CHAPTER 33

Ben

March

“Mak, hand me that edging brush, will ya?”

I’m teetering at the top of the ladder, trying to get this bedroom painted.

The original slate gray wouldn’t do for the baby, Isla decreed. So despite the fact we just painted it a couple of months ago, here I am again, slapping on a sunflower yellow. Perfectly non-gender specific, according to my fiancée, who’s insisted we at least keep the gender to ourselves, since I already spilled the beans on the pregnancy itself.

I couldn’t care less, and I’m willing to bet neither would the baby, but she’s adamant that this is a happy color that will be soothing and uplifting. Very well. I am not about to argue with my furiously mood-swinging Pixie. Especially given my niece is in full support of the color change. Since she’s the one living here, at least for the next few months, and I want her to feel at home, I don’t grumble—much.

“Want to start pulling down the tape around the doorframe?”

I don’t even get an answer; I just hear the ripping off of tape as Mak enthusiastically dives into her task.

“Careful, you don’t just toss it on the floor, kiddo, there could be wet paint on it. Stuff it in that garbage bag.”

“Ohmygod.” I turn to find Isla in the doorway, her hands clapped over her mouth. Eyes big and shiny as she looks around the room.

She’s glorious. Still her own person, with today’s ensemble of an old pair of my sweats, cut off below the knee, showing the bottom of a pair of daisy leggings and topped off by her favorite Converse high tops. A white tank is stretched tight over her bulging belly and a man-sized flannel shirt hangs open over top. Her hair has grown out a little, yet is still short and spiky, but it’s her face that makes the whole thing work. Fine-boned like a china doll, with a small narrow nose and big eyes. Happiness stretches her lips from an almost dainty cupid’s bow to a wide open-mouthed smile, and despite the age lines and faint wrinkles, she still looks like a young girl to me.

My own contradiction on feet, and I love her.

From the very first moment she aimed that smile at me, she showed me an alternate universe from the one I’d been living in for years. One much brighter with color and light. She introduced me to a full range of emotions, from beautiful to downright painful, but all very real. I wasn’t lying when I said every day with her is a surprise and her quirky wardrobe choices are just external manifestations of the vibrancy she gives my world.

“Isn’t it pretty?” Mak chirps happily.

“It’s perfect,” my girl sighs, as she looks at me in that way that makes me feel larger than life. And not just because I’m standing at the top of a ladder.

“Almost done. Just let me finish this edge up, then Mak and I will shove the furniture back in place. We’ve got time.”

I know she’s worried about bringing Stacie home.

My sister has undergone three surgeries in the past six weeks, the last one two weeks ago on her arm, where an earlier infection created even more damage than the burns had. All in all, she came away relatively lucky, with visible damage contained to one side of her body. We’d all been worried about her face, but were assured that she would be able to hide most of those injuries with her hair. The burns were limited to one side of her face, and the graft running down from cheekbone down to the jaw and back to the ear, is still swollen. Right now it pulls on the corner of her eye a bit, making it droop, but once the swelling goes down, that will hopefully be minimized.

She’s coming home this afternoon. She’s still going to have to make regular trips to the burn clinic, and we have a physical therapist lined up, right here in Dolores, to work with her. It’ll be a few weeks yet before she can drive herself, and in the meantime either Isla or I will drive her.

“Do you think I should put on a dress?” Mak comes into the laundry room where I’m rinsing out the paint trays.

“A dress? Do you even own one?” I ask, a little perplexed at that particular question from that particular mouth, but I feel immediately guilty for being flippant when I see the dejected look on her face.

“Mom bought if for me last year. I’ve never worn it.”

I turn, pick her up, and set her on the washer, leaning my hands on either side of her. She’s pretty tall for her age, all arms and legs, but she weighs nothing.

“Why do you want to wear a dress?” I ask, dipping my head low to catch her downcast eyes. “I thought you hated dresses?”

“But Mom bought it for me,” she says with a shrug. “Maybe it’ll make her happy if I wear it.”

My heart squeezes. Stacie has been struggling emotionally, something I thought she was hiding phenomenally well around Mak. Apparently not as well as we’d thought. I take her face in my hands and tilt it up.

“Wear the dress if it makes you feel better, kiddo. But what I know about your mom, she doesn’t really care all that much about what you have on. She cares more about how you feel. And I’m pretty sure she doesn’t want you to change who you are to make her feel better.”

“But she’s sad. Her eyes don’t smile anymore,” Mak says, her eyes brimming with tears. Damn kid is breaking my heart.

“She’s been stuck in a hospital room for months. It’s hard to find things to smile about when life goes on around you but you’re not part of it.” I kiss her forehead when the first tears start rolling. “It may take her a little time, but I know your mother; once she can smell the fresh air, feel the heat of the sun, and hug the one person who means more to her than anything else in the whole world, she will remember how to smile. I promise you.” I hug her little body close and the way her skinny arms try to wrap around me, chokes me up.

