Chapter 27 On the Edge of Despair
Desi woke, feeling as though she’d fought a ship battle at sea.
And lost. But there was no time for self-pity, no time for heartache, no time to remember a past she felt was more real than life itself.
She had a business to rebuild and a sister to care for—her sister being her number one priority of the day.
Though in real time, she’d only just seen her a few days ago, it seemed an eternity, and Desi was desperate to check in on her.
Downstairs, the phone’s ring echoed through the store that was still draped in darkness. Dropping her pack, Desi darted to answer it just as the key clanked and Camila swept in through the front door.
Desi picked up the receiver. “Ocean’s Echo,” but only a dial tone answered.
“Where’s that girl?” Desi slammed down the phone.
Camila flipped on the lights. “You mean Nova?”
“Is that her name?” Huffing, Desi glanced at the clock on the wall. 9:15. For all Silvia’s faults, she’d always arrived on time to open the door, turn on the lights, and set things up for the day.
“Ah, she comes in later.” Camila sipped her coffee. “Besides, there’s no dives scheduled for today.”
Desi clenched her fists, nails biting into her palms. “But there’s phones to answer, and who knows if a customer won’t walk through that door?”
Camila shrugged. “What can I say?”
“I’m heading over to my sister’s,” Desi announced. “Can you man the desk and—she glanced over the shop—tidy up the place, maybe sweep the floor?”
Camila’s eyes sharpened. “You didn’t hire me to be a maid, remember?”
At the moment, Desi was wondering why she’d hired her at all. And this Nova girl, too.
Rounding the counter, Camila plopped onto the stool. “Did you say your sister’s? As in her apartment?”
Desi picked up her pack. “Yes.”
“We moved her out of that place two weeks ago, remember? You still having brain problems? Maybe you got the bends from your dive.”
Blood raced from Desi’s heart. “Moved? Where to?”
“To the hospital.” Grabbing her phone, Camila began tapping on it, completely oblivious to the horror raging through Desi.
“Why?” Desi dared to ask.
“Because she’s in kidney failure.”
“I thought the dialysis was keeping her alive.” Desi had cornered Daria’s doctor as he exited her sister’s room at the ICU.
The corridor throbbed with noise and motion—nurses calling out vitals, monitors pinging, wheels squealing over linoleum.
The air was sharp with alcohol and bleach, undercut by the metallic tang of iodine and something darker—decay, despair, death itself.
It clung to her tongue until bile rose in her throat.
The doctor, an older man with salt-and-pepper hair cropped close and a neck too narrow for his head, studied the chart in his hand without looking at her. “Yes, it can prolong her life for years,” he said, voice flat with fatigue, “but I’m afraid your sister developed an infection.”
“What sort of infection?”
“A line infection.” He finally looked up, and the heaviness in his eyes snuffed out what remained of her hope.
“What line?”
“Most likely a staph infection from her dialysis catheter.”
Huffing, Desi glanced through the glass at her sister’s still form, barely a rise beneath the sheets, wires, and tubing snaking from her arms like cruel vines. “So, from your dialysis?”
The doctor pressed his lips together and nodded. “It happens more than you think. We’ve got her on antibiotics now. Unfortunately, we had to bump her down the transplant list.”
A nurse rushed up, shoving a clipboard into his hand. He signed without looking, his pen scratching like a verdict. Desi clenched her fists, forcing her tears back through sheer fury.
“You bumped her because of an infection your hospital gave her!” Her voice cracked as it rose, drawing startled glances from passing nurses.
The doctor met her gaze with genuine pity. “That and… well, I’ll send the hospital social worker to speak with you. There are financial issues as well.”
“Because her insurance won’t cover everything?” Desi’s voice was low, taut as a wire.
The compassion drained from his face like color from a photograph. “Listen, I know the system is flawed. But it’s out of my hands. Talk to the social worker. I don’t deal with finances.”
He turned, but Desi caught his sleeve in desperation, her fingers trembling. “How much does a transplant cost?”
He pulled free, irritation flashing before weariness softened it. “Four hundred thousand.”
Desi’s mind reeled. She could sell Ocean’s Echo, sell everything. And maybe when her sister was well again, she could return to Caleb. If she could find the Ring. Hope sprouted within her. “What if I could get that?”
“They won’t approve the transplant unless you can pay for the lifelong medications, around twenty thousand a year. If she can’t afford those, the new kidney will fail.”
“Dr. Mark Drummond. Dr. Drummond. Emergency in room 3B.” The announcement blared from the intercom, startling her.
