Ripple Effect: A Novel (21 page)

“
Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens
,” my mother sings as she enters my room.

Isn’t she all perky and bright for it being seven in the morning! And Monday! My mother is crazy sometimes, I swear it!

Curled up on my bed, I sit in silence and stare out the raindrop-lined window pane. “Very cute, Mom,” I say sarcastically.

She sits on the edge of the bed; her arm rests across my legs. Her touch startles me, just enough to make me barely jolt. I ignore the look she flashes, that look of worry. “School starts in thirty . . .”

“I—” Sniffling, I shake my head, touching my throat. “I don’t feel well.”

She already knows that, shown in the way her brow creases in concern. “Sore throat?”

I keep my sights on the raindrops and gray-aired community beyond, lined with treetops of changing colors, and fading street lights. “For the past week now.” I stop talking and think. “It’s probably viral.” My way of saying
stress induced from terror
.

The bed sinks and makes that annoying squeak sound as she leans closer to me. Hand outreached, it rests on my cheek, then my forehead, and lastly on the back of my neck. Mom frowns. “You’re feverish, Ces. I’ll make an appointment for—”

“It’s okay.” I gulp. “It will go away.” If Dr. Reed sees my bruises, he’ll ask questions, and Mom will freak. “I just need a day to rest.”

She gives me
that
look. “Baby, you can’t risk having an infection.”

For once, I don’t feel annoyed by this fact. “I know. It affects the bone marrow transplants for Adie. But . . . isn’t she healed, Mom?”

Mom just smiles at me—with her mouth, at least. Her wise, hazel eyes hold worry. No answer, because in reality she is scared. She is always scared of Adie relapsing.

Sighing, I look back out the window at the grayness that the storm brought in. I noticed her hand resting on my arm and I want to push her away. Not because I hate her or anything—I just can’t stand anyone touching me today.

“I could take you out of school. You could stay home—I could homeschool you.” Emotion runs heavy in her voice and I pray she doesn’t cry. “Cecily . . .”

My attention turns to her. I feel sick, light headed and cold and not entirely all there. “I have to be
brave
, Mom.” I blink my eyes quickly, hoping to hide tears. “I can’t give up.”

Mom’s lips purse into a thin white line and she tucks a strand of brown hair behind her ears, exposing pearl earrings that Papa once gave her. “We should call the Sheriff.” Her hazel eyes soften as she looks at me. “You are
just
a girl, baby. I know you want to be the hero, to stop the bad guy, but . . .”

Eyes narrowed, I shake my head. “I became a hero the day I decided to save my sister’s life, remember?”

“You are so much like your father.” Her head turns quickly and she stands up, smoothing her cardigan down methodically. I don’t know if that’s good or bad. All I know is that she’s going to cry. “I’ll call the school and tell them you’ll be absent. Get ready. We’re going to the doctor.”

*              *              *

“Cecily Wolf.”

A nurse keeps the door to the clinic open with her foot. Scowling, she glances into the waiting room, themed with dying people and pastels. Automatically, I notice her bland scrubs, and cock a judging eyebrow. My nurse matches the décor. She stares down at the clipboard before looking toward me.

Everyone knows who I am:
the sister of that one girl who has leukemia.
“Dr. Reed’s pity patients” some surely call us. And if it’s not me she recognizes, it’s my mother . . . the widow of the dead miner who has the child with leukemia.

“Cecily.” Mom tilts my chin up so she can see my face. “Smile, honey. I know you don’t feel well. This will be quick.” She glances toward the nurse, discretely fixes her brown hair, and kindly smiles.

“You are so much like your father,”
she had said. My father was a hero, something that I had inherited, apparently.

Rolling my eyes, I stand up and drag my feet toward the nurse. My mother is in tow and, of course, smiling at people who sit in the generic waiting room. Linoleum floors. Fluorescent lights. Ugly furniture. Purex and tissue boxes sitting everywhere. Hospitals. Dying people. Gag!