I’m not a particularly demonstrative person, not with anyone other than Isla, and I may have been missing something. It’s so easy to misjudge someone by what they represent on the outside, and Mak may show a rough and tumble tomboy, but that doesn’t mean she needs less affection. Maybe it just means she doesn’t know how to ask for it.

So I hug her a little tighter and kiss the top of her head as I let her cry out her worries and her fears.

“I love you, Makenna,” I gently tell her, her short hair tickling my cheek. “You’re perfect just as you are.”

Isla

He’s killing me.

I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. I just grabbed the sheets off the bed in the other bedroom, where Stacie will be staying, and was going to wash them when I heard talking from the laundry room.

Mak comes skipping out of the laundry room, her cheeks wet with tears but a big sunny smile on her face when she spots me.

“I’m gonna put my daisy leggings on, too,” she announces, as she darts past me down the hall.

“You heard,” Ben’s deep raspy voice comes from the doorway. All I can do is nod. “Never realized how much alike you two are. For two people not related by blood, there are some uncanny similarities.” I smile at his words. There’s some truth in that. I see a kindred spirit of sorts in the almost nine-year-old-girl.

“We’re both children of single beautiful mothers. I lost mine; she almost lost hers. We’re both much tougher on the outside than we are on the inside. And we both had strong male role models step up to the plate when we needed someone. I’d say we have plenty in common.”

“I’ll say,” Ben says dropping a brief kiss on my lips. “I’ll do better,” he mumbles, and although I want to tell him he’s doing amazing already, I keep my mouth shut. I don’t want to depreciate his intentions. So instead I lift up on tiptoes and kiss him back.

-

“If you’d like, you can get these filled at the hospital pharmacy downstairs,” the nurse says, handing Ben a stack of prescription slips for Stacie.

“Dismissed,” he mumbles, as he slips by me out the door.

Stacie was sitting next to her bed, wearing a pair of the soft sweats we bought for her and a long sleeved T-shirt. Mak, however, had wanted to make a special stop for her mom and handed Stacie the bag with the Rose Pedal logo on the side.

“What did you get me, baby?” Stacie asks, one side of her mouth pulling up in a smile as she looks at a nervously twiddling Mak.

“Open it.”

“Mak wanted to make sure you had something pretty to wear home,” I explain to Stacie gently, when she pulls out the soft, floral, knit lounge pants and soft pink, oversized hoodie, and looks up confused.

“It’s beautiful,” she tells her daughter, whose look of relief is almost comical. “I’d love to wear it home.”

“I can quickly help you,” the nurse jumps in. “If you would excuse us?” She turns to Mak and me.

“Actually,” Stacie pipes up. “Why don’t you give us a minute instead?”

“But—” the younger woman protests, but Stacie holds her gaze firm, until she slinks from the room.

“You guys ready for this?” Stacie asks, a world of insecurity in her voice. Mak is oblivious and excitedly starts pulling tags from the clothes, but I know exactly what she’s asking.

“You bet,” I answer, putting my words into action as I reach out and help her get out of her shirt. First her good arm, and then I lift it carefully over her head, where the hair is slowly starting to grow back. Finally we strip it carefully down the still bandaged arm, where she just received the final grafts a few weeks ago.

The damage to her beautiful body brings tears to my eyes, but I quickly blink them away. Stacie’s eyes are flicking between her daughter and me, clearly waiting for a reaction. Any reaction. I realize that aside from medical personnel, we are the first ones to see the extent of her injuries.

I conjure up what I hope is an encouraging smile, but it’s Mak who turns this into a pivotal moment when she turns to her mom, ready with the pink hoodie in her hand.

“Here, Mom. Put your head through,” she says, leaning over her mother, not giving the deep red ridges on her torso a second glance. “It’s got bat sleeves,” she explains to Stacie. “All you have to do is slip your hands through the cuffs. See how easy that is?” Mak’s chatter easily breaks through the heavy air of anticipation as her mother clearly braces for a shocked reaction. I love the little girl, even more than I already did, when she doesn’t even pause as she pulls the hoodie down to cover the scars on Stacie’s body. “It looks pretty on you, Mom.” She smiles proudly at her mother, who swallows hard and simply nods.

“Perfect choice, Mak.”

She turns her pleased smile on me at the compliment.

“Now the pants.”

With a little help, we get Stacie on her feet, and Mak takes care of gently stripping the simple gray sweats and replacing them with the pretty, soft, palazzo style pants she picked out.

“Does it pinch anywhere?” she asks her mom.

“No. It’s perfect, baby.” The smile on her face reaches her shiny eyes for the first time in months, as we carefully lower her back down in the wheelchair.

