REN

* * * * * *

2007

 

ANOTHER WINTER CAME.

My work around the farm went from crazy to part-time, and with idle hands came the itch to leave. Every night that Della slept beside me, taller, prettier, more girl than child, I wondered where our future would take us.

There was no question that if I left she’d come too, but I was trapped by both returning cold weather and Della’s love for going to school.

On the last week of her term, before winter closed classes down for a while, she seemed off when we ate together in our room. I’d taken to keeping produce that I’d helped plant and tend in a mini fridge that John Wilson had delivered to us a few months ago.

I had a camping stove and preferred to cook on my own rather than accept the nightly invitation to eat with the Wilsons in their snug home. Not because things between Cassie and I were strained right now, or even that, as I grew older, I became more wanderer by heart and outsider by nature, but because I enjoyed keeping my skills sharp.

One day, I would live off the land again, and when that day came, I couldn’t be soft and useless when it came to skinning rabbits or preparing meals for two. I’d already let my talent at thievery turn rusty thanks to earning an honest wage, but it was never far from my mind.

I didn’t think that mentality would ever fully leave me. Even at seventeen, I still studied unprotected spots in house defences, body language of easy prey, and weaknesses that I could exploit if I wanted to.

That night, instead of a normal Wednesday evening when Della and I curled up in front of the TV with a simple meal of simmered carrots and honey glazed chicken, my life took a swerve into terror territory.

She accepted her dinner with her usual politeness and even gave me a weak smile.

But something was off.

My heart, that usually calmed down and found happiness whenever I was around her, skyrocketed with anxious nerves. “You okay?” I asked softly, brushing aside hair that’d stuck to her cheek.

The instant my fingers connected with her skin, I yanked them back faster than a whip. Immediately, I took the plate she held listlessly, climbed off the bed, and scooped her from the end.

She didn’t mutter one annoyance or frustration which layered my already anxious heart with more fear.

“Della…”

With as much tenderness as I could, I placed her on top of the bedspread and gathered her hair away from her back and neck so it draped over the pillow out of the way.

She groaned softly as if lying on a comfortable mattress hurt.

“Tell me what’s wrong.” I kneeled by the bed, hoping I looked in charge and strong when really, I was dying inside. “What is it? Something you ate? A cold? Tummy bug?”

We weren’t immune to everyday illnesses, especially now that Della spent the majority of her time around grubby children and unhygienic school classrooms. We’d had enough colds to know the symptoms.

But this was different.

She’d been listless yesterday too but still chirpy when I pushed her. Then again, she’d only eaten half her dinner and none of her dessert, when normally, she wolfed whatever I put in front of her.

I’d stayed up late, watching her sleep, and she’d been deep under all night.

I should’ve been more diligent. I should’ve known she was worse than she let on.

She had a habit of hiding things—keeping secrets close to her chest. Most of the time, I could handle her need for privacy and lived in constant hope that one day, she would trust me enough to share her secrets.

But today wasn’t that day, and I should’ve known better than to accept her lies.

She’d fibbed right to my face about her health and put herself in harm’s way.

Didn’t she know that was the worst kind of punishment? I loved her unconditionally, and she’d hurt herself yet again by keeping things from me.

My hands curled.

I wanted to tell her off, but instead, my mind raced with questions and theories of what could be wrong as my fingers rested on her forehead again, wincing at the heat radiating from her.

Goddammit, how had I not noticed?

Why did I let her go to school this morning?

“You lied to me. You said you were feeling better.” I cupped her cheek, willing her to open her eyes. “Little Ribbon…what have you done?”

She moaned, her lips parting just enough for a flinched breath. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologise. I just wish you’d said something.”

“I had to hand in my science project that you helped me with.”

I scoffed. “I think two caterpillars turning into chrysalis and butterflies in a jam jar could’ve waited if you weren’t feeling okay.”

A lonely tear leaked from her left eye. “I’m sorry.”

I bent and pressed my forehead against her cheek, curling my arm around her head. “Don’t. It’s me who should apologise.”

“But I made you mad.”

My heart cracked. “You didn’t make me mad. You made me worried. Big difference.” I couldn’t take my eyes off her as she winced and wriggled in discomfort. “You have me so damn worried, Little Ribbon, and here I am scolding you when I should be making you better.”

“I’m sorry.” She snuggled into my embrace even though her body was a mini furnace.

“Stop saying that.” I held her tight, willing the chaos in my brain to settle enough to talk without bite and ask questions gently. “I’m the one who’s sorry, and now I’m going to do everything I can to make you better.”

Kissing her softly on her nose, I asked, “Tell me what’s wrong. List how you feel.” I’d watched Patricia Wilson deal with Liam when he was regularly ill from kids at school. I’d lurked outside while Cassie recovered from a bad flu on the couch and she was doted on by concerned parents.

At the time, I thought them lucky to have such care—their only worry was to heal and be a demanding patient where all their wishes were met.

Now, I understood it from the panicked caregiver’s point of view. The anxious hovering over their baby to ensure they were still breathing. The nervous voice when they asked how they were, dreading a reply of worse and begging for an answer of better.

Now, I was that parent, and I would do anything in the world to trade places with Della and suffer whatever she was going through.

She bit her bottom lip as she wriggled away from my embrace, sweat dotting her upper lip. “I’m hot.”

“Tell me what else. Tell me how I can fix this.” All I wanted to do was slaughter her pain and send it directly to hell.

