Arkadi's poor, ruined chest. These people are suffering so much more than you ever have.
Alexsey is leaning over, speaking to an unconscious Arkadi with complete certainty that he can hear him.
"Do you remember that night on the Neva River?
You thought you could beat Harald on that turn, both of you with flashlights strapped your forehead like complete fucking idiots?
" He chuckles; it sounds painful. "Do you remember? "
Arkadi's eyes open, partway at least, and he looks up at him. "Yes," he croaks, lips barely moving.
Ella's hands are a blur, cutting into his shoulder, trying to find the bleeder. "Hold his legs," she says, not looking away from the wound. "Make sure he stays very still." I lean my weight on them, wincing and hoping I'm not hurting some other spot he's injured.
"You still won, didn't you? You sneaky bastard!" Alexsey chuckles fondly. "I knew right then you were going to be one of our best new recruits. You've done so well."
Arkadi's cracked lips move again, soundlessly.
I see sweat gathering on Ella's forehead.
Suddenly, his chest is flooded with blood.
Alexsey doesn't move even though his arm reaches out, blindly groping for more gauze, the last on the tray, handing it to her.
I let go of Arkadi's legs and race down the hallway, frantically collecting gauze bags and coming back with an armful, ripping them open, trying to pack the wound.
Alexsey keeps up a steady flow of memories, leaning down to speak into his ear.
"That was such a good winter, wasn't it?
Do you remember the big fires we would have alongside the riverbank, passing around that terrible vodka Igor would make at home?
Do you remember the faces of your brother and sister? "
There's a bubble of red on Arkadi's lips, shaped in a smile.
"Your beautiful girlfriend Yulia, she loves you. Can you see her smile?" Alexsey's voice is gentle as I watch Arkadi's chest give one last exhale.
"I see it. Her smile…" He's still smiling, his eyes half open and staring up at Alexsey.
"I could get a nurse, sh- should I get a nurse?" I ask Ella.
She keeps working, her hands deft and quick. "Do you know how to do chest compressions?" she says between granted teeth.
"Yes."
"Start now."
Putting my shaking hands on his chest, I position them and try to remember the stupid Bee Gees song they taught us.
"Staying Alive," keeping the same pace, mindlessly humming as I start the chest compressions.
It feels like I've been doing this forever, but it can only be a couple of minutes.
Alexsey is still speaking into the poor kid's ear, telling him to stay, telling him how he needs to visit his family in St. Petersburg and bring his mother flowers like he used to.
He gently describes all the adventures awaiting him.
My arms are shaking, but I keep the compressions going.
Glancing up at me, Alexsey leaves his position and moves over. I must look terrible because he gently brushes me away, taking over the compressions himself.
Everything fades into static in the hallway, just us and the still and silent Arkadi. He has a dreamy look in his eyes that I know is half drugs and half the beautiful vision that Alexsey has spun for him.
"Do you see it, brother?" Alexsey's voice is gentle. "The ice on the Neva River? Smell the woodsmoke. You are safe."
I carefully wipe Arkadi's forehead. Ella's hands slow and stop and then so do Alexsey's. She rests her hands on his ruined chest.
"I'm sorry," she says hoarsely, her eyes meeting Alexsey's.
"A bullet fragment must have nicked the axillary artery.
He was stable when Ava checked him. The fragment must have shifted.
" Her surgical gown is splattered with gore, I look down to realize I am too, but I still stroke Arkadi's forehead until Ella gently pulls a sheet up over his body and Alexsey takes my hands, squeezing them.
The hallway is quiet around us. It seems like the last of the serious cases have been rushed into surgery or stabilized. There is a line of soldiers still on their feet, the ones who carried their wounded brothers into the clinic and they stare, stricken, and then bow their heads.
"Ty ushol s chest'yu, brat. My vsegda budem pomnit' tebya, You have gone with honor, brother.
We will remember you, always." They all say it together, gravely.
A goodbye they have said many times before.
My eyes fill with tears and I lower my head, hearing the words echo against the white walls. It feels too private for me to witness.
When it's done, Alexsey pulls me into Ella's office.
There's a private bathroom there, and he turns on the warm water, picking up the soap.
He takes my hands one at a time, gently washing them.
I watch the blood rinse off his prosthetic under the running water.
When my husband is done, I take the soap and wash his right hand, making it as clean as mine, feeling the rough calluses on his fingertips and the thin white scars on his knuckles.
Alexsey is silent, but I don't feel the anger burning in him in the way it often is, simmering like a low blue flame in an oven, waiting to burst into a blaze of heat. We stand at the sink, holding hands and we don't say a word.