9 

Mallory’s mother and father were sitting at the dining room table when Mallory got home. Her mother was sitting in the high-backed chair at the foot of the table planning another party for that night. She was dressed in her best blue ball gown, and her hair was steamed straight, neatly pinned into place by invisible barrettes and bobby pins, and her hair was sprayed into a fortress of perfectly tight lines. She was wearing eyeliner with a strip of blue eyeshadow that matched her dress. Her father was dressed in a casual twill shirt with blue jeans, and he was wearing work boots like the Manager of the Dikaió City Services. His hair was a mess, and his face was covered in a thick stubble like he hadn’t shaved in days. The room smelled thickly of smoke and was warmer than usual. Something must be burning in the kitchen, but before Mallory could walk away and check, her father leaned back in his chair and swung his boots up on the table; they were caked with mud that splattered across the white linen. “How many guests do you think will come tonight, dear?”

“I guess it will depend on how many survive the fire our daughter decided to start at City Hall. We’re only hosting this event to apologize for her poor behavior.”

Mallory’s father looked uncomfortable and turned toward Mallory, “Sorry, Mallory, my little pumpkin, your mother has a point this time. I can’t defend every bad decision you make, no matter how much I love you.”

Mallory had not actually started the fire or caused the light to go out over the city—that was from the storm. She was about to defend herself when a kitchen sprite whirled into the room. It was carrying a smoking serving tray full of blackened vegetables. “Oh yes, those look lovely,” her mother called. The sprite sidled over to her, so she could taste them. As she picked up a fork and reached for them, the sprite poured them into her lap. Her mother’s blue gown was covered in black smudges and burnt vegetables. She plunged her fork into what used to be a carrot on her lap and brought it up to her lips. She chewed thoughtfully, as black saliva ran down her chin. Finally, she swallowed and said, “Delicious! But perhaps a garnish of cilantro?” The sprite whirled backward around her mother’s chair and took a running charge through the wall separating the dining room and the kitchen. Her father laughed heartily at the sprite’s antics.

Then a slit of light flashed in the middle of the room, and in it, Mallory could see what appeared to be another universe. There was a woman dressed like a nurse sitting in a bright room very close to the tear in the universe. She seemed to notice Mallory looking at her and stood up, walking toward her. Mallory quickly shut her eyes. She did not like how strangely her parents were acting in this universe, but she was sure that the universe where that nurse existed was worse. A woman’s voice called out, “It’s okay, love. It’s just the anesthesia wearing off. You’ll feel fine in a few minutes.”

Mallory opened her eyes, and her mother and father were gone along with her house and the silly wall-smashing sprite. The smell of burning was joined with the antiseptic smell of a hospital room, though it still lingered in the room. It was probably coming from her; the smell of the fire at City Hall clinging to her nostrils. Tiny beeps of a monitor sounded regularly somewhere near her. Interestingly, when she moved, all the pain from the night was gone, though she could not seem to move her right arm, and she wondered if that was a residual of the anesthesia. She had not been able to move in the operating room either.

 

The operating room!

Mallory’s eyes flashed open. Where was the sprite with the scalpels and saws? What had it done to her arm? She began to thrash in her bed, trying to see if she were still in one piece.

The nurse moved quickly, trying to hold her down. “It’s okay! It’s okay!” Then the nurse turned toward the curtain and called out, “I’m going to need some help in here!”

Mallory scratched and clawed to get free from the nurse’s grip. There could be a homicidal sprite coming for her at any moment. Then there were six arms holding her down. Mallory began to hyperventilate in fear. The sprite had her, and it really was going to finish her off.

A familiar voice began to coo, “Remember, deep breaths. Deep breaths.” It was Doctor Navarro.

The other sets of arms belonged to her and a male orderly, not a sprite. Mallory took deep breaths and began to calm down, and as she did, she was able to get her bearings. There were no sprites in the room at all, just the doctor, the nurse, and the orderly. She breathed deeply, and then looked at her right arm that still could not move. It was wrapped in a white plaster cast. Mallory rasped in a whisper, “Oh great, there go my plans for the weekend.”

Dr. Navarro laughed, “She’ll be fine. I think she’s ready to head up to her room.”

