Part 26 (1/2)

Rayburn and I take turns driving and tending to the wounded. Clay is in the worst shape. He's lost so much blood. Rayburn stops the bleeding and administers antibiotics, but without blood to give, it's hard to tell if he'll make it. When I'm not driving and gripping the steering wheel so tight my fingerprints embed in the wheel, I'm sitting in the back of the van holding Clay's and Mama's hands. She has yet to wake up. Rayburn just shrugs, but from what Dr. Vandewater claimed, Mama's life is in as much jeopardy as Clay's now.

We run out of gas next to an abandoned church down a long driveway. I look up at the bleached adobe building as Rayburn pulls slowly behind the back wall with the last of our gas. Some of the colored gla.s.s windows have a few panes intact. The giant wood cross aims skyward from the roof like a conduit straight to G.o.d. I sigh. It's as good a place as any to see who lives and dies.

I hobble through the old church, scouting out a room for Mama. In the sanctuary, with rows of sagging wooden pews, I scare a flock of birds out of the nest they've built in the organ pipes. They fly up out of a hole in the roof. Two tattered banners drape from the walls on either side of the little stage in the center. One says Peace with a silk dove sown below it; the other says Hope with a large brown cross. I grab a few crusty pew cus.h.i.+ons and carry them down the hall.

I find the room a few doors down. This quiet little nook must've been the church's small library-stacks of yellow books lie in piles where they've spilled out of the tilted shelves. I push them out of the way. A book called The Fiddler loses its binding and cracks in my hands. The pages flutter out like tattered moth wings. The Heaven Answer Book must've had better glue because it stays intact. I turn the crackling book over in my hands. Maybe I'll try to read it if I have time. I could use some answers. Like why Betsy and not me? And what will happen to my mama if she dies? I set the books down and make a cozy nest for my mother. Then I walk back out to the van and help carry her in.

Rayburn and I settle her on the cus.h.i.+ons. They smell faintly of bird droppings but it's the best I can do. I lay her veined hands over her stomach. She looks lovely with the dim afternoon light filtering in through the cobwebbed windows. Her burned face is set as in a peaceful slumber. Suddenly I have a vision of her inside one of the plushy coffins from before things fell apart. I shake the image away.

”Mama,” I whisper, pus.h.i.+ng a few strands off the burned part of her face. ”Wake up,” I say, running my thumb over her hand. ”Ethan needs you.” I choke back a sob. ”I need you.”

When she doesn't stir, I set her hand down and limp out to the van to help bring in Clay. I find Ethan and Rayburn hauling him out. In the sunlight, Clay's face looks like the pages of the books in there, pale, worn and fragile. There are large grayish circles under his eyes. The apples of his cheeks flare bright red in the white of his face. His eyes flutter open and he groans as they ease him into the small sanctuary. In one corner I've made a bed for him out of pew cus.h.i.+ons. As they settle him onto the cus.h.i.+ons, puffs of dust swirl through the triangles of light streaming in from the ceiling. Rayburn and Ethan go back to the van for supplies. I sit beside Clay and tuck the cus.h.i.+ons around him.

Clay's eyes flutter as he reaches for me with his good hand. His bandaged right hand lies lifelessly on his chest. I'm too afraid to look at what's underneath. Will he ever draw from the hip again?

He runs the back of his hand over the bruise where his father hit me. I lean down and touch my lips to his parched ones.

He gives a delightful moan. ”Is that all I get?” His voice is gravely and weak. ”No sugar after I shot our way out?”

I smile wanly. ”You'll get plenty of sugar when you're better.” I brush the sweaty clumps of hair out of his eyes. His lids flutter again. He swims out of sleep and his face tightens in pain.

I start to stand. ”I'll get you some of Rayburn's magic pills,” I say. ”Thank G.o.d for those supplies Betsy got us.”

And there it is, the wave of pain that punches me in the stomach every time I think about Betsy. I haven't slept since the hospital. When I do, I know I'll see her face as those guards closed in like piranhas on a chunk of meat. Her terrified eyes greet me from every darkened doorway. Her cries echo from every quiet corner.

I jump as Clay's hand closes over mine. I offer a weak smile.

”It wasn't your fault,” he says. ”Nothing you could do to save her.”

”Nothing?” I ask. I picture Betsy's face. I've spent the hours since going over every detail. If I'd had Clay's feet instead. If I'd been a second quicker. If I'd jumped out of the truck instead of hesitating. There were lots of things I could've done.

