A Keeper's Truth (30 page)

I could
probably switch the IV bags without anyone noticing my movements, but for the
rest I’ll need Stephen and Martine out of the room.

“I’m
fine,” he says, pushing past me. The thought of seeing his sister, knowing she
might not live, has his heart racing.

Mine is
just as rampant. How am I going to get Tess alone? I close the door behind us,
relieved that the majority of Tess is hidden behind the curtain. I can’t bear
to contemplate the pain I’m about to cause her. And what if it’s for nothing,
what if it doesn’t work—if this wild plan does nothing but end her life
at my hand?

“How is
she doing?” I ask Martine.

“Still in
Neverland,” she says. Her mind adds,
But I’ve had to change her bandages
twice in the last hour.
“What’s all the hullabaloo about?” She points her
chin to the door.

“Paparazzi,”
I say too quickly. The police haven’t verbalized this hypothesis yet.

Stephen
doesn’t notice my slip up. “Makes sense,” he says. He collapses heavily into a
chair, his lithe frame cracking and popping under the stress of the situation.
“Assholes. French newspapers and magazines pay well for smut, enough to make an
investigation and fake ID worth the effort.” He studies his watch. “The morning
papers hit the stands by five. If the guy was here for pictures, the cops will
have him by noon.”

Martine
clicks her tongue, shaking her head in disapproval. She mumbles something about
the state of humanity and hauls back the curtain before leaving the room.

One down,
one to go.

Tess looks
at peace, even though the white mesh surrounding her head oozes bright red
blood and nothing but blackness fills her thoughts. I’ve got to get her alone.
Stephen won’t see my quick movements, but he’ll hear me, and he’ll definitely
hear Tess. She’s bound to cry out, and the heart monitor will sound. I glance
at the machines. I’ll have to unplug them. I don’t know what I’ll do if the
police come to her aid. Maybe I should tell Stephen what I’m about to do, tell
him it might save Tess’s life. No, he trusts me, but not enough to witness me
hurting his sister. I cringe at the thought of moving her, even slightly. My
blood will dull the pain, but it won’t take it all away.

Christ,
I’m going to wish it could.

I move to
the other side of the bed, a foot from Stephen. “You look exhausted.” I frown,
regretting my decision already.

“Just worried,”
he says, slightly agitated.

Staring at
Stephen I try to remember the greater good. That Tess’s life hangs in the
balance. He’ll yell for the police, and that’s a complication I can’t leave for
chance. “Sorry,” I whisper.

The words
what
for
almost make it to his mouth before I apply a lightning strike of
pressure to his carotid artery. I gently rest his head on a folded blanket,
mumbling heartfelt apologies. I feel less like myself than ever before.
Knocking Stephen out is something Thomas would do, not me.

Tick tock.

Moving
fast, I jam the spare chair under the door handle and yank the plugs from the
wall. The machines hum then fall silent. The blood bag hanging from the IV
stand is almost full. I twist the tubing off the bottom, reattaching it to the
bag of blood from my coat pocket, just like I’ve seen Martine do. It’s still
warm in my hand. My blood flows down the line, into Tess, and I close my eyes
for a moment. This has to work.

Tess
stirs, and I leap to her side. “It’s me, Bryce. Listen to me. For many
lifetimes you were the princess of Lemuria. You were an amazing woman. You are
an amazing woman. Back then you were powerful, gifted at levitation,
telepathy . . .” I shake my head, trying to stay focused. “More
importantly, you were capable of controlling your body temperature to fight
infection and heal. I know you don’t remember, but somewhere deep inside I know
you feel it, feel the knowledge of your soul’s past lives. I’m going to help
you, but you need to search for the connection. Please, please try.”

I shove
the extra bag into my coat pocket and grab my cell. Mrs. Maples answers on the
first ring. “It’s done,” I say, steadying the phone between my shoulder and
ear. I rub my hands together, creating heat, and Gertrude asks if I’m alone.
Her tone is gentle, but I detect a slight warning. I lie and tell her everyone
has stepped out, even though Stephen is hunched a few feet away, drooling.

