Chapter 25
Christian
"Forgiveness is a gift you allow yourself to give, even when others don't deserve it."
“What don’t you understand, child?” Her voice is like razor blades to my ears. “I can’t help! My tonics aren’t working!”
My mind is reeling, and I am doing everything in my power not to bash this witch’s face in.
I yank the folded envelope from my hoodie pocket.
“Then why was she sent this letter?” I shove the parchment into her wrinkled hands.
I run my tongue over my teeth as she tears back the paper, and I’m confused even more when the expression on her face shows disbelief at what she has just been handed.
“Where-” She stops reading to look up at me, and tears start to pool in her eyes. “Where did you get this?”
“Lady, did you not hear me?” I scoff. Pointing up to the little room at the end of the hall, gesturing towards Evelyn. “I found it in her nightstand at the rehab center, and I’m glad I took it before that ginger-headed crackpot of a doctor started dosin’ her.”
I watch as her eyes morph from sadness to relief, then full-on anger.
“Red hair, you say?” Her voice changes, and I can’t place her accent anymore, but she kinda rolls her ‘R’s.
If I had to guess, I would say German, but it was only in this moment.
When I first met her, I swore she was from Jersey—I listened as she proceeded.
“Pine green eyes and vacant expression?” She finishes asking her question, although it sounded more like a statement.
Cocking my head at how spot on her description of that dirtbag is, I am almost certain she knew him. “How did you know that, and why does it matter to you?” She sighed, and the words that left her mouth next… have me backtracking on my disrespectful attitude toward her in a heartbeat.
“Because he killed my husband… and my son…” Tears roll down her face.
If one is educated enough in micro-expressions, they would know that her lackadaisical approach to the situation at hand may not be because she doesn’t care.
No, from what she has just told me, she was hurt too much in an abbreviated length of time, in ways it appears she will never be able to overcome.
Her voice shakes a little as she speaks. “And I will be the devil's daughter if I allow him to take the lives of my grandchildren.” All her Jersey was subdued, overtaken her angry German side at this point.
Spinning away from me, she heads over to the register counter.
The phone is in her hand, and to her ear in a matter of seconds.
“I need an ambulance to my address immediately.” Her German accent is gone again, as she finishes the conversation and hangs up.
A heaviness falls on my shoulders as I watch her stare at the receiver.
Her hands are shaking, her breathing unsteady…
she swallows hard, then picks it up and dials another number.
Leaving her to take the phone call, I saunter up the stairs to check on Evelyn, who has been going in and out of consciousness.
I kneel at her bedside, placing the back of my hand to her forehead—no fever, but she is clammy to the touch, and sweat is beading on her skin like she was sprayed with a layer of Rain-X.
“She called for help, sugar.” I trace her hair line as I speak, “You’re going to be ok, hang in there, baby.”
I brush her cheek with my forefinger as footsteps approach me from behind. I try not to be startled—five years overseas makes you skittish.
“You’ve been here a bit,” The woman’s voice is soft. “Yet I don’t know your name.”
“Christian. Ma’am.” Still looking at Evelyn, I stand, slowly. “My name is Christian.”
“Very well, Christian. I am Niven. I have called for emergency transportation. Also, I… have also,” she clears her throat, “I have also called her mother.” Her hands clasp together as she straightens her back. “Now, if you will pardon me a moment, I must get work done before everyone gets here.”
Screams erupt outside, pulling both mine and Niven’s attention in its direction.
Looking back at Evelyn, I tell her, “I will be right back, baby.” The wind combs through my hair as I dash to the door.
Niven is already outside, her hands clasped over her mouth in shock—following her line of sight, a clear picture of what has her frightened comes into view.
It’s that piece of shit.
Without a second to lose, I charge past Niven. The film of red that forms over my eyes almost prevents me from feeling the grip of her frail hand.
“Please don’t, she needs you.” I hate that she is right. I don’t know who the other man is, but I am grateful. I am also a little judgmental—although I admire his weapon of choice, I am also against such a shiny silver necklace decorating that doctor’s worthless throat.
I look around, and Niven is nowhere in sight.
I hear her calling from the library, just as the man hollers.