“Food?” Mallory croaked.

Dr. Navarro laughed again, “In a little while, let’s let the anesthesia wear off all the way before you fill your belly.”

“You said there’d be food?” she croaked pleadingly. Her lips were dry and her tongue was cracked and swollen.

Dr. Navarro chuckled again and then walked away while the orderly and the nurse unlocked the wheels on her bed. While the orderly pushed her carefully out of the room, the nurse walked beside the bed on the left, rolling an IV pump with a large plastic bag full of clear liquid hanging from a hook on the pole. Mallory noted that there was plastic tubing running from her left hand over the bed rail up to a small plastic bag where a clear liquid that looked like water dripped down at regular intervals.

“What’s that?” She asked the nurse as they walked.

“Oh, that’s just some extra fluid. You were severely dehydrated from being in the heat, and your body is going to be using a lot of moisture while it heals your burns . . . And there’s a bit of medicine in there to help with the pain.”

Mallory studied her left arm, which was not broken, and noted bulky layers of gauze on the burns all the way up to her shoulder. She was a mess, she was still a bit woozy, but mostly she was hungry.

“How long until I get to eat?”

The nurse laughed, “If you ate right now, it would probably come right back up. Let’s get you settled in your room and see how you’re doing in fifteen minutes or so.”

Eternity was never so long as the trip to her room. She lay watching the lights in the ceiling slide by, and they had the same hypnotic effect as they went by overhead. She felt like she was floating backwards, prone on an uncomfortable bed, but still having some trouble concentrating and staying awake as she floated. She probably would have fallen asleep, but the hospital was cold—colder than she remembered it being last night—and she wished they had at least thought to put another blanket on her. She shivered and wanted to pull her arms and legs closer into her core, but the broken arm would not respond, and when she moved her other arm, the IV tugged on her skin, reminding her of its presence. Her legs were free, but when she pulled them up, she felt a draft move up the back of her legs, and she remembered that all she was wearing was a hospital gown that was open in the back. Embarrassment warmed her a bit, but she still put her legs down, conscious of the presence of strangers around her.

The hallways were fuller and noisier than they were during her first trip on the stretcher. A lot of people were walking with nurses, doctors, orderlies, even citizens in everyday clothing were helping these wounded people around. A lot of the wounded sported gauze dressings much like Mallory’s on their arms, legs, and even faces. Some were in wheelchairs with oxygen tanks being wheeled behind them.

Mallory recognized more than a few of them as the leaders of the City Council and their families. She desperately wanted to search their faces to see if her mother and father were okay, but then she caught a wicked glance from a short fat man in a wheelchair. It was the head of the Dikaió Smith guild. His hair was half burned off his head, and he had gauze taped to his ear and cheek on the same side of his head where his hair was missing. His nose and mouth were covered by a respiration mask, and his usual well-quaffed mustache drooped out the bottom of the mask in sad, uneven burnt strands. Above the mask, vessels had burst in both his eyes, which had turned their whites an angry red color and made the green of his irises stand out in a horrible contrast. He rolled slowly by and tried to kill Mallory with his gaze.

She wanted to be angry with him, and the way he had acted toward her that night. The things he had said to her were horrible, and he deserved her spite, but seeing him here, paying the price for her attempt to undo the curse of her life, made her feel sorry for him. Sorry for all these people stumbling through the Dikaió-free city. How many more would be injured because of her folly? How many would die in this curse she and Alex inadvertently placed on them? How many died last night because of the fire? That question made her wretch a little, and the nurse pulled a plastic bag like magic out of thin air for her to vomit into. There wasn’t anything in her stomach to heave out, so she tried to spit, but the glands in her jaw just swelled, and no moisture came out. There wasn’t enough liquid in her body to produce saliva.

What a miserable existence she had brought down on herself and her beloved city, friends, and family. She was not the Matriarchal Chorus that would save the city. She was its damnation. She closed her eyes for the rest of the trip, not being able to bear the stares of those she had cursed.