He was gone before she could breathe another word. And with him, went all her hope.
Even if she sold Ocean’s Echo, she could never afford the yearly medications. The numbers thundered in her skull like cannon fire—four hundred thousand… twenty thousand a year…
Desi drew in a slow, trembling breath, the sterile air burning her lungs. She pressed her palms to her eyes until spots flared, then forced herself upright. One step at a time. Smile. Be strong for Daria.
She pushed open the door.
The room was dim, hushed except for the rhythmic hum of machines.
The smell of antiseptic mingled with a faint trace of rose—her sister’s desperate attempt to smother the hospital odor.
The faint whir of oxygen mixed with the steady beep-beep of a heart monitor, marking time like a slow, inevitable clock.
Daria turned her head slightly. “Hey, stranger,” she said, a fragile smile lifting her lips. Her skin looked almost translucent, veins visible beneath the pale surface, shadows like bruises under her eyes. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Maybe I have.” Desi’s smile wobbled. “You’re too thin, Dar. When was the last time you ate something that wasn’t in liquid form?”
“Yesterday.” Daria shrugged weakly. “Or maybe the day before. Hard to tell when food tastes like pennies.”
A blade of fear scraped down Desi’s spine. She forced herself to move closer, focusing on the small details—the IV line, the pale flicker of her sister’s pulse beneath the skin. “What’s with the extra tube?”
“Antibiotics. Caught some germ or something.” Daria’s voice trembled, thin as paper.
Desi brushed a strand of hair from her sister’s forehead. “Just a dumb infection. You’ll be back on your feet in no time.”
“Maybe.” Daria’s eyes flicked toward the IV. “They tell me my kidneys are getting worse. And we both know we can’t afford the surgery or the post-transplant meds.”
Desi’s knees buckled, and she dropped into the chair beside the bed, clutching the armrest for balance. “There has to be something, some kind of assistance program—”
“Already tried.” Daria’s tone softened. “Don’t worry, Des. I’m okay. They say I’ve got a few good months left before…you know.”
“Don’t say that.”
“It’ll be okay, Des.” She reached out her swollen hand, the nails tinted blue, and squeezed weakly. “I’m going to a far better place. I’ll see Mom and Dad and Pops!” Despite the pallor of her face, a faint light flickered in her eyes—hope, or faith, or maybe both.
Silence fell between them, broken only by the mechanical beeping that measured her sister’s fading life. Desi took that fragile hand in hers—cool, trembling, impossibly light—and held on as if she could tether her to this world by will alone.
?
Caleb had not crossed the threshold of Desi’s cabin since the moment she vanished two days past, though it felt an age.
Each hour that passed only deepened the ache in his chest. He had half-expected her to reappear in some miracle, as she had once before, clad in that slick black seal-skin she called—what was it again?
—a “wetsuit.” He gave a wan smile at the memory and hooked the lantern on the deckhead, its mellow glow spilling over the small, quiet space.
The scent of her lingered still, a faint trace of salt and lavender soap, and it struck him like a blow.
A soft rustle came from the cot. Patches stretched and yawned, then meowed sharply, as though scolding him for disturbing her peace.
“There you are, little one.” He sat upon the edge of the berth and lifted the cat, her fur warm against his calloused hands. “I miss her as well.”
His gaze drifted to the row of shells arranged neatly upon the small table.
Desi had been near giddy when she’d found them upon that beach on ?le Du Crane, turning each one in her hand as if it were a relic of Eden itself.
She saw wonder in all things, he thought.
Hope, even when the world gave her none.
He missed that light in her eyes, the laughter, the courage, even her strange turns of speech that left him half bewildered, half enchanted.
Above him, the timbers creaked and lines hummed in the wind. The sea tapped its endless rhythm upon the hull, as though whispering a prayer of its own.
“Lord,” he breathed, “will You bring her back to me again?”
His words melted into the murmuring sea, unanswered.
Setting the cat upon the floor, Caleb reached for the sheaf of parchment he had given her. The first page lay bare. But beneath it, her writing came into view.
I have found him. The hero of every story burning in my soul...
I have found him, the valiant champion of all my dreams, the victor, the warrior, the protector, and knight...
The man I have sought to create in every word I write...
I have found him, but by some twist of fate, he exists only beyond the bounds of time.
And I love him with all my being.
A breath shuddered from him. His vision blurred. Pressing the parchment to his chest, he bowed his head. She loved him. The words thundered through his soul, both balm and torment. And now she was gone. Forever.
