Chapter 19
Blame It On The Painkillers
Everything is a jumble that I'm only vaguely aware of.
Dr. Lia's face. Dante. A pretty, young Italian nurse in pale green scrubs checking my temperature and blood pressure.
Being moved, fluorescent lights overhead, the casters of the hospital bed rattling.
More lights. Different doctors. A mask being placed over my mouth and nose and the nasty scent of fake banana, and then nothingness.
When my eyes open again, it's to a dull throb of pain all up and down my left side, pulsing at my shoulder and hip. My arm is immobilized in a sling, and bandages wrap around my midsection, low over my hip.
I feel achy, sweaty, and diabolically thirsty. I need a drink of water more than just about anything…except to see Story.
Someone comes in, checks the meds on the IV. "You are hurting?" This nurse is a little older, more middle-aged, with a cool, delicate touch.
"A bit."
"More drug?"
"Per favore."
"Italiano! Very good!" She adjusts something, and a slow numbing warmth spreads through me. "That should help."
"Yeah. Thanks." I sigh as the pain recedes. "Where is Story?"
"Other room. Riposa."
"Can I see her?"
"Dovresti riposare anche tu."
"I'm riposa'd. I need to see Story."
"Chiederò al medico."
"Ask Dr. Lia."
A snort. "Is what I say."
"Well, I don't speak that much Italian, do I?”
She frowns down at me and then fiddles with the IV again. "Riposa." It sounds like a command.
In fact, it's more of a statement of the inevitable, because I fade back into sleep moments later, without getting that drink of water.
Help, I've been drugged.
Kidding. I mean, I have, but I know it's probably necessary.
When I wake again, I'm alone and I need to see Story. There's a wheelchair by the door with one of those little hook-and-pole situations for the IV, if only I knew how to move the thing one-handed.
Fuck it. Let's try.
Dr. Lia comes in while I'm fiddling with the IV machine, trying to figure out how to move it from the bed to the chair. "Ehi, what are you doing? You stop that."
"Need to see Story."
"Why do you think I am here?" She tsks. "Gli uomini. Così fottutatmente stupidi. Cosa sai? Un cazzo. Standing up, gonna move around by yourself. Gonna ruin all my work to fix you. Cosi fottutatmenta stupidi."
I lay back down—not without relief—and Dr. Lia unlocks the bed's wheels, pushes me out of the room.
We don't return to the secret room, this time.
Instead, she takes me to another room like mine, just a couple doors down, with a real hospital bed.
Every door, I notice, has been kicked in, the frames around the latches splintered.
Down the hall, workmen are replacing the frame of a door.
Story is asleep when Dr. Lia rolls me in and positions my bed next to hers with a gestured injunction to keep quiet.
I nod and let myself relax, now that I'm with Story.
She's in a hospital gown, like me, with monitor leads and IV tubes everywhere. She looks better—she’s got some of her color back.
Before, she wasn't asleep; she was unconscious. Not the same thing at all.
This is sleep.
Her hand is small and still against the white sheet. I cover it with mine, let my eyes close.
"Mmm." Her voice is a low, sleepy moan. "Kill?"
"Ssshhh. I'm here."
She moans again, turns her hand so our fingers tangle. "Killy."
"Got you."
"Talked to…Mom'n…Mom'n Dad. On…th’way."
“Okay, good. Means we'll be going home soon."
"Mmm. Home soon." Her sleepy blue eyes find mine. "You'n me. Home…t'gether. 'Kay?"
"Wherever you are is home, honey."
"Love…you."
"I love you too, Story. Go back to sleep. I'll be right here next to you when you wake up."
"Never…leave?"
"Never."
She falls back under, then, although her hand continues to clutch mine, even in sleep, for a long time before it goes slack.
I'm not far behind her, but not before Dr. Lia comes back with a Styrofoam cup of ice water, which I sip greedily until my stomach sloshes and my eyes slide shut without my say-so.
The next time my eyes slide open, Story is awake and eating, each movement cautious.
She's chatting in low tones with someone—Selah, her long thick black hair silvered at the temples.
Anselm is standing behind her, his hands resting on Selah's shoulders, listening as Story talks.
Anselm hasn't changed much over the years—his hair is a little thinner, blond hiding most of the gray.
A few more crow's feet, maybe. But overall, he’s the same as ever.
His eyes flick to me. "Ah. Killian, you are awake."
Story looks at me with a smile. "Hey, you."
I smile back. "Hi. You seem a bit better."
“Oh, I am. I'm on so many drugs right now." She does seem a bit loopy. "Yay drugs!"
Anselm whips out a cell phone and sends a quick message. "Your parents are here. They only stepped out for a moment."
"Brynnie?" I ask.
"Safe."
"Cal?"
