Chapter 12 Drew
I woke up on a cot in a boiler room I had not seen before.
The ceiling was concrete. The light was a single bulb in a wire cage at the south end of the room, on a generator wire that ran out the door.
The smell was wood smoke and antibiotic ointment and the faint mineral smell that the post-invasion boiler-rooms developed when they had been running on salvaged coal.
The pain was in my side, low, on the left, the pain that the half-Vampyren biology registered as a presence-of-something-wrong rather than as an emergency.
My wrist had been redressed. The bandage on my side was new.
The blanket on me was the army-surplus tarp the Mojave camp used for emergency cots.
I turned my head.
Cora was on the cot next to mine.
She was awake. She was sitting up. Her left arm had a small bandage at the elbow crease. She was looking at me.
"Drew."
"Cora."
"You're awake."
"Yes."
"How do you feel."
I thought about it.
"Tired."
"You should be."
"Cora."
"Yes."
"What did you put in me."
She did not answer for a second.
She said: "A unit of blood."
"Whose."
"Mine."
I closed my eyes.
I had known this was coming. I had known this was coming from the moment I had felt Hess's blade go through my side.
I had known the math. I had known the field kit.
I had known that Sylvia would say transfusion and that the donor would have to be present and that the only O-positive on the team was Cora.
Knowing was not the same as having it done.
I opened my eyes.
I said: "Cora."
"Yes."
"That is the thing I have spent eleven years not letting happen."
"I know."
"You did it without asking."
"I know."
"You did it because I was unconscious and Sylvia said it had to happen in twenty minutes."
"Yes."
"I would have refused."
"I know."
"Cora."
"Drew. I know. You would have refused. You would have refused because you have built yourself, for eleven years, into a man who does not cost anyone anything.
You would have refused because letting me give you my blood would have meant my body had spent itself on yours and the spending would have been the thing you could not pay back.
You would have refused. I know. That is why Sylvia did not ask.
That is why she did the draw while you were unconscious.
That is why we are having this conversation after the fact and not before. "
"Cora."
"Drew."
"Yes."
"I am going to talk for a minute. You are going to listen. You can argue at the end. Are you listening."
"Yes."
She turned to face me fully. The bandage at her elbow was the small clean-line bandage that Sylvia put on a draw site. She had been bleeding for me an hour ago. Now she was sitting up, talking.
She said:
"You have been refusing for eleven years to be a man whose body costs anyone anything.
The refusal has been the shape you have built yourself into.
The refusal is your skin. The refusal is the reason you do not eat in the common kitchen.
The refusal is the reason you do not let Brecca treat you.
The refusal is the reason you sleep at the southern edge of the camp.
The refusal is the reason you have spent nine months at the perimeter waiting for somebody to sign a paper because you would not ask.
The refusal is. Drew. The refusal is the wound.
Ellen's death was the original cut. The refusal is the scar tissue that grew over it.
You have been wearing the scar tissue for eleven years. "
"Cora."
"I am not done. You said you would listen."
"Yes."
"You said ours last night."
"Yes."
"You said it twice. At the barn behind Sidney.
You broke the rule. You said ours. You broke the rule because you were ready to break it.
You were ready because the bridge happened.
You were ready because the Steinbeck happened.
You were ready because the team happened.
You were ready because Renn and Sylvia and Cruz and Veron and I held the count and you found yourself in the count and the finding was the thing.
You broke the rule because you were ready.
The breaking happened in your mouth. The rule was already broken in your body before the kiss. "
"Cora."
"I am not done. Listen to me. Sylvia put a unit of my blood into you because the math required it.
The math was not the only reason. The math is what we use when we cannot say the other reason out loud.
The other reason was that I love you. The other reason was that the body that has been mine and the body that has been yours are now the same project, and the project needs my blood right now because Hess's blade did its damage.
I am not sorry I gave you the blood. I am not going to be sorry.
I am not going to apologize for the giving.
I am going to tell you that the giving was something I did because I love you and because Sylvia knew you would refuse and because the team holds and because the count is holding. Are you listening."