Gertrude
tells me to remove any pillows and lay Tess flat.

I shimmy
my hand under Tess’s neck, gently lifting her head from the pillow.

“Tess, can
you hear me?”

Her
barely-there nod is accompanied by an image of me in my black sweater, sitting
across from her at dinner.

“Try to
relax. I need to touch you. It’s going to hurt, but you have to try really hard
not to cry out.” I’m not worried about someone catching me. I’m worried they’ll
attempt to stop me. “Can you do that?”

Another
nod.

Even
without the monitors buzzing, I can hear her heart beat fast. Pulling the
pillow out from under her, I lower her head to the mattress, forcibly averting
my eyes from the fresh blood leaking from bandages covering her shoulders and
forehead.

I
reposition the phone. “Now what?”

The smell
of blood and decay fills my nostrils as I peel the covers back and drop them to
the floor.

Bloody
hell.

Please
tell me I’m not too late.

I repeat
Gertrude’s instructions in my head, over and over, and rest my hands on Tess’s
chilled arm, just above the needle that directs my blood into her vein. Goose
pimples bloom across her skin. Concentrating on the heat flowing to my hands, I
run my thumbs along the inside of her arm, applying pressure. Her elbow is
wrapped with gauze and I know there is either a cut or bite hiding underneath,
but I try not to think about the pain she’ll feel as I push my fingers into
these spots.

“I’m
sorry,” I whisper.

Tess’s
chin quivers and a tear eases its way through the folds of swollen skin
surrounding her eyes. Her mind fights to keep control over the pain.

“I’m at
her shoulder,” I mumble into the phone.

I emulate
Mrs. Maples, a low hum vibrating in my chest. Our future lies in the fate of my
scorched touch as I direct blood through veins and into bandages that implode,
seeping from the pressure. I press hard, both hands flat on Tess’s chest,
fingers wrapped around her collarbone, and Tess’s back arches from the bed, her
chin high in the air.

“She’s in
pain!”

Mrs.
Maples stays calm, her hum picking up momentum until I’m on par, the sound
lodged in my throat.

“Around
her neck?” I repeat. “What if I strangle her?”

The hum
omitting from the phone stays steady, so I wrap my hands around Tess’s neck,
not a speck of white showing. I squeeze and the buzzing from my throat rises to
the back of my mouth, the taste of tin coating my tongue. Tess gasps and her
fingers fumble over my face. Her mind is a chaotic mess of excruciating pain
and confusion.

“Please
forgive me!”

Mrs.
Maples’ humming stops then continues. A silent slap of discipline.

Concentrate!
This could save Tess! This could mean the difference between life and death!

Tick Tock.

I steal a
glance at my watch. What feels like forever has only been seconds in real time.
Still, I’ve got to hurry. I can’t have Martine trying to get back into the room
or Stephen coming around. I tighten my grip and the pressure from under the bandages
pushes against my strength. Fresh blood leaks from around the staples in Tess’s
scalp and her thoughts fade to black, agony sweeping her in and out of
consciousness.

My
fingertips feel for broken bones in Tess’s face, and she finally cries out, the
pain too much to bear. Mrs. Maples’ voice raises another octave, forcing me to
follow suit. Begging for forgiveness, I fumble about Tess’s shattered sinus
cavity until her arms fall limp at her sides.

What
the . . .? No. I’ve killed her!

Lowering
my ear to her chest, I hear the pounding of her heart, faint but there.

Thank you,
thank you!

“I think
she’s passed out!”