The pause is heavy. "Still missing."
"But Pugli is dead."
"Reports are mixed," Anselm says, "but what we have been able to learn is that he seems to have escaped Pugli's men, only to run afoul of some other kind of trouble. What kind of trouble, we cannot say for sure, but it seems connected to a girl."
I snort. "Figures. Only Cal would get himself out of trouble and then into more trouble because of a girl.”
The door swings open and Mom flies into the room like an ICBM, only just barely halting her momentum before she reaches me, her hands fluttering like frantic birds around my face before settling, clutching gently.
"Killy, my boy." Her eyes are tired but full of joy and relief.
"There you are." Her wild, tightly curled black hair is pulled back into a giant curly poofball, which she only does when she's serious, worried, or seriously worried.
"My sweet boy." Her kisses to my cheeks are delicate and soft and warm, just like when I was a boy and had a skinned knee or something.
Makes my eyes burn and my throat tight. I blink hard, look away. "Goddammit, Ma."
She sniffs a laugh. “I’m not crying, you’re crying,” she says, sniffling as she swipes at my eyes with her fingertips. "What are a few tears among family? You've been missing for more than two weeks!"
Dad is here, too, his hard, weathered face as unexpressive as ever, his eyes the only window into his emotions—relief, mainly. "Glad to see you in one piece, son.”
I snicker. "Mostly."
"Bah. Coupl'a holes. You'll be fine. Ask me how I know."
I take the bait. "How do you know, Dad?"
He grins at me. "Well, the first one, this one—" he lifts his black tee and shows me a faint, round, puckered scar high on his left side. "That one missed my lung by a whisker."
"Nicholas." Mom's voice is a bark. "I hardly think the kids need to hear your war stories."
"I dunno, Mom," I say. "I think I'll have a better appreciation for them, now."
"Perhaps now that we are all here together," Anselm says, "you two could debrief us on the events of the last few days."
I glance at Story. “You didn't fill them in?"
Anselm answers for her. "She would not discuss anything without you."
I scrub my face with both hands. "It's seriously only been a few days?"
"Less than a week since Story vanished," Dad says.
"Feels like a different life. It's honestly kind of hard to remember anything from before the container." I feel…shaky. Inside. Tightly wound. Fragile. "Shit." My throat burns, aches, tighter than a piano wire.
Maybe I’m more affected by time in that lightless hellhole than I realized.
Story sets her plate and fork aside and reaches for my hand. "Kills? You okay, baby?"
Mom, Dad, Anselm, and Selah trade glances at the nickname and the endearment.
“Yeah, that happened too," I mutter.
"We know," all four say in unison.
Story squeezes my hand. "What's up?"
I shake my head, words bubbling up and evaporating before I can get them out, dissolving in the infernal heat clogging my throat.
I close my eyes, but the darkness is oppressive, and suddenly I’m back in that container. I shake my head again. "Fuck."
"It's okay, sweetheart," Mom says. "You don't need to talk about it right now."
I wrench my eyes open. I can't stop the haze from leaking down my cheeks, and I drop my gaze to my lap, embarrassed to the point of physical pain.
"Lemme in," Dad growls, his voice gruff.
Mom shuffles aside, and he perches on the edge of the bed, scrubs his hand over my hair and then grabs a handful and tugs my head back so I'm forced to look at him; despite the roughness of the gesture, it's affectionate, loving. Which doesn’t fucking help me control my shit.
"Goddammit, Dad."
"Hey.” His voice is hard, but it’s a shell of hardness over tender intent. "You listen to me, son."
I nod, not looking at him.
"You fuckin' look at me when I'm talking to you, boy." He waits until I lift my eyes to his. "You don't have a single goddamn motherfucking thing to be ashamed of." He wipes a thumb under my eyes like I'm three all over again. "This ain’t weakness."
"Never seen you cry," I mumble.
"I have," Mom says. "A few times."
Dad cuffs my cheek, leaves his hand there.
“You held your shit together when it mattered, son.
" He sighs. "My first firefight, I was nineteen.
Brand new grunt fresh outta training, didn't even have to fuckin' shave yet.
Scared outta my goddamn mind. I froze. The whole fight happened without me.
Couldn't move a muscle. Funny thing is, not one round came anywhere close to me.
I was so fuckin' embarrassed and ashamed I cried like a little boy on the ride back to base. "
"Bullshit," I say.
"It's true!" h e says. "Hold up." He dials a number from his contacts.
It rings a few times and then a deep male voice I don’t recognize answers. "Commander Harris. Been a minute. What can I do for you, ol' buddy?"
"Answer a quick question."
"Shoot."
"My first firefight."
The man on the other side chuckles. "Oh man. I was sure I'd been stuck with a NOF." He pronounces it n-AHW-ff.