Cast a Pale Shadow(17)

Really, he frightened her more than the approaching train had. Its promise was certain, final. His was so unknown.

"I'll leave you two alone now," she heard Moira say.

"Wait!" she heard next and was not certain whether it came from his lips or her own. They moved away from her in hushed conversation to the hall, and Trissa buried her head in the pillow, better to hide the tears from him when he returned, tears he would not understand and she could not explain. She heard his quiet footsteps as he circled the bed, picked up the fallen roses, and set the bedraggled bouquet on the windowsill. And then he waited, his arms folded, leaning against the radiator.

"Thank you," she said finally, pulling herself up but not trusting herself to look directly at him. "I mean, for the flowers."

"I'm sorry they're a little crushed."

"And--" she added with a quick, sharp sigh, "and for me."

"A little crushed as well, I'm sad to say."

"I don't know how you could -- or why -- or why you'd want to -- I -- I'm sorry. You could have been killed." Her whole body shuddered with the sobs that broke over her, but without a word he stepped toward her and enfolded her in his arms and rocked her while she cried. "It would have been better if you hadn't. It would have been over by now. It would have been over."

"But the world needs you, Trissa. It couldn't let you go. I couldn't let you go."

In confusion, she looked up at him through the blinding blur of her tears. What impossible faith did he demand of her? Her leaving would be of such small import to the world, the hushing of one heartbeat among so many billions. What could it matter when no one cared? God, how her head ached, how her heart thumped with such deafening regularity in her brain! How she wished it would stop and leave her in peace.

She buried her head against his arm, soaking his sleeve with her relentless tears. Her fists clenched at the soft wool of his jacket as he rocked her patiently, cradled her so gently, mindful of her bruises. And since it hurt so much to think, she surrendered to his lulling comfort. Maybe it was not him she had feared but the life he had restored to her. But she would not think of that now either. Thought seemed to be drowning in this battered brain of hers, sinking in the pain and the constant roar of the train.



*****



Her crying slowed and stopped and her ragged breathing gentled a bit. Limp with exhaustion, she slipped into fretful sleep, but when he made moves to settle her back against the pillow, she clutched at him. "Please, don't let me go. You said you wouldn't let me go."

"I won't," he whispered.

With her eyes still closed, she spoke to him, in a dreamy haze of a voice. "Who are you, Nicholas Brewer? Who are you?"

"Someone to take care of you."

"Forever and always?" she asked with the questing faith of a child.

"And ever after that." She slept then. The nurse's aide said that she would. The painkiller would make her drowsy all day. Beyond that, she would tell him nothing. There were x-rays taken. Her continued dizzy spells were a concern, but the doctor would have to talk to him about that.

"Don't worry, Mr. Brewer, we are doing all that we can for her." It was a sentence that sent an immediate chill through him. All that we can implied that there was something they could not do, didn't it? The thought made his precarious optimism seem as bent and mangled as his poor bouquet.

It made jagged sense to him that he would find her just to lose her. It was the wretched pattern of his life -- found and lost and found and lost again. But what twisted God would seek to illustrate his point with such cruelty? That was an insanity more difficult to accept than his own.

When he felt, at last, that she slept soundly enough, he nestled her back on the crisp, white sheets, drew his chair up to the bedside and sat watching her. Remembering his promise, he kept one hand lightly on her forearm, not letting go.





Chapter Six





Trissa did not stir with the bustle of activity that brought another patient to fill the bed next to her. Nicholas watched the precision of the staff, the two orderlies and two nurses, as they shifted a motionless bundle from the gurney to the bed, attached an intravenous bottle to the rack they wheeled in and belatedly drew the curtain. When they left, only the new roommate's huffing intakes of breath made him aware of her presence beyond the green fabric wall they'd pulled into place.

Hunger gnawed at him around eleven, and he remembered he had not eaten since dinner the night before. The nurse's aid, Moira, peeked in to say she was going off duty and urged him to grab a bite.