“I’m thirsty.” She blinked with wide eyes. “Um…I’m hot. My legs ache. I’m…tired.” She yawned as if on cue, trying to roll onto her side.

I didn’t permit it, holding her firm. “Anything else?”

Shaking her head, she moaned, “I dunno. Just…everything doesn’t feel right, Ren.” She tried to roll again, but I kept my hand clutched on her shoulder, dislodging her pink knitted jumper, revealing her back.

A red rash invaded the perfection of her porcelain skin.

Fuck.

Leaping clumsily onto the bed, I scooped her close and yanked off her jumper.

“No…” She protested weakly and not her usual spit fire attack. That alone made my belly knot and heart shut down.

All over her chest and back was a rash. An enemy infiltrating everything I loved in the world.

She batted me away with a feather-weak hand as I let her flop back down and undid the zipper on her jeans. Her head lolled on the pillow as I pulled them as gently as I could down her legs, my lips thinning and head pounding as I found yet more red rash.

Outside, snow had started to fall, and my mind regressed to when she was sick the first time, and we’d stumbled upon Polcart Farm. That place had saved her life. Perhaps Cherry River would save her this time.

Because as much as I would slay dragons for her, I was not a doctor.

I didn’t have a clue what was wrong, and I couldn’t stop my morbid thoughts from filling me with agony of her dying due to my incompetence.

Pulling her jeans back up, I hastily buttoned them, bundled her up in one of my jumpers, then clutched her tight.

Striding from the room, I carried her through swirling snowflakes and pounded on the Wilson’s door.

* * * * *

Della was admitted to the hospital.

For three days, I paced those antiseptic corridors and slept curled up on a hard, cold couch at the foot of her single cot.

I hated that place.

I despised that place.

But I refused to leave even for a moment.

Della couldn’t leave; therefore, I couldn’t leave.

Turned out, thanks to scientific words I didn’t understand and people I couldn’t tolerate, Della had chicken pox. Normally, a kid contracted the virus and dealt with it no problem, but Della had a worse than normal reaction to Varicella, which according to some doctor I wanted to punch in the face, was the correct term for the red spots, obsessive itchiness, migraines, tiredness, and vomiting that Della endured.

She couldn’t keep anything down, and her body looked more crimson than cream thanks to the invasion of spots and her tendency to scratch until she bled.

It ripped out my guts to see her in so much discomfort and not have any power to help.

This was the first time I’d been in a hospital since my finger had been cut off. Back then, I’d been given candy and a toy. Back then, I’d felt cared for and in good hands—until Mclary threw my gifts and their kindness out the window, of course.

But right now, I doubted everyone. No one had the power to stop Della’s pain, and I hated them. I’d expected miracles, and Della had received subpar attention with lacklustre results.

Despite their un-miracle-working care, she slowly got better. I didn’t give the tired looking doctors and harassed looking nurses any credit.

I gave it all to her.

Della was strong.

She fought hard.

And when she finally stopped vomiting and her symptoms abated to an annoying scratch with no fever, she was released, and John Wilson drove us back to Cherry River.

Cassie, Liam, and Patricia all wanted to crowd and cuddle my patient upon her arrival, but I forbade them.

My possessiveness only grew worse now the doctors had relinquished her back into my care. Not that they had technically. They’d put her into the Wilson’s care as I was still a minor.

Before, when I was young and terrified of having someone’s whole existence hinge entirely on me, I would’ve been grateful to the Wilsons for loving Della as much as I did. If they had been the ones I left her with, I would’ve made the right choice.

But that was years ago, and things had changed. Della no longer needed me to survive, but I sure as hell needed her, and even with her sick, I needed her close.

At least the Wilsons knew she was mine and backed off after their initial welcome.

Della was my responsibility, and I ensured her every beck and call was met: applying lotion to her spots, duct taping her hands into my thick baling gloves to stop her from scratching, and feeding her whatever she wanted.

No matter that I was left alone to do whatever Della needed, I still couldn’t get over the desire to growl at anyone who came close or snarl at those who offered help.

I acted like a controlling, dominating bastard but that was what Della’s fragility made me become. I patrolled around her like a wolf would his cub, ready to bite anything that dared damage what was his.

I’d do anything to make her well again; including destroying anyone who got too close.

The Wilsons provided us with healthy soups and drinks—when they braved my temper—and when Della blinked awake one afternoon from yet another nap and her familiar strength started to glow beneath her illness, I found my selfishness at keeping her to myself fading.

I ‘borrowed’ John Wilson’s Land Rover—which was so much easier to drive than a tractor—and headed into town where I used a handful of change found in the middle console to purchase Della’s request for a Filet o’ Fish happy meal.

For so long, we’d never had processed food, and I didn’t particularly like that she’d grown to enjoy it. Ever since she started having lunches and weekend play dates with friends from school, her palate had adapted to not only enjoy fresh produce but also greasy takeaway.

I preferred to keep burgers and fries as birthday treats but Cassie called me old fashioned whenever I’d grumble about Della’s new favourite foods.

John saw me arriving with the cab of his truck reeking of takeout but didn’t say a word as I parked on his driveway and climbed out with the brown paper bag.

We stared at each other.

I tipped my head in gratitude along with the acknowledgment that I’d been a grumpy bastard and taken something I shouldn’t. He nodded back, forgiving me and understanding.

Giving him another nod, I jogged back to Della to give her what she craved.

If junk food was the recipe to getting my favourite person back, then I’d do it.

I’d do anything for her.

Just like I’d stayed here past winter for her.

Just like I’d sacrifice anything of mine so she could have everything.