I glance back one last time—the man and the doctor are gone.
Rushing back inside the building, I find Evelyn is seizing on the floor.
Niven is holding her, “Sugar!” I only pause a moment before I slide across the hardwood floor, quickly getting within range, to help Niven keep Evelyn on her side—so she doesn’t asphyxiate on her tongue or fluids that may form.
This was a useful trick I learned in the field.
“I thought I figured out the drug.” Niven is no longer fighting back her emotions. “I am sorry, I am all out of ideas. It's like there are multiple contributors to her condition.”
She is no longer trying to appear unbreakable.
Watching this old woman’s walls collapse and witnessing the mix of emotions that must be spiraling within her, let me know I am not alone.
Then, the realization hits me. “It was a fucking cocktail!” I scream in anger as Niven’s eyes shoot up to meet mine.
The fear of not knowing what would happen next causes consternation among both of us.
It doesn’t take too long until she comes out of it, but it felt like forever.
“No wonder my tonics aren’t working,” I look to Niven as she speaks, “We’ve been trying to treat one at a time.”
“Well, no matter now.” I interject, “There is no time left, and help is on the way.”
Once all has settled, Niven places her hand on my shoulder.
“Bring her to the room to rest. Her mother and the ambulance will be here in due time.” Bowing my head to her, I give her my thanks, then head upstairs.
Opening the door to the little bedroom using my shoulder after fighting with the handle for a moment, I lay her limp body on the bed.
lean down to kiss her cold lips, and I whisper.
“I want to take care of you for as long as we both shall live, sugar. Please hold on for me.”
Evelyn
The Nausea comes and goes like the rising of salt water to the ocean’s shore.
Darkness again?
Was my self-torment not enough?
Here we go, I get to relive the last time I let my sister down—
for the umpteenth time.
As the water ascends around me, so does my doubt that I will ever outlive my guilt of always letting her down. My whole life, I fought for our father's love—blaming her when he left. I was always making the wrong choices, falling in with the wrong crowd of people on my egotistic road to self-worth.
Around every corner, through every single downfall, my sister was the one who was there for me—Always. When I crashed in that five-car pile-up, who was the one who convinced Mom that something wasn’t right?
She was.
I should have taken that moment—I should have told her then that I had a problem, an addiction. I kick myself for not daring to face her judgment. When I was at my weakest, I wished that I had the strength, in that instant, to ask for her help.
All the euphoric elevations from the ecstasy, the many different rewards from the multiple divergent ‘highs’—only fed the narcissistic side of me, while the rest drifted into the shadows.
As time passed, I faded further away, till I no longer recognized myself in the mirror.
The only thing I saw there was: a gaunt, malnourished husk of who I once was and the ghostly whisper of potential that I could have possessed.
My wallowing is interrupted by a deep, soft voice that echoes and leaves behind a residual sense of happiness.
In the state that I am in, time is but a construct at this point, and gravity is nonexistent—I am floating.
Then, like the eye of a hurricane has passed over me, it all comes to a full stop.
The calm before the storm, I feel my body being propped up against something firm—the soft scent of cinnamon and pine fills my nostrils.
I am overtaken by an extremely sharp but quick pain that prickles through my body as it starts to wake up. My eyes begin to flutter and fight against the bright light as I strain to open them. A blurry figure is standing over me, and I try to reach up, but my body is heavy with fatigue.
“Christy?” My voice is gentle, as I push back the urge to vomit—I am confident I placed the voice.
“Yes, sugar,” his voice is sweet and gentle, “I am here.”
He takes my hand, his warmth being a welcome reminder that—what is in front of me—is real. For so long, I was stuck in a void, lost inside my own head, drowning in my failures.
“We got help coming, baby.” I feel his hand slide across my back, “Are you ok to walk?”
Sliding my foot straight in front of me, I jokingly wiggle my toes.
“No? That’s ok, I have you now.” I give him a tired half-smile.
He slides his arm further around me, draping mine over his broad shoulders—then we make our way downstairs.
My mother is here speaking with an elderly woman.
I hobble over to stand next to them, the hope of being introduced to the woman who took us in, presses to the forefront of my mind.