“Captain.”
Brandt’s rough voice wrenched him from the moment.
Caleb turned, swallowing his grief. “Aye?”
“Alden’s askin’ for you.”
Good news, indeed. Folding the parchment with reverence, he slipped it into his coat pocket and strode into the corridor, the lantern light trailing him like a ghost.
“’Tis about time you roused, you lazy dog.” Caleb dropped upon the stool beside Alden’s cot. “I’ve no room aboard for shirkers. There’s work to be done.”
A faint grin pulled at Alden’s lips. “Aye, aye, Captain. I’ll be up on deck in a trice.” He made to rise, then gasped as pain lanced through him. Caleb pressed a steady hand upon his shoulder.
“Rest, man. You’ll have your chance to swab the decks soon enough.”
Alden chuckled weakly. “Ah, the Almighty knew you’d make a poor captain without me.”
Caleb smiled. “He knew I’d need your tongue, if not your sense.”
Truth was, he had missed Alden’s counsel—his humor, his faith, his ability to turn Caleb’s tangled thoughts into clarity. The past two days had been a fog of doubt and guilt.
A roll of the ship sent sunlight spilling through the window, gilding the quartermaster’s cabin in wavering gold. The air smelled of salt and linseed oil, with the faint metallic tang of blood and medicine.
“You look as though you’ve been hauled across a reef, Captain,” Alden observed.
“I’ve had better days.” Caleb braced his arms upon his knees. “I owe you an apology, Alden. I should never have used the Ring.”
Alden arched an incriminating brow. “Cannot say I didn’t warn you.”
“You did. And whether or not ’twas a result of the Ring, I was a fool to ignore you.”
“Faith, now!” Alden winced as he shifted. “You think that ball in my shoulder was chance? Of course ’twas the Ring. Naught good ever comes of meddlin’ with cursed things.”
“Don’t overtax him, Captain,” came Brandt’s weary voice.
Caleb turned. The surgeon stood in the doorway, a small vial glinting in his trembling hand. His coat hung askew, his eyes sunken with sleeplessness.
“When can he return to duty?” Caleb asked.
“In a day or two, if you cease pestering him.” Brandt took the stool and passed the vial to Alden.
Alden eyed it warily. “What devil’s brew is this?”
“Drink it,” Brandt said curtly. “It will do you good.”
The quartermaster swallowed and grimaced. “Tastes like bilge.”
“Who says it isn’t?” Brandt muttered, a ghost of humor beneath the exhaustion.
As he rose, leaning heavily upon his cane, Caleb saw more than fatigue. The man was breaking, shoulders bowed, hands trembling, the lines of guilt etched deeper than ever.
“How fare the others?” he asked.
“No change.” Brandt rubbed his brow. “I’ve searched every blasted book, tried every remedy. Naught avails.”
Caleb’s hand landed firmly upon his shoulder. “You’ll rest, Doctor. Choose two men to tend the sick and take to your bed. That’s an order.”
Brandt’s mouth opened to protest.
“That’s an order,” Caleb repeated, low but iron.
The surgeon sighed and nodded, limping from the cabin.
“Could be spiritual,” Alden announced once he’d gone.
Caleb glanced over. “You mean the illness?”
“Aye. A curse, perhaps. Demonic.”
“Rot,” Brandt barked from the passageway. “Superstition!”
“’Tisn’t superstition when you’ve seen what I’ve seen,” Alden said softly once the doctor had vanished.
Caleb stared at him for a long moment. “You truly believe that?”
Alden managed a faint nod. “The doctor hides behind his science, same as you hide behind your command. He works himself to death tryin’ to earn forgiveness, just as you do.”
Caleb’s jaw tightened. “Brandt never murdered the innocent.”
“Neither did you.”
The words struck deeper than any blade. Caleb turned to the window, the sea stretching vast and gleaming.
The breeze carried through the cabin, filling it with the scent of salt and tar and far horizons.
The ocean—wild, unending—was the one thing that still made sense. The one thing that bound him to her.
“You miss her,” Alden said quietly.
Caleb swallowed. “More than you know.”
“Then let her go. If the Almighty wills it, she’ll return. If not, her work here is done.”
But Caleb could not—would not—believe that.
“She found me once,” he said, his voice low with conviction. “She’ll find me again.”
Turning, he left the cabin before Alden could answer, his boots ringing against the planks, the folded parchment close to his heart.