Gertrude’s
hum cracks and alters to a chant, a low rumble in an ancient dialect I’m
familiar with but haven’t uttered in centuries. I do my best to keep up while
probing Tess’s head, the metal staples shifting under my fingertips. Tess’s
body starts to tremble, and I have to grab the blanket so the cast on her leg
doesn’t make too much noise banging against the bed rail. Gertrude yells into
the phone, reminding me not to stop. I’ve got to guide my blood through Tess’s
body, from her chest to her feet, paying special attention to internal organs,
quickly. Once I reach her ribs, I’ll have to increase the pressure.

I can’t
imagine pushing Tess’s torn and broken body any harder than I have been, but I
do what I’m told. This has to work. I have to save her.

Tess
screams and I smother her mouth with my hand. She breathes heavy, gasping for
air.

I’m so
sorry.

I thrust a
hand into her cracked ribs, the throb of her heart pressing against my palm,
and Tess thrashes, her dull nails scraping over my shirt collar, desperate for
purchase.

Please
forgive me.

I tear my
eyes away to inspect the blood bag. It’s almost empty. I’ve got to hurry. A
minute has passed since I knocked Stephen out. I’m running out of time.

“I’m at
her liver!”

Gertrude’s
voice softens to a purr and I try to match the tenor, but my voice is breaking
down, my throat dry, my tongue sticking to the roof of my mouth. I watch as
tears flow from Tess’s eyes, soaking her hair and the sheets around her head.
Her nostrils flare with every breath. I grasp the cast covering her shattered
thigh. I’ve got to get heat through layers of plaster without crushing the
outer shell.

“Almost
done, the bag is almost empty,” I mutter into the phone.

Tess’s
left foot has several fissures that crackle from my touch. Tess moans, then the
trembling stops, and she lies very still.

Please
make this work, please.

I gulp a
mouthful of air and inspect the deformed blood bag. “It’s empty.”

Mrs.
Maples says I’m done; we’ve done all we can do. She sounds exhausted, sad. She
reminds me to switch the bags so Tess continues to get the transfusion she
needs and the nurse doesn’t have reason to suspect. I’ll need to be patient, to
give it time. The first hour is critical. Tess’s body might reject my blood.
And we have no way of knowing if her internal organs are too severely damaged
to be healed.

Mrs.
Maples warns me for the second time that if I don’t call my father and tell him
what I’ve done, she’ll have to. She doesn’t want to be the one to tell the
Keepers, and I don’t blame her.

“He’ll
understand,” I say, not really convinced this is true. “He knows I love her.”

Gertrude
sighs on the other end of the phone line. I owe Mrs. Maples my life, and I tell
her so before tucking the phone away.

Stephen
groans, a hand flitting to his stomach. He’s very pale. I watch as Stephen’s
eyes roll then squeeze shut. He tries to sit up but falls back into the chair
with a thump.

The door
handle turns.

Quickly, I
wash my hands, drape the blankets back over Tess’s body, and plug in the
machines. In one fluid motion, I pull the chair from under the door and ease
myself into what looks like a comfortable sleeping position. A breeze crosses
my face with the opening of the door.

“Hmm,”
says Martine, fiddling with the door handle. She hates calling maintenance: the
guys down there are as old and decrepit as the building itself. Snickering, she
closes the door and waddles into the room. She stops two feet from Stephen. In
a flash, Stephen slumps forward and pukes on her shoes. I hear her sigh. Guilt
should have me jumping from the chair to help, but exhaustion takes over, and
pretending to sleep becomes easier and easier. Martine drags the garbage pail
in front of Stephen before pressing the red button beside Tess’s bed. She calls
for maintenance.

One last
thought of Tess and I drift off, the empty bag folded neatly in my coat pocket.
My blood should clot, closing Tess’s wounds. She won’t bleed to death. If this
works, her body should start to heal, broken bones will fuse, organs will
repair, and tissue will rejuvenate. Rest is what she needs now.

Ditto for
me.

“
Y
ou
were really out,” Stephen says, watching me wake from the edge of the hospital
bed. He looks to be in better spirits.

