Page 77 of Delivered to the Devil

I stare up at the ceiling and nod. And suddenly, the images rush in, making my body shiver and my teeth clench. It must be obvious, because András leans forward and takes my hand.

I pull away, giving him an accusatory look. “Why did you take me away from him?”

He watches me like I’m speaking in riddles. “What do you mean?”

“Janos. Why did you take me away from him?”

His forehead creases as a huge question mark seems to swirl above in his head. “He came to me. I helped him get you out.”

“Wha— No.” Tears gather in my eyes. This is worse than any of the scenarios I imagined. How could he do that? How could he get rid of me like that? I can’t stand the idea and have to bite down on my lip to keep from breaking down in front of my boss—or, former boss.

“He couldn’t get you the help you needed without risking your life.”

I shake my head, unable to form any words, unable to hear anything through the grief lodged in my mind.

“Rebecca,” András urges, making my eyes flit back to his. “You’re out of the country. You’re safe. When you’ve healed enough, you can go home.”

Home?

The only real home I ever knew was with Janos.

“I don’t want to go back there,” I say, gulping hard to force back the sob threatening to break past the constriction in my throat. Turning my gaze back to the ceiling, I mutter, “You shouldn’t have taken me away.”

“Rebecca, if we hadn’t gotten you out, you would have died. And there’s a great chance you will if I take you back to Hungary.”

I find no comfort in his words. Only disappointment. I had just resigned myself to dying—ending everything with Janos at my side. But then he goes ahead and ruins everything, throwing me away, useless and broken, to face a life haunted by the thingshelet Gabor do to me—a horror movie going on repeat in my mind forever.

Silence stretches on for a long while. I don’t think András knows what to say, and I’m too crushed to say anything.

Finally, the silence breaks as the door opens and a balding man in a white coat enters.

“I’m Dr. Eder-Steiner,” he says, putting on the glasses hanging around his neck as he takes the chart at the end of the bed.

“I’ll let you have some privacy,” András says, getting up. “I’ll be right out in the hall.”

A moment ago I would have preferred he left me alone, but suddenly I can’t bear the idea of him leaving. “Please don’t,” I blurt, casting him a desperate look.

He halts, and I reach out for him and squeeze his hand as he takes mine.

“Please stay.”

With a nod, he sits back down, keeping my hand in a firm grip. I get the feeling that touching me reassures him as much as it does me.

Dr. Eder-Steiner spends the next few minutes explaining how I suffered from a severe infection when I came in, stemming from what looks like knife cuts. He speaks like I don’t already know that my stomach, breasts, chest, and entire back are covered in cuts, some small, some big, some superficial, and some deep.

“It’s lucky you came in when you did. A day later and the antibiotics might not have worked.”

András tightens his grip on my hand, and when I glance at him, he’s pale, his face mirroring the grave expression on the doctor’s face.

Seeing his reaction sobers me somewhat, and suddenly I’m not as upset about having escaped. The thought of dying when you’re already in hell is far easier than coming out of it and realizing how close you came to dying. And András being here with me somehow gives me hope that my life can come to contain something meaningful. I don’t know how or where, but the little glimmer of hope is there.

I squeeze his hand as hard as he squeezes mine as the doctor goes on.

He tells me I was anemic and that they gave me a blood transfusion. My immune system was severely weakened and couldn’t regenerate itself, which was probably why my infection was severe, because it wasn’t due to lack of proper wound treatment.

The doctor watches me from over the rim of his glasses. “Someone quite proficient must have cared for you, because the bandages were new and clean, your wounds well-treated.”

I don’t grant the doctor the explanation he’s prying for, but ask something else to turn the conversation back around. “Why was my immune system weakened?”

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