I did not say anything.
I was listening.
She waited.
She said:
"Drew. You said ours. I am saying ours. The blood that was mine is now yours.
The blood that is yours is now ours. You can argue.
You can sit up and tell me Sylvia should not have drawn me.
You can tell me that you would have refused.
I will listen. But the blood is already in you.
The blood has done its work. The wound is closing.
The fever you are running is from your body integrating the blood and Sylvia says the fever will pass by morning.
You can say anything you want. The blood is in you. The giving has happened."
I closed my eyes.
I lay very still.
The pain in my side was the presence-of-something-wrong. The pain was not an emergency. The pain was a thing.
I thought about Ellen.
I thought about the small lot behind the apartment building in Phoenix where I had buried her with three rocks.
I thought about how I had been seven years old.
I thought about how she had been thirty-eight.
I thought about how she had carried me for seven years and had then died and had not been able to ask me to carry her, because she had been a woman whose body had given me everything and had not asked for anything back, and the not-asking had been the thing.
I had been seven years old.
I had decided, at the small lot, that I was not going to be a person who would let someone else's body do the giving Ellen's body had done.
I had decided because the decision had been the only one available to a seven-year-old whose foster mother had died of an infection that his half-Vampyren body would have shrugged off in two days.
I had decided. The deciding had been the wound.
The wound had grown skin.
The skin had become the man at the Mojave perimeter at dawn for nine months.
The man at the Mojave perimeter had been let in by Cora signing a paper.
The man on the road had read the Joads to Cora in his foster mother's voice.
The man at the gap had taken Hess's blade.
The man on the cot had Cora's blood in his veins.
I opened my eyes.
I said: "Cora."
"Yes."
"It is going to take me a while."
"I know."
"I am not going to be okay with it today.
Or tomorrow. Or the next day. The thing in me that has been refusing for eleven years, the thing did not sign the paper.
Sylvia signed the paper for the thing. Sylvia gave the blood to my unconscious body because Sylvia knew the thing would refuse.
The thing is going to have an opinion when it wakes up.
The thing is awake now. It is not okay with what Sylvia did.
It is not okay with what you allowed. The thing is going to be angry for.
Cora, I do not know how long. Days. Weeks. Maybe a year. Maybe my whole life."
"Drew."
"I am not finished. You said I could argue at the end. I am arguing."
"Argue."
"I am angry that the giving happened without my consent.
I am angry that the math required it and I am angry that Sylvia did the draw without asking and I am angry that you did not say Drew, wake up, I am going to give you my blood, do you agree.
I am angry that the math allowed for it.
I am angry that the math allowed for it because the math was the thing I have been hiding behind for eleven years, and the math is the thing that just took the hiding place away from me, and I do not have a new hiding place.
I am angry. I am angry, Cora. I am angry at all of you.
I am angry at myself. I am angry at Hess.
I am angry at Ellen. I am angry at the seven-year-old who decided.
I am angry at the man at the perimeter. I am angry. "
"Drew."
"I am also grateful."
"Drew."
"I am grateful, Cora. I am grateful. The two things are happening at the same time.
The thing that has been refusing for eleven years is angry.
The thing that signed the paper is grateful.
The two things are both me. The thing that has been refusing is not the only me.
The thing that signed the paper is also me. Both. I am holding both."
"Drew."
"Yes."
"That is the most you have said to me in nine months. That is the most you have said to me in your entire life."
"I know."
"You said it without flinching."
"I am. Cora, I am bleeding internally on a cot. I do not have the energy to flinch."
"Drew."
"Yes."
"Are you okay."
"No."
"Are you going to be okay."
"Yes."
"Drew."
"Yes."
"I love you."
I closed my eyes.
I had heard the words. I had registered them.
I did not say them back.
I could not say them back yet. The thing was angry.
The thing did not let me. I had said ours at the barn.
I had said ours at the gap. I had said ours to her in two different moments in two different states of body and the ours had been the closest I could come to the words.
I was not yet at the words. I was at the ours.
She did not press.
She knew.