I sit up
and he hands me a paper cup coated in tacky coffee bean graphics. I take it,
even though I don’t drink coffee. My hands are unusually cold and the heat
feels good.

“She’s
better,” says Stephen, pointing to his sister.

Tess is
better! Alive! I rise from my chair for a closer look, but a sudden spin sets
me back in the chair. A boundless weight lifts from my shoulders. I am so
grateful it worked, that my blood clotted and my touch didn’t kill her. Had Tess
died, I’m not sure I would’ve ever forgiven myself.

Tess looks
a tad more purple, but alive. She’s alive! Pulling the chair forward to see
Tess clearer, a blanket I hadn’t noticed I was wearing falls off my lap.

“That was
me,” says Martine, stepping into the room. Her arms are full of supplies so she
kicks at the blanket on the floor. “You were shivering in your sleep.”

After a
quick peek at Tess sleeping peacefully, hand in her brother’s, I retrieve the
blanket and drape it across the back of the chair. With my back turned from
probing eyes I let loose my true emotions, squinting for clarity. Everything
seems foggy, almost surreal. Since when do I get cold? I didn’t wake when the
nurse covered me with a blanket? I didn’t hear her in the room? Studying my watch,
I count backwards. There is no way I’ve been asleep for five hours. I turn
slightly, the wall clock slowly coming into view. Nineteen minutes after four.

Stephen
smiles when he sees me analyzing the time. He’s wondering how I slept for so
long without moving a muscle, especially in an uncomfortable hospital chair.

I’m
wondering the same thing.

A voice
booms from the hallway. “Try to stop me!”

The door
flies open and Thomas blows in, all three police officers in tow. Thomas halts
at the end of the bed, mouth agape. The younger officer moves forward,
handcuffs in hand. “You don’t want to do that,” says Thomas, eyes still locked
on Tess. The room falls quiet and the cop stops mid step. In this state, Thomas
is quite intimidating. He stands like a superhero without the cape, his
expression resolute, dark. His tension is tangible.

I face
Stephen. “This is my brother.”

“Thomas,”
mumbles Stephen. Talks with his sister go through his head before he addresses
the policemen. “Thomas is my sister’s friend.” He says it, but isn’t quite sure
he means it. Tess has told him about Thomas’s temper, about his possessive
nature.

“I don’t
care if he’s the pope, when I ask for ID, I expect to see it.” The cop looks
tired, too old to be working the night shift.

Thomas
rounds the bed and slides his hand under Tess’s. His thoughts are focused, as
if no one else is in the room. Tension rolls from him.

“Here,” I
say, lifting the hem of Thomas’s jacket and reaching into the back pocket of
his jeans, “we don’t want any trouble.” I hand the folded passport to the cop
and watch as he forces the pages flat, scowling.

Thomas
edges his way into my thoughts.
I blame you for this. If you’d stayed away,
none of this would’ve happened. She’d be with me. She’d be happy, unbroken.

The cop
looks at Thomas before his stare pans to me. “Your brother’s last name isn’t
Waters.”

“No, it’s
Tanis, his late wife’s name.”

Our
parents went ballistic when Thomas took his bride’s name. Which is, of course,
exactly why he did it.

Again,
Thomas fumes with his mind.
Where the fuck is this lost soul? I’m going to
tear him to shreds.

I shake my
head. I look at Tess and my heart pounds sharp in my chest. I’ve never wanted
to hurt anything as much as I want to hurt the man that did this to her. My
entire being aches for revenge. I don’t want Tess hurt again, but there is no
way we can kill, not even for this.

The cop
jots information on a notepad before tossing Thomas’s passport onto the table
at the foot of the bed. “Next time,” he says, pacing toward the door. He’s
thinking about how he doesn’t get paid enough for this shit.

I
apologize to the officer, offering palatable excuses. We are all seriously
stressed. We’re tired, tense.