How my mother is so freaking happy all the time . . . it baffles me! I want to kill someone right about now, thanks to this headache, lethargy, and sore throat.

Once through the door, the nurse takes my weight––which is eight pounds too light––then points to a patient room and ushers me in. I sit on the bed-table in the middle of the room that is covered with a strip of crinkly paper. Stupid, crinkly, loud paper.

She holds my arm and takes my blood pressure with that aggravating cuff, then my pulse, and records them both.
I’m a corpse, I have no pulse.
Laughing at myself, I look at Mom and she gives me that
behave yourself
look. Glancing back at the nurse, I remember that she’s not all that nice and has a mean perma-scowl on her face. Just because I thought her scrubs were bland and shot her a judgmental look–– Am I not the one who is sick here?

“You said it’s a sore throat?” she asks, her voice nasally and whiny.

I give her an annoyed look. “I’m sure it’s contagious.”

A glare fills her eye, though she tries to smile. “Doctor Reed will be in shortly.”

Once the door closes, Mom gives me a surprised look and slight smile.

I say, “Who peed in her Cheerios this morning? I didn’t do anything!”

“Ces,” my mother lightly scowls. “Maybe she’s just having a bad day.”

I rip the pillow from the top of the leather slab and put it under my aching head. My hand covers my eyes to keep out the migraine-enhancing lighting of the hospital, and I try to pretend that I’m not here.

The door opens and a cheerful man with brown hair and crisp white coat enters. He and my mother talk. I roll my eyes because no one cares about the weather or the fact that it is raining.

“Cecily,” Dr. Reed says, poking me with his pen. “You’re not dead, are you?”

“I’m a zombie! Leave me alone!” I hide a smile.

Dr. Reed laughs. You see, Dr. Reed has been our doctor since––forever. He takes care of Adie and her surgeries, and he makes sure that I’m tip-top and ready to donate. He’s also become a family friend over the years. We’re his pity patients . . . to some. In reality, we’re more like nieces.

I sit up slowly and stare at him with a blank expression. “I hate these headache lights.” Perhaps it was the withdrawal from alcohol too . . . It had been a few days since I last drank. Or the fever.

Laughing, he nods. “As do I. Nurse Karen says you have a sore throat and a fever?” He seems serious. “How long, Ces?”

“That nurse is a brat,” I say informatively. “And I’d say like a week on the sore throat.”

Dr. Reed and my mother both shake their heads. “Maybe a little, but be nice,” he orders. “Maybe she’s having a bad day.”

That nurse doesn’t know what a bad day is!

“Whatever.” I stick my tongue out with attitude and he shoves a wooden stick down my throat. I growl in protest and gag as he swabs my tonsils with a cotton swab.

The swab goes in a clear tube and he looks at me, flashing that contemplative look that something more could be going on with me and he might want a biopsy of my teenage brain so that he can understand what’s going through my head. “I want a blood test too.”

My eyes are suddenly saucers. “No!” I’d take the brain biopsy over needles any day!

He asks me to look up so he can feel my neck. I’m used to his gentle, warm hands, but I want to scream and push him away when he touches me. I can’t stand touch—not from anyone. I just have to deal with it though, so I bite my cheek.

He brushes over the bite mark as if were nothing too major.
Did he even see it?
Then, his hand pauses near the top of my sternum. Curious, he pushes part of my shirt aside on my chest, which is pounding wildly in fear.

“Cecily,” he says, but looks back to my mom with concern. He’s gathered more wrinkles around his kind eyes, finally making him look more like his age. “Nina, what is this?”

Panic fills me and I have to fight myself to keep from pushing him away. My heart beats faster and I look down as my eyes widen.

A nasty bruise, purple and brown and still in healing, has caught the attention of Dr. Reed. Its corner is just barely showing from under my black v-neck shirt. They would really freak out if they saw the bruises everywhere else.

Mom is standing beside the doctor now, her fingers ready to pry at my clothes. She knows they are there, but I don’t think she’s ever actually seen them.