Finally, they wheeled her into an antiseptic-smelling double room. The place for her stretcher was empty, and the orderly expertly whipped her into place and locked the wheels on the stretcher and IV pump. The nurse pushed a couple of buttons on the pump, and then leaned over Mallory and shone a penlight in her eyes. She nodded and put two fingers on Mallory’s wrist while looking at her watch. Then she placed her stethoscope on Mallory’s chest and asked her to take deep breaths. Finally, she checked the IV site once more.

The nurse looked at Mallory thoughtfully and asked, “Do you still want something to eat?”

“I don’t think I’m fit to have dinner,” Mallory moaned and her stomach lurched inside out at the thought of food.

“It’s morning and time for breakfast,” the nurse replied cheerfully, clearly not interested in Mallory’s self-flagellation.

“Am I fit for breakfast?” She closed her eyes grumpily and turned away.

“Oh, that little nausea in the hallway? That could just be the pain medicine giving you trouble on an empty stomach. I think you need a little something to settle it. Let me see what I can scrounge up.” The nurse turned and walked out of the room muttering something under her breath about the fickleness of teenagers.

Mallory could not tell if the nurse was purposefully ignoring her moral suffering, or if she was being genuine in her dismissal and really thought food would help settle the roiling waves tossing in her belly. She laid there miserably looking at the ceiling for a while, willing her stomach to settle down. She had been in trouble too often to feel sorry for herself for long. She figured that even though she may have caused the trouble, she was the only one in the city that knew how to do anything without the Dikaió—well, except for these people at the hospital; they were surprisingly capable, and she was secretly grateful. She wondered how many other professions in the city had trained in their work without the Dikaió and how many would need to learn to read and have access to books to survive without it.

As Mallory’s mind wandered, she started visually exploring the room. The ceiling was drop-in Styrofoam, and there was a bright rectangular Dikaió light above her bed and one above her neighbor’s bed. The white curtain on her neighbor’s bed was drawn completely closed, so Mallory could not see who her roommate was. The window was on her roommate’s side of the room, and light shone through the curtain, casting a silhouette of her neighbor’s bed. The chest of the silhouette moved mechanically up and down, and there was the faint hum of a machine moving in sync with the motion.

Mallory had had a few hospital roommates over the years, but they had rarely talked or made lasting connections despite sharing some of the most painful and vulnerable times of their lives. But she could remember the names of everyone that she had shared mischievous secrets with, no matter how long ago. Life’s memories are funny that way, lasting and endearing in the joyous times and almost imperceptibly fleeting in the worst of times—yet people spent more time talking about regret and pain than joy. She supposed it was not so much the memories, but the people themselves that chose to hold onto those memories and were oddly focused on every bad thing that happened to them. The day City Hall burned down would almost certainly be a day burned in the memories of the city, but would anyone remember the doctors, nurses, or sick roommates they shared the aftermath of the event with? Probably not.

She thought about calling out to her neighbor and learning their story, but she shook her head and looked away from the bed, continuing to explore what she could see of her room. On the wall across from the beds, there were two pine armoires separated by a long bench with storage alcoves below it that were about two feet by two feet. Above that was a large white board with a solid black line drawn down the middle of it. Her name and her current nurse’s name, Sandra, were written in marker on one side. On the other side was her roommate’s nurse’s name, Talia, and her roommate’s name: Alexandria Nelson. Mallory’s eyebrows raised, and she looked sharply to her right over her broken arm at the drawn white curtain. “Alex?” she called.

There was no reply.

She pulled at the bed railings, trying to figure out how to lower them, so she could go and see her friend. She desperately needed Alex to be okay. She found a lever that seemed to lower the railing, and she was in the process of swinging her legs out of bed while keeping her IV from ripping out of her arm when the nurse walked in wheeling a stainless-steel cart with a brick-colored plastic serving plate and matching cloche atop it, and what looked to be a glass of apple juice and a glass of milk on the side.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

Mallory froze half in, half out of bed, tangled in her IV line.

The nurse wheeled quickly around the bed and stepped out from behind the cart. She helped to untangle Mallory and picked up her legs, gently pushing them back atop the mattress. The nurse covered her with a blanket and muttered, “teenagers” under her breath, then addressed Mallory more directly, “Why don’t you try to eat something and heal a bit before jumping up and getting back to whatever mischief you were planning?”

