Page 40 of This is Why We Lied

“Sorry for the mess.” Mercy reached underneath a row of hooks that held jackets for colder weather. “I don’t wanna ruin your night. You can just hand me down that first aid kit and get back to supper.”

Sara had no intention of leaving this poor woman bleeding in the bathroom. She was reaching for the kit on the wall when she heard Mercy retch. The toilet lid popped up. Mercy was on her knees when a stream of bile came up. She hacked a few more times before sitting back on her heels.

“Fuck.” Mercy wiped her mouth with the back of her good hand. “I’m sorry.”

Sara asked, “May I look at your thumb?”

“I’m all right. Please, go enjoy your supper. I can handle this.”

As if to prove her point, she grabbed the first aid kit and sat down on the toilet. Sara watched as Mercy tried to open the case with one hand. It was clear that she was used to doing everything by herself. It was also clear that she couldn’t maneuver this particular situation on her own.

“May I?” Sara waited for Mercy’s reluctant nod before she took the case and snapped it open on the floor. She found the usual assortment of bandages along with emergency fluids, three suture packs, and two Stop the Bleed kits—a tourniquet, wound packing gauze, hemostatic dressings. There was also a vial of lidocaine, which wasn’t strictly legal for a kitchen first aid kit, but she imagined they were used to doing their own triage this far from civilization.

She told Mercy, “Let me see your thumb.”

Mercy didn’t move. She stared blankly at the first aid supplies as if she were lost in a memory. “My father used to be the one who gave people stitches if they needed them.”

Sara could hear the sadness in her voice. Cecil McAlpine’s days of having the dexterity to patch someone up were over. Still, it was hard to feel sorry for the man. Sara couldn’t imagine her own father ever talking to her the way Cecil had spoken to Mercy. Particularly in front of strangers. And her mother would’ve snatched the beating heart out of anyone who dared say a word against either of her daughters.

She told Mercy, “I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault.” Mercy’s tone was clipped. “Do you mind opening that roll of dressing for me? I don’t know how it works, but it’ll stop the bleeding.”

“It’s coated with a hemostatic agent to absorb the water content from blood and promote clotting.”

“I forgot you’re a chemistry teacher.”

“About that,” Sara felt her face redden again. She hated outing herself as a liar, but she wasn’t going to subject Mercy to battle dressing. “I’m a medical doctor. Will and I decided to keep our professions quiet.”

Mercy didn’t seem fazed by the dishonesty. “What’s he do? Basketball player? Tight end?”

“No, he’s an agent with the Georgia Bureau of Investigation.” Sara washed her hands at the sink as Mercy took her time absorbing the news. “I’m sorry we lied. We didn’t want to—”

“Don’t worry about it,” Mercy said. “Considering what just happened, I’m in no position to judge.”

Sara adjusted the temperature of the water. In the harsh overhead light, she could see three red marks slashing the left side of Mercy’s neck. They were fresh, probably no more than a few hours old. The bruising would be more pronounced in a few days.

She told Mercy, “Let’s flush out your wound in case there’s any glass.”

Mercy stuck her hand under the faucet. She didn’t even flinch, though the pain must’ve been significant. She was obviously used to being hurt.

Sara took the opportunity to study the red marks on Mercy’s throat. Both sides showed damage. Sara imagined if she wrapped her hands around the woman’s neck, the lines would match her fingers. She had done the same thing many times with patients on her autopsy table. Strangulation was a common feature in domestic violence-related homicide.

“Look,” Mercy said. “Before you keep on helping me, you should know that Dave’s my ex. He’s Jon’s father. And he’s obviously the jackass that told Jon your husband was called Trashcan a million years ago. Dave does petty shit like that all the time.”

Sara took in the information in stride. “Is Dave the one who strangled you?”

Mercy slowly turned off the faucet, not answering.

“That could explain your nausea. Did you pass out?”

Mercy shook her head.

“Are you having difficulty breathing?” Mercy kept shaking her head. “Any changes in vision? Dizziness? Problems remembering things?”

“I wish I couldn’t remember things.”

Sara asked, “Do you mind if I examine your neck?”

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