”Stop torturing yourself.” He reaches for me again, but this time I don't fall into his arms. I like torturing myself. Maybe someday I'll stop, but not today.

”Riley!” Ethan's shrill voice calls from down the hall. I snap my head around.

”Go,” Clay says, his eyes wide with fear.

I bolt from the sanctuary into the little library where we've tucked my mother. I scramble to a stop, knocking over a pile of books, sending up a cloud of dust.

”What?” I ask, stepping over the books to get to Ethan. ”What is it?”

He doesn't answer. Instead he moves aside.

Mama's eyes are open. ”Riley?” she asks.

For weeks, I'd been racking my brain to remember the color of Mama's eyes. I remembered they were brown like mine, but what shade? Chocolate? Mocha? Coffee? Where there flecks in the center? How did they look when they fell on me? How did I feel at that moment when my mother saw me and liked what she saw?

I kneel down, my trembling hand reaching for hers. Her cracked lips draw up in a smile. ”Baby,” she whispers.

I look into my mother's deep brown eyes. Now I remember.

In the light of an electric torch, I lean over Clay's sweat-flecked face as Rayburn readies the scalpel over Clay's exposed thigh. I look into Clay's eyes.

”Are you ready?” I whisper. I offer a leather bible cover. Clay folds it in half and nods. His face tightens, sweat streaming down in rivulets. He places the cover in his mouth and bites down.

I take his hand. ”Squeeze as hard as you need.” If only I could take the pain for him.

He nods again, but his eyes trace up into the rafters of the church as he readies himself.

I watch his face as Rayburn takes the scalpel and presses it into the bullet hole in Clay's thigh.

Clay's grip tightens on my fingers. His teeth pierce the leather. Rayburn begins muttering as he digs.

”Hurry, Rayburn,” I say, as Clay's back arches and a little moan escapes his lips.

”I'm, uh, trying,” Rayburn says. He swipes his forearm across his sweaty brow and goes back to searching for the bullet. Clay's hand tightens around mine again. The smell of blood and antiseptic makes my stomach churn, but I clench my jaw and fight the sickness. Clay needs me. Finally, Rayburn sighs and holds up b.l.o.o.d.y tweezers. At the end is the red slug.

I let out a puff of air. ”Over,” I say, patting Clay's hand. He gives a slight nod, but his face is still twisted in pain. He's more pale than usual. A s.h.i.+ver runs through him, though it's still nearly eighty degrees inside the church. I press my lips to his sweaty forehead. ”You did great.”

He leans into me and tries to smile. ”Nursemaid, too,” he says. ”Nothing you can't do, hmm?”

I smile and wipe sweat from his brow with the hem of my s.h.i.+rt. ”Can't keep you from getting shot up. Can't do that, can I?”

Rayburn finishes bandaging the wound and packs up his med kit. ”I'll, uh, go out to the fire.” He looks at me, adjusting his bleary gla.s.ses. ”I gave him some morphine. He, uh, he needs to rest.”

Clay nods, his eyes drooping. ”You go out to the fire,” he slurs. ”I'll be fine.”

I kiss his hand, the one that's not a giant, bandaged mess. I tuck the ratty curtain he's using as a blanket around him. Before I'm out the door, he's breathing evenly.

In the barren churchyard, Ethan's built a small fire. Rayburn sits Indian-style on the ground, digging into a can of food from the van. Mama and Ethan sit hip to hip. She's got her arms around him and he leans into her embrace. It's so good to see them sitting there together. Now it's my turn.

”I told her everything,” Ethan says as I walk up to the fire.

”Lord, I hope not,” I say smiling. She smiles back. It's so good to see my mother smile.

”He told me all the best parts,” she says, her voice lilting, musical. ”He saved the gory details for later.” She pats the curtain she's spread over the dust. ”Come, darling. Fill in the rest.”

I fold myself into her.

Ethan pokes a stick into the blaze and then uses the burning end to trace red shapes in the darkness. ”Mama knew Clay's mother. You know, the lady at the hospital.”

I turn to Mama. ”You knew Clay's mother?”

Mama nods. She's still weak, almost frail, but her mannerisms are all the same as I remember. The corner of her mouth lifts just before she speaks. ”When I knew her, Nessa Vandewater wasn't such a fancy pants. She was just another patient like me at the Breeder's hospital. That was the year before you were born,” she says, touching my knee. Her eyes trail back to the fire.

”They brought Nessa in already pregnant and big as a house.” She rounds her arms out to mimic a giant belly. ”I guess that was your friend Clay.” She looks up at me. I blush and turn my eyes to the glowing embers.