Mallory scowled at the nurse, sizing her up. She was a short woman about her mother’s age. Even with the broken arm, if Mallory wanted to leave, she was pretty sure the nurse could not stop her. Still, if she were going to have any chance of the citizens listening to her later, she needed to stop being such a fiery rebel and start behaving more like the Matriarch she knew she could be. Plus, she needed to know if Alex was okay.

“Listen,” she glanced at the whiteboard quickly and then back to her nurse, “Sandra. My friend’s name is listed up on the whiteboard as my roommate. I tried calling her name, and when there was no answer, I wanted to go and see her.” Mallory felt tears well-up and trickle down her cheeks. “I want to know if she’s okay.”

The nurse softened immediately. “Oh, sweetie! I’m sorry.” She walked over and drew the curtain. Inside was just an empty bed with a pillow. Whatever Mallory had thought she had seen and heard behind the curtain was just her mind playing tricks on her. The nurse continued. “The other patient isn’t out of surgery yet. I’ll tell you what, why don’t you sit up and eat some breakfast, and I’ll go and see if there’s any sort of ETA for her, okay?”

Mallory nodded. She would take an estimated time of arrival over nothing, and her stomach had just noticed the smell of whatever was beneath that cloche. It smelled like eggs and toast, but Mallory knew after spending enough time in the hospital that it would just be an approximation of those things. Still, she was back to being hungry enough to devour anything edible. The nurse pulled the cloche off the plate, and a bit of steam wafted into the air. The plastic plate was divided by partitions into three sections: one was filled with a clumpy yellow puddle of curds, in the other was a slice of toast cut into triangles, and in the third there were six orange slices so thick with fibrous pith that they looked white with veins of orange rather than the other way around. She picked up the metal fork and dove heartily into the puddle of eggs. They were completely unseasoned, but Mallory did not take time to taste them. Next, she started in on the bread, which was unbuttered, but, like the eggs, she did not linger long enough to notice the taste. The oranges, juice, and milk went down just as quickly. The nurse had barely turned around and started walking toward the door, when Mallory pushed the plate away from her and called, “I’m finished, thank you.”

The nurse turned back, eyes wide and walked back to Mallory’s bedside. She examined the empty plate and glasses and shook her head, chuckling. As she rolled the cart out of the room, Mallory heard her mutter once more, “teenagers,” and then she was gone.

Mallory wondered if the food the nurse had brought her had been laced with medicine because as soon as her belly was full, a shadow of tiredness swept down on her like a bird on its prey. Her head fell back against the barely stuffed pillow; she stared absently at the light above her for a few moments, eyes fluttering; and then she fell into a dreamless sleep.

“Mallory?” Her mother’s voice called from somewhere in the distance. Oh, no! She thought. The last time her mother woke her, she had to face the City Council, then a storm, then a burning building, and she had not had a full sleep in who knows how long.

“Mallory, dear!” Mallory’s eyes fluttered angrily open, and she found both her parents sitting beside her bed in padded wooden chairs. They were smiling, but they were a mess. Her mother’s hair was a tangle of stray curls sticking out in random directions, her father’s clothes were torn, and they were both covered in black soot from the fire. Just over their shoulder in the doorway, Mallory could see one of the magistrates standing in his blue uniform leaning up against the doorframe. Her father leaned over into her vision and blocked the view of the doorway momentarily with his concerned smile. He was saying something that she could not quite make out, but she pushed up further on the bed to see past him into the hall. The magistrate was gone.

“Is this another nightmare?” Mallory asked blinking in confusion at her parents.

Her mother sat back in her chair, “No, it is not. Do you often have nightmares about us?”

Her father laughed and pointed at his wife, “Well, it’s no wonder she should think so, love. You should see yourself—it’s terrifying!”

Her mother tilted her head at her father incredulously, “You’re no picnic yourself, Roger!”

Her father hooted with laughter, and Mallory felt herself smile and then chuckle as well. Soon her mother joined in laughing with them both. They sounded like a cackle of hyenas, hooting and yelping together. Soon a nurse ran into the room and yelled at them: “Shush! Your neighbor is still sleeping!”

