A Keeper's Truth (28 page)

“She’s
cold again,” says Stephen, diving for the blankets stacked at the end of the
bed.

Tess
shakes, the chill of trauma assaulting her a second time. The motion threatens
to yank the IV.

“
Shh
, you’re safe.” I steady her arm with the lightest touch
possible. Stephen drapes a blanket over his sister and I turn away, straining
to hide my emotions. It’s killing me to watch him touch her, seduce her,
control her. Knowing the replay is wracking her body and causing her pain is
unbearable.

The dance
continues, now shrouded in a haze of pain. Tess’s entire body aches to defy the
lost soul’s demands. Again, he steps back, motioning for her to follow. She
ignores his command and his teeth clack a warning. He steps closer, slow and
deliberate, pausing at her side. He runs his palm across her hip and down her
thigh. He grins, eyes narrowed. She backs into the rock, defiant. His snarl
bellows into the night as he mats a chunk of hair in his fist and jerks her
head back. Fire sears her skin as his lips ravage her neck, her screams echoing
through the branches.

“The
police haven’t seen a beating this brutal in a long time,” says Stephen,
pulling me from hell. My hands are balled into fists. I want to pound
something. I want to holler. I want something I’ve never wanted before. I want
vengeance.

Teeth
slice into flesh, the pain stealing her breath. Her arms flail until she falls
to her knees, a stream of vomit coating the ground. Bites rip through her shoulder,
her scalp, agony pushing her to the brink of consciousness. She lashes out,
collecting layers of his skin under her nails. Blood splatters across his white
shirt and he roars, the frenzy out of control.

Stephen
grabs my arm. “What’s wrong?” He’s panicking.

The
monitors are going wild, buzzing and beeping. Bright red blood oozes though
layers of gauze covering Tess’s head and shoulders. The cast covering her right
leg bangs against the bed rail.

I lie. “I
don’t know.”

Stephen
looks horror struck. “I’ll get the doctor.” He sprints for the door.

“Tess,
please, you have to stop,” I plead, an inch from her ear. “Don’t think about
last night. Please. Christ, please, Tess, go to sleep.”

Nails dig
into muscles in Tess’s legs and she wails. Gripping both calves, he flips her,
her head hitting stone before she’s flung into a tree. She cries out. Branches
tear at her skin and bones pop and snap, the sound melting with the sounds of
splitting wood. She clambers, searching for purchase.

“No, Tess,
please!” I fumble around her face.

Her leg
throbs, hanging limp at an odd angle. He reaches for her foot, another snarl
ripping from his lungs. Torn from the tree, she falls until stone shatters
bones and she rolls to the ground, the earth red with blood. Crumpled and broken,
Tess gasps for air as the lost soul towers over her, lighting a cigarette.

He’s not
sated. And no longer smiling.

“Move,”
says a man, pushing me aside. He’s wide and hairy and would better suit a
stampede of buffalo.

“Give her
something for pain,” I beg, moving out of his way. The short, high-pitched
sounds coming from the equipment have me reeling.

“What’s
happening?” Stephen cries from across the room.

A nurse
hovers over the machines, tapping lines and pushing buttons. “Four over,” she
says in English.

“Four?”
the doctor repeats.

“At
least.”

Stephen
approaches the nurse. “Will she be all right? Please, tell me she’ll be all
right!”

“We will
see,” she says, nudging Stephen out of the way.

The doctor
rips tape from gauze squares on Tess’s neck. “More ADB pads,” he says. He taps
the IV feed. “Fentanyl, 50 micrograms IV,” he calls out as the nurse runs from
the room. The doctor pulls back the covers and Stephen turns, facing the wall.

“Shit,” I
mutter on impulse. Without bandages I can better see Tess’s injuries, the
protruding welts and rows of thick stitches leaking fresh blood. The doctor
cuts material with a speed close to my own, and I find myself grateful,
grateful that someone here knows what they’re doing.

The nurse
shuffles back into the room, handing the doctor a syringe. He sticks the needle
into a capped tube taped to the back of Tess’s hand. “This will help,” he says.

