Part 35 (1/2)
”Mary,” he said strongly, his dull eyes focusing on her. ”I gave them no choice.”
”What did you do?”
”It's over. And you are not to be angry with them.” His stare fuzzed out again.
As far as she was concerned, she could be anything the h.e.l.l she wanted at those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds.
”Mary?”
”Don't worry.” She stroked his cheek, wis.h.i.+ng she could wash the blood off of his face. When he flinched at the light contact, she pulled back. ”Won't you please let me get you something?”
”Just talk to me. Read to me...”
There were a few contemporary books on the shelves next to his DVD wasteland, and she went over to the hardcovers. She grabbed a Harry Potter, the second one, and pulled a chair up next to the bed. It was hard to concentrate at first because she kept measuring his respiration, but eventually she found a rhythm and so did he. His breathing slowed and the spasms stopped.
When he was asleep, she closed the book. His forehead was wrinkled, his lips pale and tight. She hated that the pain was with him even in the rest he'd found.
Mary felt the years peel away.
She saw her mother's yellow bedroom. Smelled disinfectant. Heard labored, desperate breaths.Here she was again, she thought. Another bedside. Another's suffering. Helpless.
She looked around the room, eyes landing on the Madonna and Child over the dresser. In this context the painting was art, not icon, part of a museum-quality collection and used only as decoration.
So she didn't have to hate the d.a.m.n thing. And she wasn't scared of it, either.
The Madonna statue in her mother's room had been different. Mary had despised it, and the instant Cissy Luce's body had left the house, that piece of plaster had been in the garage. Mary hadn't had the heart to break it, but she'd wanted to.
The next morning she'd taken the thing to Our Lady and dropped it off. Same with the crucifix. As she'd driven out of the church's parking lot, the triumph she'd felt, the veritable f.u.c.k you to G.o.d, had been heady, the only good feeling that came to her for a long time. The rush hadn't lasted, though. When she'd returned to the house, all she'd seen was the shadow on the wall where the cross had been and the dust-free spot on the floor where the statue had stood.
Two years later, to the very day she'd dropped those objects of devotion off, she'd been diagnosed with leukemia.
Logically she knew she wasn't cursed because she'd dumped the things. There were 365 days to hit on the calendar, and like a ball on a roulette wheel, the announcement of her disease had had to land on one of them. In her heart, though, she sometimes believed otherwise. Which made her hate G.o.d even more.
h.e.l.l... He didn't have time to spare a miracle for her mother, who'd been faithful. But He went out of His way to punish a sinner like her. Go figure.
”You ease me,” Rhage said.
Her eyes snapped to his. She cleared her head by taking his hand. ”How are you?”
”Better. Your voice soothes me.”
It had been the same with her mother, she thought. Her mother had like the sound of her talking, too.
”You want something to drink?” she asked.
”What were you thinking about just now?”
”Nothing.”
He closed his eyes.
”Would you like me to wash you?” she said.
When he shrugged, she went to the bathroom and came back with a warm, damp washcloth and a dry bath towel. She cleaned his face and gently worked around the edges of the bandages.
”I'm going to take these off, okay?”
He nodded and she carefully peeled the tape from his skin. She pulled the gauze and padding back.
Mary shuddered, bile rising up into her mouth.
He'd been whipped. It was the only explanation for the marks.
”Oh... Rhage.” Tears clouded her eyes, but she didn't allow them to fall. ”I'm just going to change the dressing. This is too... tender to wash yet. Do you have-”
”Bathroom. Floor-to-ceiling cupboard to the right of the mirror.”
Standing in front of the cabinet, she was daunted by the supplies he kept on hand. Surgical kits. Plaster for broken bones.
Bandages of all kinds. Tape. She took what she thought she'd need and went back to him. Ripping open sterile packs of twelve- inch gauze pads, she laid them on his chest and stomach and figured she'd just let them sit there. There was no way she could lift his torso off the mattress to wrap him up, and taping them all together would involve too much fiddling around.
As she patted down the lower left section of bandages, Rhage jerked. She glanced at him. ”Did I hurt you?”
”Funny question.”
”I'm sorry?”
His eyes flipped open, his stare hard. ”You don't even know, do you?”
Clearly not. ”Rhage, what do you need?”
”For you to talk to me.”
”Okay. Let me finish here.”
As soon as she was done, she opened up the book. He cursed.
Confused, she reached for his hand. ”I don't know what you want.”
”It's not that tough to figure out.” His voice was weak but indignant. ”Christ, Mary, can you at least once let me in?”
There was a knock across the room. They both glared at the sound.
”I'll be right back,” she said.
When she opened the door, the man with the goatee was on the other side. He had a silver tray weighed down with food balanced on one hand.
”I'm Vishous, by the way. Is he awake?”
”Hey, V,” Rhage said.