Mallory stopped laughing immediately and looked toward the other bed. The curtain was open, and a middle-aged woman with bright-red hair lay there asleep with a mask and tubes running from her face to a beeping machine. Her arms and neck were covered in gauze bandages. Mallory looked at the board, and instead of Alex’s name, the patient’s name read “Reddy Lamarr.” It was the Sprite Master.

“Where’s, Alex?” Mallory almost cried in panic.

Her mother touched her hand. “Alex needs a bit more attention from the doctors and nurses for awhile, so they’ve moved her to a wing with fewer patients and more staff to look after her.”

“Can I go visit her?”

“Oh, I’m sure in time,” her father nodded, “but for now we’ll let the doctors do their work so she can get better. Besides, you need your rest, too. If the two of you were in here together, who knows what kind of trouble you would get into.” Her dad chuckled at the thought of his mischievous daughter and her friend, and then stopped when he saw his wife looking at him eyes wide. Mallory had turned her head away and started to cry.

“Well . . . well . . .,” he stammered, “I wasn’t trying to imply anything about the trouble you’re currently in. It’s just that you two are always doing something mischievous, but nobody’s ever been seriously hurt before—well, not before City Hall and this whole end-of-the-world Dikaió business.”

“Roger,” the Matriarch reprimanded, as Mallory moaned and choked back a sob then sniffled loudly.

He reached an outstretched hand toward his daughter, who did not notice, and then he turned awkwardly toward his wife, hand still outstretched questioningly. She grunted and crossed her legs. He shrugged and twitched his shoulders rhythmically for a moment then said, “Hmmm . . . yes, well, perhaps I’ll just wait outside?”

“That would be helpful, thank you, Roger.” The Matriarch nodded, and he backed slowly out of the room, his shoulders hunched slightly.

Mallory turned to look at her mother, tears still streaming down her face. “I never meant for this to happen, you know.”

“Of course not, Mallory.” Her mother patted her hand, being mindful of the dressings.

“Do you know if Caleb is okay?”

“Oh yes, he’s already home with some stitches and a mild concussion. He’ll be fine.” Her mother waved her hand impatiently, a sign that she had something to discuss and had grown tired of pleasantries. “Mallory, do you know where the book is that Alex used to remove the christening of the Dikaió? We’ve looked everywhere we can think of and can’t find it anywhere.”

Mallory’s eyes widened. They did not know the book was gone? How could they really? The only one that knew was Caleb. “Caleb didn’t tell you?” Mallory asked. Deep down she was hoping this was one of her mother’s rhetorical questions, trying to get her to ‘fess up to something her mother knew full well she had done. She did not want to be the one to have to disappoint her mother or the whole city again.

Her mother looked perplexed, “I haven’t seen Caleb directly. I was just informed about his status during a briefing with the hospital director.”

Mallory tried to sink farther into her mattress and closed her eyes, hoping to fall asleep, but there was not any point in hiding the truth or giving anyone false hope. She spoke with her eyes still closed, “Alex had the book with her in the fire. When the beams fell, and I tried to pull her out, it fell out of her jacket. We couldn’t get it out. It’s gone.”

Mallory lay there for a long time with her eyes closed, waiting for some sort of reaction from her mother, but all she got was awkward silence. Her mother was the queen of saying only what needed to be said, and apparently the doom of the city and the end of life as they knew it did not need words to commemorate the moment, not even now when her daughter needed solace to ease her fears.

The empty silence continued, interrupted only by the maddening blips of the hospital equipment in the room. Soon it became a struggle of wills for which of the women would speak first, the mother or the daughter. Mallory dug in her proverbial heels, squeezing her eyes closed even tighter, silently demanding that her mother comfort her, forgive her for the mess she made, absolve her of the consequences of her actions. She felt like a helpless child again, and she wanted her mother to tell her everything was okay.

“Mom?” She finally caved in and opened her eyes. The only other person in the room was the silent Sprite Master in the other bed. Her mother had left without a word; without so much as an “I love you.” Mallory’s chest caved in on her heart with crushing grief, and all the fluid that had been pumping into her veins from her IV surged out as tears onto her cheeks and rolled back onto the pillow below her head, drenching her hair and her bed. She had been utterly abandoned.