“I’ll just go grab the car,” Ben says a bit later when we reach the lobby. Hospital policy requires a nurse to bring the patient to the door, so the young nurse is pushing Stacie’s chair. “Be right back.”

“Okay, I’m going to find a bathroom quick, before we get on the road,” I announce. Pregnancy makes for very frequent bladder emergencies and with an almost two-hour drive ahead of us, I don’t want to be caught by surprise. “Need to go to the bathroom, Mak?” I ask.

“I’m okay.”

Leaving Mak with Stacie and the nurse, I backtrack down the hall to where I’d spotted a public bathroom earlier. I dive through the door, my head low as I concentrate on holding it in. The bathroom seems empty, and as soon as I close the stall door, I yank my pants down and let go with a groan of relief.

I flush, put my clothes back in order, and am just unlocking the door when I hear the footsteps of someone else entering the bathroom. I don’t even look up when I make my way to the sink to wash my hands—I don’t want to keep anyone waiting—so when a low husky voice speaks right behind me, I jump.

“Who is she?”

Whipping around, my breath catches in my throat when I see a face I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forget, nor the glint of a knife in her hand.

“You?—How?—” I stammer, instinctively covering my pregnancy with my hands. Her eyes follow my movements and widen slightly at the significant bump of my belly.

“Who’s she?” she repeats, her larger frame leaning forward, crowding me into the little alcove by the sink. My eyes dart over her shoulder to the door she’s blocking.

“Who?”

“The woman in the wheelchair?”

“Ben’s sister,” I admit. I’ll say anything to keep her from focusing on my baby. I watch as a range of emotions plays out on her face, before her eyes squint and move back down to my belly, and up. “That was supposed to be you,” she hisses.

“I know,” I whisper, praying for someone, anyone, to come through that door. “What are you doing here?”

“I’ve watched him. Watched you and him for weeks. You always park in the lower parking lot, right by the rock garden. I’ve seen you from my window.” Her voice, low and almost seductive, takes on a harsher edge, becoming almost shrill as she talks. “I’ve seen you kiss, right below the room where you had me locked up. Do you know how hard it’s been to pretend? Do you know how patient I’ve had to be?” Spittle starts flying from her mouth as her face morphs into something barely recognizable as human.

I vaguely register a call for ‘code yellow’ over the hospital intercom as the woman in front of me steps closer. There’s nowhere for me to go, with the wall at my back and the sink biting in my hip, I’m stuck.

“Jahnee,” I plead, hoping the use of her name will call on a healthier part of her mind. “How did you find me?”

“Watching and waiting. Today was the day. I knew it when I saw you flaunt your victory over me, but you didn’t honestly think I’d just let you walk away with my man and my baby, did you?”

I barely manage to turn my stomach to the wall when she jabs at me with, what I can now see, is a butter knife.

“You were always first,” I try. I’ll say anything to get her to back off. “You were his lover first, you carried his baby first. I’m sorry...I didn’t know.” The moment I mention her baby, the twisted expression on her face seems to melt away as her eyes float away, perhaps reliving some distant memories.

“I wanted it to be his so badly,” she says, her voice dropping to a whisper. “He would’ve made a much better daddy than the sick bastard, who left me lying on a bathroom floor, with his dirty cum still dripping out of me.”

I feel for her in that moment. Despite the horrible things she’s done, the damage she’s unleashed in her own life and in others’, I feel for her. In a moment of compassion, I reach out my hand to her, but the moment my fingers touch her skin, she reels back and hauls me across the face.

“Mine!” she shrieks, raising the hand wielding the knife above her head. It may just be a butter knife but I imagine it can do enough damage, so I drop down to the floor and instinctively curl myself around my baby.

Ben

I leave the engine running on the Toyota as I rush inside to load up my girls and take them home.

Stacie is sitting in the wheelchair, with Mak and the nurse by her side.

“Where’s Isla?”

“Bathroom,” Mak clarifies, pointing down the hall.

“Okay, let’s go ahead and get you two loaded up,” I decide, holding the door open for the nurse to push Stacie’s chair through, just as a code comes over the hospital intercom. The young woman briefly pauses, listening, before rolling my sister to the passenger side of the SUV. We manage to strap her in, using some of her clothes as padding so the seatbelt doesn’t rub her injuries, and I carefully close the door.

I follow the nurse inside to look for Isla, when the overhead sound system repeats the code yellow.

“Hey,” I call out, stopping the nurse who’s already walking away with the empty wheelchair, an unsettled feeling in the pit of my stomach. “What’s a code yellow?”

“Missing patient,” she says. “It doesn’t happen often, usually someone elderly, confused with dementia or Alzheimers. But sometimes one slips from the psychiatric ward.”

Something suddenly snaps home.

“Bathroom!” I grab the nurse by the shoulders, almost shaking her.