Page 105 of Chasing Never
“I’ll be back to check on her tomorrow,” says the healer.
“What if she needs you before then?” says Maddox. “What if she convulses, or her stitches break open, or?—”
“I’ve done what I can,” says the healer. “Like I said… sometimes the best I can do is wait. I’m not a miracle worker. I’m not fate.”
Nolan’s and Maddox’s faces drain of color.
On the way out, the healer pulls me aside.
Nolan looks hesitant, but I reassure him that it’s okay.
“Last night,” says the healer. “That was blasting powder on your hands, was it not?”
I nod.
“Again, I ask you,” says the healer. “Do I need to speak to the authorities?”
“Is there anything I could say that would make you not?” I ask.
He looks at me, sympathy in his eyes. “I don’t get the sense that you’re a killer at heart.”
Just a killer at my hands, I think to myself. Oh, how little this man knows. My frailty—he assumes it’s harmless. But it’s the frail blade, the dull knife in the kitchen, that’s the most dangerous.
Someone stronger wouldn’t have hurt Charlie. Would’ve been able to resist.
“You just lost a child,” says the healer. “Things like this happen sometimes, in situations like yours.”
Again, this man sees only the best in me. Assumes that what I did to my friend was born of a fit of hysteria.
“What do you want me to say?” I ask.
“Just that you won’t hurt anyone again. That’s all I’m asking. That’s all I need to sleep tonight with a good conscience.”
“No. I won’t hurt anyone again.”
He nods and bids me farewell.
But as he leaves, I glance up. Something moves in the shadows, just at the corner of my vision.
When I turn to look, all I see is Maddox, pacing angrily away from us.
CHAPTER 46
Every day for the next six weeks, my life bleeds together into one eternal day.
Sleep evades me in the night, overcomes me in the daytime, but I am often woken to the sound of screams. I can’t know how many times I’ve startled awake, thinking it’s my newborn calling to me, begging to be fed or changed. But my breasts have long since dried up.
When I come to my senses, it’s usually only to the howling of the wind—or perhaps someone mumbling, or Maddox scooting a chair out from underneath the table, accidentally causing it to screech. Sometimes it’s the healer, causing the door to creak as he enters the cottage to check on Charlie, who has yet to waken, at least not to full consciousness.
They’re able to spoon-feed her, and she murmurs occasionally, swallowing her food and water, but we haven’t heard a word out of her, nor has she opened her eyes any more than a slit of white just between the lids.
I ask the healer every day, and every day, the healer’s answer is the same. He is not a miracle worker, nor is he a seer. He cannot predict the outcome of our friend’s life any more than we can predict the weather.
A few weeks ago, the crew brought Michael to stay with us in the cottage. He’s been sleeping in the guest room with me and Nolan, snuggling between us at night.
Sometimes it’s him speaking that wakes me up. Since he’s been here, I’ve found his warmth a comfort.
Nolan plays with him during the day, but I can hardly stand to watch them together. Hardly stand to consider what my husband must be thinking, as he plays with another’s child while his own boy grows and feeds and sleeps elsewhere.