Within
seconds Tess’s trembling subsides and she melts into the mattress. Her mind
drifts until all I catch is a drug-induced fog. The reprieve is overwhelming. I
stumble to a chair and sit, sweaty palms kneading my eyes.

When I
look up, I’m the only one in the room not freaking out. The doctor is pacing,
and Stephen looks like he’s about to pass out.

The doctor
tosses blood-stained gloves into the garbage. “She’s comfortable for now,” he
says.

“For now?”
says Stephen.

The nurse
leaves the room and the doctor turns to Tess’s brother. “I increased her pain
medication. It will help keep her calm.” He crosses his arms.

“Calm?”
Stephen steadies himself with the IV pole. “She’ll pull through, right?”

The doctor
sighs and opens the door. “Let’s see how she is in an hour or two,” he says. He
points to the bin where he dropped the syringe. “That’ll keep the pain under
control. She should sleep.”

Now, I
have no experience with doctors, but it can’t be good when they flee. I look at
Stephen. He’s the color of ash. He’s thinking the same thing.

Not good
at all.

T
he monitor
keeps a slow steady pace with Tess’s heart. Stephen and I sit, tightlipped,
watching the contraption taped to her mouth rise and fall with every breath.
The clock on the wall ticks between us. Like little girls, we’ve long since
lost control over our emotions.

Stephen
moans. “I keep thinking of all the ways I could’ve prevented this,” he says. “I
can’t believe I let Tess go to the park alone. My sister is fearless. Did you
know that? She does what she wants, when she wants. I love that about her.” He
moans again. “But I’d have never let Gabriella go the park alone after dark.”

The park?
I let her leave the country.

I look at
Stephen. “Gabriella is . . .?”

“Gabriella
is my girlfriend. Was my girlfriend. She moved out a few days ago, from the
student house we share with
flatmates
. Tess came to
cheer me up. I wasn’t surprised to see my sister, because she’s always been
there for me. She’s always known what to say to make me feel better, even when
I’m being the ass.” He attempts a smile. “She appeared on my doorstep, and we
talked the entire night, girl troubles and guy troubles.” Stephen glances at
me, lips taut and cheeks puffed.

I’m the
guy in “guy troubles.” One of them at least.

Picking my
way through Stephen’s thoughts, I try to distinguish his feelings regarding
Gabriella from Tess’s sisterly confessions, but they’re so tightly woven I
can’t separate them. One thing is for sure, Stephen has no concept of Keepers
or lost souls.

“She was
upset with me,” I manage to say.

He seems
surprised. “She has nothing but good things to say about you. She’s worried it’s
too soon. She’s worried about Abby. Meyer’s accident was . . .
I’ve never seen Tess take anything so hard, not even mom’s suicide.”

Too soon.
The words sit heavy on my conscience. It was too soon to ask her to love
another. Too soon for her share a bed. Too soon to think she could fight a lost
soul. Thomas’s words add to my burden,
She’s not ready for all your shit.

“If I’d
have backed off maybe she wouldn’t have come to Paris,” I think out loud like a
retrospective fool.

Stephen
doesn’t argue my point. Misery loves company.

“At school
yesterday,” he says, “I was so exhausted I could hardly take notes in class. By
the time I got home I was a walking zombie. Tess and Abby had dinner ready. It
was nice. It’d been a while since we’d eaten together as a family. After dinner
Tess suggested I crash with Abby. She wanted some time alone.” Stephen shakes
his head. “How could I let her go to the park alone?”

There is
more than enough guilt to go around. I pushed her when she wasn’t ready. I
spent two days worrying about the wrong thing. I should have known she’d leave
Carlisle, that she’d run from me. I should’ve known the lost soul would follow
her.

“I
should’ve known this would happen.”

Stephen
looks at me. “If you
wanna
talk could’ve should’ve,”
he says. “I’ve got you beat. I went to school this morning without even
realizing my sister was lying in a hospital bed. I didn’t know she’d been
beaten.” Tears slide down his cheek, coating his lower lip. “What kind of
brother leaves his flat without checking his sister is even home? I assumed she
was sleeping with Abby, but I didn’t look, I didn’t make sure.”