"She'll likely sleep another hour or two. Now would be your best bet." It was another twenty minutes before he forced himself to take her advice. He whisked the wilting roses into the waste can and counted himself stupid not to have thought to put them in water. He would replace them and add a few daisies to the bunch. That might cheer her a little.

Rounding the foot of her bed, he smoothed a wrinkle out of her blanket and brushed past the curtain that partitioned the room. He intended only to nod a peremptory greeting to the silent roommate, but his eyes were unconsciously drawn to her. The shock of seeing her halted him abruptly, and he had to clutch at the curtain for stability.

She had the same coloring and was about the same size as Trissa, though the fetal curl of her position made her seem much smaller. Brittle shocks of hair bristled out from beneath the bandages that encircled her skull, and tubes invaded her chafed nose and her dry, cracked lips. She struggled to breathe, and her eyes were open but unseeing through stubby, crusted lashes.

Nicholas' own chest heaving with the effort to contain his emotions as he shifted his eyes from one bed to the other, flashing images of what might have been or what could yet be for Trissa if -- Oh, God, if -- He felt his rage rising and he had to get away from there.

He fled down the hall to the service elevator, smashing his fist again and again against the call button until the doors finally slid open for him. He pushed the safety gate aside and entered. Down into the bowels of the hospital and out into the dimly lit subbasement, he followed the glowing, red exit signs, twisting and turning through the maze of pillars and corners, possibly searching for the pathway to hell. He plunged at last through a door to the outside. Sunlight splashed down the concrete retaining wall opposite him, dazing him, and the pungent odor of the overflowing garbage bins made his stomach churn in protest as he gulped in air.

He picked up a cardboard box full of jars and bottles and flung it furiously against the wall, relishing the shatter of its contents in glistening shards, wishing it were Trissa's father he could so easily smash. Or his own. Or fate. Or memory.

It was this Nicholas that so frightened Janey and Beth, this dark, mad Nicholas, driven by his rages, black in his fury, cutting a swath of insanity. Pure insanity. Not magic. No magic at all, Doreen, just insanity, nothing more.

He spent his wrath on more boxes and bags until he was knee deep in his debris and his lungs ached with the effort. Cupping his hands over his mouth and nose, he inhaled until his breathing had reached its normal rhythm, until the veil of red lifted from his eyes and he was almost Nicholas again.

He kicked aside the rubble to make a clear patch of pavement, and he sank to the ground, wedged between the wall and the garbage bin. In just a moment it would be over, a cigarette or two, a soaking in the sunshine, rationality restored by the clear light of day, darkness conquered as it always was by the dawn.

He would rest awhile, then eat, and be back with Trissa before she awoke. It would be different this time. He had saved her and for once he had found someone who needed him as much as he needed her. Almost as much.

Fool that he was, reckless dreamer that he was, he believed he could ration these episodes of craziness. He had to. He could not have Trissa if he were hopelessly and irreparably insane. And he had to have her. Hadn't he promised her he would not let go?

"Brewer? Brewer, is that you?"

Christ, it was Edmonds. And here he was, crouched in the garbage, rumpled and unkempt, looking nearly as wild as he must have last night.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

Nicholas hauled himself to his feet, making a concentrated effort not to limp as he came out from behind the bin. He dropped his cigarette and ground it out under his toe. "Having a smoke. Why? Am I off-limits?" Nicholas tugged at his jacket and jeans, trying to look nonchalant and succeeding miserably.

"Wouldn't one of the benches outside be more comfortable?" Edmonds regarded him suspiciously.

"Maybe. I'll have to try one next time." He shrugged and followed the doctor through the door. "And what about you? Do you always use the service entrance? I thought you were the hotshot doctor here, not some lowly custodian. Or are you dodging your throngs of fans?"

"Dodging seems more up your alley, Brewer. What, were there cops lurking in the lobby?"

Nicholas decided to ignore his needling. "I'm worried about Trissa."