I look to
Tess, battered and torn, her mind a blank slate, and then to Thomas, attentively
stroking her hair. He whispers affectionate condolences in her ear, and the
slimy tentacles of jealousy creep over me. The fact that my brother loves Tess
isn’t the problem. How can I blame him for that? It’s that he doesn’t care if
his love is reciprocated.

Thomas
throws me a glance, a sinister squint.
Fuck off
.

I stare
back. We’ve got to stop fighting. Tess needs us to work together. We can’t just
wait to see if this lost soul comes back for her. We need to know he’s moved
on, that he’ll leave her alone.

Thomas
investigates the machines.
I’ll hunt him like the animal he is.

“Meyer’s
grandparents will be here any minute,” Stephen says, following the officers as
they step back into the hall. He hangs from the doorframe. “The Morgan’s.” He’s
worried the cops will give them a hard time.

He has no
reason to worry. The police are exhausted and Grams is a pit bull in the coat
of a poodle.

I have no
idea how to find this lost soul, but we’ve got to find him, and soon. I doubt
he’ll come anywhere near Tess with us here, but when Tess gathers enough
strength to think straight, she’s going to panic. She’s going to worry he’ll
come back for her, or worse, hurt Abby.

Thomas
huffs.
He won’t have limbs to touch her with when I’m done with him.

I look
away, frustrated. Hurting this man is not an option. How do we stop a lost soul
bent on the kill? We don’t. Keeper’s offer guidance and history to learn from.
We teach in hopes of repentance, knowing every soul is here to learn, to
experience, to contribute. Like every soul, this lost soul will pay for his
crimes, if not in this lifetime then another. I have to believe he’ll pay
without more violence. How could I ever live with myself if I acted upon my
impulses, my anger? What kind of man would that make me?

I’d give a
lifetime to protect Tess and Abby, but not by becoming the very thing I exist
to save, not by losing my purpose. We’ve got to find this lost soul and make
sure he stays away from Tess. How is the question—how do we do that? We
are educators, not bounty hunters.

Stephen
closes the door. “Thomas, how did you know my sister was here?”

“I phoned
him.” I smile an apology.

A strange
look comes over Stephen and he turns, hiding his face from me. “Look, my
sister’s been through enough without the two of you at it.”

Ah, so
Tess has told her brother about the constant bickering. I stop myself from
pulling Stephen into a hug. His need to protect his sister only makes me like
him more.

“We’ll be
on our best behavior,” I say, patting Thomas. “Won’t we, Brother?”

Thomas
shrugs me off. “What has the doctor said?”

Stephen
goes through Tess’s struggles from start to finish. “She’s doing better,” he
concludes, “she’s out of danger now.”

I’m
relieved to hear this, so unbelievably relieved. My attention gravitates to the
clock and I’m reminded of the hours I’ve slept, apparently through doctor
visits. Thomas watches me, prodding the sudden blockade in my mind. He can tell
I’m stunned, but nothing else comes through clearly.

“It was a
close call,” I say. “The doctor didn’t think she’d make it.” My intention is to
hint at the severity of Tess’s injuries, but it comes out defensive, fueling
Thomas’s scrutiny.

“Where’s
Abby?” says Thomas.

“A
neighbor is watching her at my place,” says Stephen. “She had trouble going to
sleep, so he and his wife brought her back to my apartment, thinking she’d be
more comfortable. The Morgan’s called from the airport. They’ll be here soon,
and I’ll head home for a while. One of us should be there when Abby wakes.”

Good plan.

More I
slept through
.

Stephen sits
opposite Thomas, holding Tess’s other hand. The two of them caress her gently
and the sight churns my stomach. My touch caused her nothing but pain.

“Let me
get that,” says a voice from outside the room. She speaks in English, obviously
Canadian, and familiar.

The door
swings open and the backside of Mrs. Morgan, Grams, eases through the frame,
pausing to check that the wheelchair bolts have cleared. “How is she?” she
asks, spinning her husband’s chair around to the edge of the bed so quickly
that none of us have the chance to assist.