I am a
Keeper. My head is jam-packed with history, years and years of experience to
pull from, to learn from. I was so determined to keep Tess in my life, so
caught in the sheer joy of having found her, that I forgot the lessons of our
past. I pushed aside all the memories I didn’t want to remember, ignored all
the nightmares Tess had relived a hundred times.

I leap
from the chair with a sudden urge to pace.

“People were
talking about her at school today,” says Stephen. “Someone had the news on at
break and I didn’t even pay attention. After work I grabbed pizza and went
home, happy as a pig in shit, thinking that Tess and Abby would be there. Not
only was Tess not there, but my five-year-old niece had spent the entire day by
herself.”

“Abby is
all right.” I work to sound positive.

She won’t
be all right for long. Eventually she’ll want to see her mother. I look at
Tess. She’s swollen and unrecognizable. This isn’t something any child should
ever have to witness.

“Abby had
no idea where she was or how to call anyone. None of my
flatmates
were home. She watched French cartoons and ate bread with chocolate milk. For
ten hours!”

I’m
relieved Abby stayed home with Stephen when Tess went to the park. I shudder to
think of what would’ve happened to Abby had she been with Tess when the lost
soul attacked. Even if he hadn’t touched a hair on her head, the sight of her
mother being beaten would’ve scarred her for life.

“Abby is
safe now,” I mumble.

“Thank God
the police found my sister when they did.” Stephen fiddles with the blankets.
“They said an elderly couple taking a midnight stroll heard her screaming.” He
closes his eyes and shakes his head, trying to dislodge the image of his sister
being beaten.

It’s a
tough scene to let go of.

The nurse
waddles into the room making a beeline to the monitors. “How we doing?” she
says, pressing buttons. She pulls a wire from a machine and plugs in another
cord before turning to us for an answer.

Stephen’s
brain fires questions by the second. None of them make it to his mouth.

I say,
“She’s been sleeping since you left.”

“Good.”
She moves with efficiency, replacing empty bags of blood and clear fluids that
hang from the IV stand. While removing soaked bandages from Tess’s shoulders,
she muffles something unintelligible and a sound hovers in her trachea,
unsettling me. I ask what’s wrong but she focuses on her tasks. She’s heard my
question. She’s just pretending she didn’t. I take a deep breath, readying to
ask again.

The door
swings open and the doctor walks in. He heads straight for the bed. “I see
you’ve got some shut-eye,” he says.

The
statement wasn’t meant for Tess. She’s sleeping. Its sole purpose was to pacify
Stephen and me. The doctor skims Tess’s chart, the chart that’s been hanging on
a clipboard at the end of Tess’s bed. The chart I hadn’t thought to read. The
regrets just keep coming. The doctor asks the nurse a few questions and she
answers curtly. Her name is Martine. This is the first time I notice the name
embroidered on her smock and that she speaks learned English without all the
subtleties of a born-and-bred.

Stephen
slides in close to the doctor, attempting to decipher medical jargon. “Was
she . . . ah, did her attacker . . .?” Images of
Tess being raped flash through his mind.

“No,” I
say without thinking.

Stephen
throws me a disparaging glance then softens. “Sorry,” he mumbles.

The
doctor’s stare drifts from me to Stephen and back again. I see the connection
take place in his head. “Rape kits are standard procedure in these kinds of
cases. Whoever beat her either wasn’t aiming for sexual assault or didn’t get
the chance.”

I lock my
jaw, the words
he tried
almost pushing their way out.

The doctor
instructs us to step outside the curtain while he peels back layers of
blanketing. Martine tugs at the gathered material, gently shooing us out of the
way. The sound of metal rings irks me and within seconds we’re separated from
Tess, in a room within the room. The disconnect feels oceans wide. Stephen
stands beside me, as worried as I am. He’s hoping his parents arrive soon. He
strains to hear the muffled commands of the doctor as he inspects Tess’s
wounds. I can hear every word, but he’s talking in medical terms, a foreign
language I don’t speak. The machines make a new sound and seized wheels drag
over linoleum. Every few minutes, Martine sighs.