I cover the spot with my hand, gulp away my fear, and look at Dr. Reed. “I fell a few nights ago and probably got it then.” My mouth twitches into a smile, an innocent one to hide my lies.

Fire fills my mother’s eyes as she stares me down. At least she keeps her mouth shut about the truth of it—about Leison’s molesting hands ripping at me.

Dr. Reed’s eyes narrow and he takes my pulse in silence. He knows that I am freaking out by the way he stares at me––alarmed. “Perhaps we should do a physical,” he says collectively, keeping his gaze on my arm. “I just want to check for any other marks you might have. It won’t be invasive, I promise. I’m worried about internal bleeding.”

“No!” I yell, my panic breaking through. Dr. Reed holds his breath, trying to keep a calm, professional face over his apprehension. “I mean, it’s not a big deal,” I say, trying to clear the murky water I’m sitting in.

Mom looks at Dr. Reed and they exchange looks. “It’s up to her,” she says quietly.

“No. I’m fine.” I smile in reassurance.

Reed nods once, but he’s highly suspicious about this. “The nurse will be in shortly to take your blood.” He glances warily at my mother and leaves the room.

When the nurse enters, he follows. Mom and Dr. Reed talk about nothing important to me while I’m leeched. Like squash and sunflowers. Who cares?

As my blood is drawn I see the red viscous fluid leave my arm and go into its little tube. I suddenly feel the need to puke or something, but ignore it. Finally she’s done. I lie back on the bed and close my eyes until we get the results.

“Strep throat,” the Doc says when he enters for the third time. He gives me a look.

I stare at him innocently. “What do you want me to say?” Guilt fills me for some reason, like I could have killed Adie or something. Or maybe he’s mad about the fact that I am a coward and won’t tell him the truth about my bruises.

“Nothing,” he replies and hands me a prescription. “Amoxi-clav. Make sure you finish it, take it as prescribed––you know how it works.”

“That’s all?” I wonder, ready to go home and go back to bed.

Reed examines me quickly with one look, places his hands above his belt, and sighs. “You tell me. Is there anything else?”

My mother looks at me with a raised eyebrow and I glare back. She’s getting me in trouble with all these looks. If Reed see’s the bruises, he will have to report it to the cops! Then bad things will happen, like Adie being killed or my throat being sliced open. It is not fun and games anymore, not for the Wolf family!

“I’m completely fine,” I say to him. “Except for this blasted sore throat and headache!”

“Well, that shouldn’t hassle you for much longer.” Taking my hand softly in his, he says, “Cecily, I want you to know that I am always here for you if you need to talk.”

*              *              *

Once in the car, Mom heads straight for the pharmacy and on the way says, “Are you sure you don’t want to meet with the Sheriff right now, honey?”

“It was like a century ago! No one will believe us anyway,” I say quickly.

“Cecily, please,” she begs. It pains her to not be able to call the authorities, but she is more scared of what I will do if she does. She just got her daughter back, why will she try to burn the bridge again? Mom is not stupid.

I start to cave a little bit. Staring out the window at the more busy part of town does little to ease my worries. I swear I can see Leison behind every wheel of every car we pass, see him walking along the sidewalk, pushing a grocery cart out of the store. All of this makes me terrified and cold. I can’t go on like this; she is right.

“What will you tell him?” I fiddle with the lock on the door.

Mom touches my arm, gaining my attention. I fight the urge to cringe from the touch. “I won’t tell him specifics. I’ll say there are some bullies who are picking on you.”

“You won’t mention a word about the threats against Adie?”

Her lips purse white and she nods. “I promise that I won’t mention Adie.”

A harsh laugh comes from me after a minute of thinking about how stupid it all sounds.

Her eyes show no emotion as she stares at me. “You are his Goddaughter, Cecily Wolf. Copper would die to keep you safe, give his life to ensure you keep breathing.” She shakes her head. “Ces, he would enlist the entire royal army to escort you to school every day if he could.”