I’m not in my bedroom anymore. The smell is different. The sounds. The light. I lie still and listen and try to remember. Something tugs at my arm, but when I try to pull away, I can’t, and the first thing I think is I’m back in that cellar.
Panic grips me.
“It’s all right,” a woman says. “Shh. Nothing to worry about, love.” She has an English accent. “There you go. Just relax.”
I try to open my eyes, but the lids are too heavy, and a moment later, I’m gone again. The light is different when I next wake to the sound of men’s voices talking quietly.
“Dehydration in addition. She vomited most of it on her own from the sound of it.”
“Why is she restrained?” This voice I recognize.
Santiago. He’s here. He's come back to me.
I want to call out to him. Touch him.
“She tried to pull the IV out. We’ll remove those as soon as we can.”
IV?
“When will she wake up?”
“When she’s ready. Her body is exhausted. It’s working twice as hard now. Give her time, Santiago.” I hear affection in the voice of this man.
“You’re sure about that?” Santiago asks. He sounds worried.
“Blood tests don’t lie.”
I hear him exhale. “Thank you, Doctor.”
Doctor.
I realize what that smell is. Why the light is different. I’m surprised I didn’t recognize it before. I’m at the hospital.
A door opens and closes, and someone moves, footsteps coming closer. I smell his aftershave over the antiseptic, and despite all that’s happened and all that he’s done to me, it’s a comfort.
Fingers brush my forehead, then my cheek.
I turn my face into his touch and feel a chill as the blanket is pulled away. But he’s touching me again then, touching me gently, fingers feather-light over my arm, my belly. A hand laid flat there, big and warm.
I want to open my eyes, but I can’t. I’m so tired. I try to move my hand at least, try to touch his, but something doesn’t let me.
“Shh,” he says. “Sleep.” The blanket is tucked up around my shoulders again, warm but not as warm as when he touches me, and I feel myself drift even though I feel him move away. I want to tell him to stay with me. And when I manage to momentarily open my eyes in the dim light coming from a machine to my right, I see him sitting in the chair across from mine, one ankle crossed over the other knee, eyes dark and intent, watching me.
I wake up because I’m hungry. Ravenous. Someone is humming, and the light is suddenly too bright.
I groan, turn away, blink, but then it’s dimmed again.
“There she is. I know it’s early, but you need to wake up. You need to eat. Doctor’s orders. Come now, love.”
Opening my eyes, I see the needles and tube sticking out of one arm. “What…?” But it’s when I try to pull at my arms that the real panic sets in.
The door opens, closes.
I look up, meet his eyes, and freeze. He freezes too.
“You can go, nurse,” Santiago says, not taking his eyes off me.
“I’ll just give her—”
“I said go.”
My gaze shifts to the elderly nurse standing beside my bed, looking up at Santiago’s face, riveted by it.
He’s wearing a hat, keeping it in shadow. At least half of it. It’s daytime. I see the light coming in from around the blinds. It’s not like him to be out during the day.
“I should make sure she eats, sir.”
“I am capable of taking care of my wife. My family.”
Family? That’s an odd way to say it.
The nurse nods, glancing once at me before hurrying away. I watch her go, and when the door closes, I turn slowly back to find Santiago’s eyes still locked on me.
I don’t speak right away. I can’t. I try to pull my hands up again, but the leather restraints don’t allow me to move.
“What’s happening?”
He pulls up the chair and sits down, taking off his hat and setting it on the table beside my bed. My heart races, my stomach in knots as I watch him roll the tray containing my breakfast closer, something dark in his eyes, something hard in the way his hand is wrapped around the tray.
“You’re going to eat. That’s what’s happening.” He picks up the bowl and spoons up some oatmeal. He brings it to my mouth. “Open.”
I do.
“Swallow,” he says when he pulls the spoon out.
Again, I do.
We don’t speak until I’ve eaten the whole bowl and drank the juice out of the little straw he holds to my mouth.
“Why am I tied to the bed?”
“Where did you get the pills?”
“I…I didn’t mean…I changed my mind.”
He raises his eyebrows. “Did you?”
Did I?
“You changed your mind about dying? Well, lucky for you, you vomited most of the aspirin, or it may not have been up to you.” He sounds angry. “Do you know what happens with aspirin poisoning?”
I turn my face to wipe it on the shoulder of the hospital gown. “Please untie me.”
“Answer my question. Do you know?”
I do. Even if you change your mind, it may be too late for your kidneys. I nod.
“Where did you get the pills?”
“Mercedes left them.”
The hand I can see fists and warring emotions darken his features. “I see.”
“Please untie me.”
He shifts his gaze down to one wrist, and without comment, he undoes the buckle. He then moves to do the same on the other bind.
I watch his dark head as I rub my wrists. “Isn’t it what you want?”
He looks at me. “What?”
“Me dead.” I feel sick to say it. Feel myself start to tremble with a sudden cold.
He stands, runs a hand through his hair, and shakes his head like he’s having some private conversation in his head. He then looks at me again. “You’re pregnant, Ivy.”
“What?”
“You could have hurt the baby.”
“But…” I shake my head, try to remember my last period. Days and weeks all meld together, time lost in my prison where it’s always night. “I can’t be.”
“You are. And you’ll have a guard 24/7 once you’re home. You will not harm my child again.”
“I didn’t know. I didn’t mean to—”
“You will eat, you will get fresh air, you will exercise. Your body will be a healthy host for my child.”
“A host?” I shake my head, hating the hurt inside my chest. “That’s all I am?”
His eyes narrow. “You’ve proven untrustworthy too many times to be anything else.”
“How far?”
“Four weeks. Five.”
“It’s not possible.”
He leans down to take my chin in his hand and force my head up. “It is reality. My child grows inside your belly. You will not hurt him again.”
Does he think I really wanted to hurt a baby? I tug free of his grip. “Get out.” My voice breaks.
“You will never be alone again. Isn’t that what you’ve been whining about?”
“Get out.” I can’t look at him as my hand moves over my belly, my throat tight, vision blurry with tears. I’m pregnant. I am pregnant.
“Marco will bring you home once you’re released later today.”
I look at him now. “Your house is not my home. It will never be my home.”
His jaw tightens, and he stares at me for a long minute before he relaxes it. “Do you think that matters to me, Ivy?” he asks, head tilted. “Do you think I care even a little bit whether or not you feel at home in my house?”
“The other night, you…What happened to us?”
“Us? What us are you referring to?”
“You’re not human. Do you know that?”
His eyes narrow, and I watch his Adam’s apple work as he swallows. “I know what I am, dear wife.” He leans toward me, and I find myself leaning the back of my head into the bed. “I know perfectly well. And more importantly, I know what you are.”