The clock,
now in our territory, ticks louder. I shove my hands in my pockets to keep from
yanking back the curtain and demanding answers. And to stop myself from tearing
the clock from the wall.

Eventually
Martine eases herself through a crack in the curtain. She walks past us and out
the door without a word. Stephen and I eye each other, but before we have a
chance to speak, the doctor steps out, closing the gap in the curtain behind
him and hiding Tess from sight. I’m torn between the urge to barge my way
through to Tess and needing to hear what the doctor has to say in terms I
comprehend.

The doc
clears his throat. “I’m told you have family flying in.”

“Yeah,
they are on their way.” The doctor contemplates the timing, and Stephen stares
at the floor, seeing where this is headed. “I told them she’s been through the
worst of it,” he says. “Broken bones and cuts will heal. With time she’ll be back
to normal, right?”

“I’d
rather discuss this with your family present,” says the doctor, “But by
morning . . .”

“What’s
wrong?” I’m trying to keep my cool.

The doctor
folds his arms over his chest, a neurotic tendency I’m quickly becoming
accustomed to.

“Tess has
developed complications,” he says. “The clinical term is disseminated
intravascular coagulation. It’s a blood clotting disorder we see in patients
who have suffered massive trauma. Basically it means that her body can’t stop
bleeding. We’ve been trying to staunch the flow, but her blood isn’t clotting.
I’ve ordered another four units of blood for transfusion, but she’s bleeding
faster than I can replenish it.” Years of experience tell him we need time to
absorb such a harsh diagnosis, so he just stands there, a slight twitch in one
eye.

I pace
backwards, hitting the wall. “What does this mean?”

I catch a
glimpse of Stephen. His skin is bleached.

“I’ve got
the lab mixing a drug called
Leudifor
. It’s somewhat
experimental, but there’s a chance it might help. If I can’t get her blood to
clot, her wounds won’t heal, and she’ll bleed out.”

“Bleed
out,” Stephen repeats. His body tilts as if a wind pushes him to the right.

I lower my
face into shaking hands.

Tess is
dying. The doctor thinks she’s not going to survive her injuries. He can’t wait
until the rest of the family gets here because she won’t live that long.

“But I
thought . . .” I mutter. “This can’t be.”

“I’m
sorry,” says the doctor. “We’ll do our best but you need to be prepared if our
best isn’t enough.”

Stephen
stumbles toward the door, almost falling over my knees. He’s about to hurl. “I
need to check on Abby,” he says. The doctor follows Stephen out, promising to
return after seeing to another patient.

I lunge
for the curtain, suddenly hot. I want to scoop Tess up, carry her out of here,
home, as if none of this ever happened. I search her mind for traces of life,
her face for recognition. She looks so vulnerable, so weak.

“You can’t
die,” I say, smoothing a patch of her hair, flattening it to the pillow. “I
can’t lose you.” Tess doesn’t respond. Her body is shattered, her mind a
sedated black cloud. “I love you. Do you hear me? I love you!”

This
cannot happen. Tess can’t die. I’ve got to do something. Now!

But what?

Christ,
I’m a Keeper. I can recall every natural disaster that ever plagued man. I can
read minds and lift objects a hundred times my body weight. I can manipulate
cells and move faster than any other creature on this planet. I can control
internal organs, telling my heart when to beat, my lungs when to breathe,
sending white cells to heal.

“I’ll fix
this. You’ll heal. You’ll get better. I’ll find a way.”

I scour
the monitors, the machines, the IV bags, but everything capable of saving Tess
is alien to me. All I know is considered folklore and ancient witchcraft.

Gertrude
Maples
.
Inspiration clips through my skull like the silver ball in a
pinball machine. Mrs. Maples will know what to do.

“Hold on,
Tess. Do you hear me? You’ve got to hold on!”

Unable to
look away, I grope for my cell. If anyone can help, Mrs. Maples can. Not only
is she an old soul, she’s the daughter of a Keeper, and the most powerful witch
I know. She’ll know what to do. She must know what to do.

There has
got to be a way to keep Tess alive. I can’t lose her.

Not again.