Page 95 of Cuts Like An Angel: Part 3

Chapter Thirty-Eight

William

It made William wonder how anyone could get addicted to daytime television. He flicked across the channels, landing on the same things. It started with the show where people aired their problems on live television, swearing at each other, accusing each other of cheating and god knows what else, followed by a show about the latest gossip. It made William’s head hurt more than the crash had. Did people really enjoy this drivel?

One programme had houses being auctioned off in London and then being sold on. Another show showed people cooking dinner for five other guests and then they all sort of backstabbed each other. What a strange world this was? If there was ever a reason not to watch the television, this was it. Perhaps this was one of the reasons his mother was so insane. She dined on this variety of entertainment all the time.

He switched the channel and settled on another re-run of Friends. At least this made some sense. He tried to move his pillow to get himself comfortable and then instantly regretted it when the tight band of pain appeared around his waist. “Fucking hell,” he said. At least it was getting somewhat better. He could actually breathe when he swore about it.

The cast on his leg made it hard to do anything. It was heavy and burdening, and when he tried to move with it, that too seemed to pull on his wounds. He took another breath, centred himself, and just stayed where he was. So, what if one of his arse cheeks went numb. He could deal with that.

Rosie had brought him a couple of paperbacks on her last visit, the latest bestsellers. He picked one of those up and tried to read, but no. That pain wasn’t shifting. It was like clockwork. As if the pain could tell the time. Four hours, on the dot, the pain announced its arrival. He was already sweating with it by the time he managed to push the buzzer for the nurse.

The painkillers were almost as bad as the pain. At least they stopped it all hurting, but they also made him drowsy. He was pretty sure he’d been asleep for most of Rosie’s visit. Not that she said anything about it. Just sat with him and waited for him to wake up.

Someone knocked on the door of his room and then opened it. He tried to put himself right, make himself a little presentable.

“Sorry, I buzzed because I think it’s time for my painkillers, and I could use them.”

It was a man this time. Not one of the nurses or doctors William recognised. He was beginning to learn who they were and how their shifts worked.

“Sorry. I thought you were a nurse.”

“Oh, I’m not a nurse. I can get one for you,” the man said.

“Oh, yes, please. Are you a visitor? Visiting hours are over until six.”

“I know,” the man said. He walked like someone who knew his way around things. He possibly could have been a doctor with the way he was dressed, all expensive suits and a stiff back. He reached over and flicked the switch that turned William’s buzzer off. “I came to see you. They said I could. I told them I was your brother and that I was going back out of town.”

“And they believed you?” Not because it was hard to believe, but the man’s accent was clearly American. Thicker than Rosie’s accent, but somewhat the same. “You’re a friend of Rosie’s?”

“People believe anything when they’re busy. And yes, I am. I came to talk you about her actually.”

William reached for his buzzer again, suddenly feeling a little on edge. Anyone from over there who wanted to talk about Rosie had nothing good to say. Nothing he wanted to hear.

“My name is Peter,” he said.

“Peter?” William knew that name. Knew of him. “Is everything okay with Rosie?”

“Not really,” Peter said, “I mean, she’s fine physically if that’s what you mean, but mentally. I have no idea what is going on with her. I have come here to ask for your help. She needs to come home, and we can’t talk any sense into her. She needs to be in America where she belongs.”

“Rosie doesn’t want to go back to the States,” William said. He didn’t say the word home on purpose. Home was here. Home was with him. “She’s told her parents enough times that she isn’t interested.”

“Oh, she is,” Peter said, “She was just looking for the right time to tell you. She even sought legal counsel to help her.”

Mark … William’s breathing hitched. Since he’d been in here, he’d shut it all out. Shut out the sight of his car outside Mark’s office. Shut out the idea and the questions as to why she was there.

“She didn’t want to leave you while you were in here. She has a good heart, our Rosie. Good to a fault sometimes. She is just waiting for you to get better so she can come home. She doesn’t want to leave you and your mother in the lurch.”

“You’re lying. Rosie would never--”

“I assure you, I’m not. She told her father and me this very afternoon that she wasn’t ready to tell you yet. That she couldn’t do it because you were in here and not well yet, but I think you are. Could you handle her leaving now? Your mother has care. That friend of yours arranged it for her.”

William pushed himself up in the bed. Suddenly, the pain didn’t seem to be much of a problem any longer. He didn’t know this Peter, but the Rosie he was describing didn’t sound right to him. He watched as Peter moved around the room and went to the window. He leant against the window sill and folded his arms across his chest.

“Did she ever tell you about that puppy she found once? It was some crossbred thing. It was injured, not fatally of course but enough that it needed medical care. Rosie had been saving up for a new dress, but instead, she used that money to take the puppy to the veterinary clinic. She likes fixing things, does Rosie. She did with the puppy; she does here. Why do you think she works on a helpline for people in need? And you? From what she has told me, you were in quite some need yourself when Rosie came into your life. Sort of like the puppy.”

“I think you need to leave,” William said. He pulled the cable with the buzzer around, but Peter came over and held it. Not forcefully, but in a gesture for William to wait.

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