Thomas
moves to stand behind a chair, and I rise to offer my seat and give them space.
I grab hold of the door, slightly dizzy, I think. I’ve never been dizzy before.

Meyer’s
grandfather clings to the seat of his wheelchair, precariously propped so he
can study his daughter-in-law. His features appear to melt, his heartbreak so
profound I have to turn and stare at the wall. Behind me Grams sobs into the
crook of her arm, her mind a medley of questions. Stephen has told her what to
expect, but hearing it and seeing it are two very different things. “Who would
do something like this?” she mutters into her sleeve.

A person
who has lost their humanity, their purpose. A lost soul.

A dead
man,
thinks Thomas.

Mr. Morgan
struggles to keep his expression passive. He’s seen his share of atrocities,
once he even saw a guy on fire, but this is something altogether different.
This is personal. Anger attempts to rise to the surface, held back by nothing
more than sheer will. Still, he doesn’t utter a word.

“The
doctor,” says Stephen, hoping to offer a distraction, “the doctor will be back
soon.”

Grams
nervously fiddles with the blankets. Every few seconds she steals a glance at
Tess’s wounds. She swallows hard and closes her eyes. Leaning on Stephen, she
wraps her arms around his waist, lowering her forehead to his chest. Stephen
looks awkward, but he rests his chin on her head, a moment so touching I feel
like an intruder just being in the room.

Minutes
pass before Mrs. Morgan stands and turns to me. “Bryce,” she says in greeting.
Her smile takes effort, but its authenticity shows in her eyes.

I nod.
“I’m so sorry.”

“Thomas,”
she says, “we appreciate you both being here. Tess will need all the love and
support she can muster.” Her hands hover over Tess’s taut skin, afraid to
touch. She covers her nose and mouth, appalled by the foul odor.

I’ve
become desensitized.

For the
first time I notice the bandages are mostly white with only small traces of
blood dotted here and there. The swelling has gone down and the dark blotches
have taken on a yellowish hue.

The doctor
steps into the room followed by a new nurse. Martine’s shift must be over. He
pauses to scan faces. “Full house,” he says, reaching for Tess’s chart. After
skimming notes he looks at Tess’s in-laws crowding the top half of the bed and
introduces himself. “I trust you had a safe flight from Florida?” In his head
he checks points off a list of things he should say to improve his bedside
manner. Last week he’d taken a seminar on the topic.

“Yes,”
says Mrs. Morgan, “safe, but long. We’re just pleased to know Tess is doing
better.”

Mr. Morgan
clears his throat. “She is, right? She’s doing better?” For the first time
since their arrival, he drags his eyes from the bed.

“Much,”
says the doctor, grinning like a schoolboy. “She’s amazing us all.”

I can feel
Thomas’s glare and his persistent nudging at my barrier, but I refuse to look
in his direction. He coughs and points at the door. I ignore him.

“In fact,”
says the doctor, “we’ve never seen such a response to
Leudifor
.
She’s the talk of the doctor’s lounge.”

Apparently
Stephen told the Morgan’s about the drug the doctor thought was a long shot
because they don’t push for further explanation. When a loved one has been
pulled from death’s door, one is just grateful.

Thomas
excuses himself, his eyes piercing me as he stomps out of the room.

“Good,”
says the doctor, noticing Thomas’s departure. “It’s awfully busy in here, and
our patient needs her rest.” He looks to each of us but no one budges.

A few
seconds pass before I make out his thoughts.
Immediate family only.

“I’ll step
out.”

The doctor
closes the door behind me, leaving me in the hallway with Thomas.

“What the
fuck did you do?” Thomas pins me to the wall.

“Killjoy.”
I look from one end of the hall to the other. “Where did the cops go?”

His eyes
narrow to slits. “Don’t you know? Can’t you hear them?” He watches me try.
“They’re around the corner, waiting to pounce, just like I remember.”