Page 104 of Gin & Trouble

The contents of his stomach gushed out of his mouth so suddenly I jerked back, nearly flipping the tiny boat.

The boy helped me get Dante to his side as he spewed sea water. When he stilled, I noticed the blood oozing from the back of his head. It looked bad. Really bad. But there was nothing else I could do for him, not until we reached the shore. Even then, he needed a hospital.

With the adrenaline wearing off, I became hyper-aware of my own aches and pains. Including a rather large, gaping gash on my calf. My vision swam and dark spots danced before my eyes. The last thing I remembered was staring at the slick, pink muscle inside of my leg and wondering why it wasn’t bleeding.

Sometime later, I woke in a strange bed. I tried to sit upright, but an elderly man held me down while a woman tended to my wound. “Let me see it.”

He shook his head and said something to the woman in a hushed tone.

Touching his arm to get his attention, I spoke in Sicilian, “Is it bad?”

His expression turned more serious as he gripped my shoulders and pinned me down.

Before I could protest, the woman poured something over my leg. Pain unlike anything I’d ever known tore through my body. I screamed and writhed and begged, but it didn’t let up.

The next time I woke, I was alone with the elderly woman.

A tugging sensation on my calf drew my attention, and I made the mistake of easing up to my elbows. “Mother Mary.”

She motioned for me to lay back as she pulled a thread through my freaking skin.

As much as I wished I’d pass back out, I couldn’t. All I could do was chew the inside of my mouth, and clutch my father’s Saint Christopher medallion hanging around my neck, while the woman stitched my wound closed.

To my surprise, it didn’t hurt as much as I would have expected. Every now and then, a shot of pain would steal my breath, but the idea of someone sewing me up like a rag doll with a torn seam was worse than the actual process. Whatever they’d poured onto my wound must have numbed it.

Memories of how I came to be there came back in a rush. Speaking in Sicilian, I asked, “Where is Dante?”

The woman motioned toward the door and pulled the needle through again.

“Is he…?”

“No, morto.” She smiled wide enough for me to realize she was missing teeth. “He lives.”

I laid back and closed my eyes. Images of Dante’s pale face and lifeless body filled me. And then came the worries.

Can you get an infection from swallowing too much seawater? How long had he gone without oxygen? Was he conscious? Talking? Brain dead?

“Doctor?” I asked again in Sicilian. “Medico?”

The woman held up two fingers.

“Telefono?”

“No.”

I laid back and swallowed my frustration. Dante had said not many people lived on the island, and most of the houses were near the harbor. Judging by my surroundings, I guessed we’d landed on the other side. The room didn’t appear to have electricity. No lamps, no overhead light, no switches or outlets.

The woman offered me a cup of water, mixed with lemon and herbs. My lips were chapped and it tasted like something had died in my mouth, but the aromatic drink helped clear my throat. “Can I see Dante?”

The old woman motioned to my leg. “No.”

“I have to try, please.”

She stood and held out her palm, and then her index finger—the universal signal forgive me a minute.

“I’ll wait.”

After much longer than a minute, the woman returned with a set of crutches, and the young boy from the boat.

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