A constant hum whines inside my head. I open my eyes and immediately shut them. The light is blinding. I try again, lifting my eyelids slower this time and squinting for several seconds before my vision adjusts. I’m lying on a cot, with wires and tubes connecting me to a monitor. The room is completely white and windowless. Four concrete walls surround me. There is a counter by the wall across from my bed with cupboards above.
Where am I? The train station? Home? Images force their way through my foggy mind. Dark cold eyes. And blood. So much blood. I push down the covers. My hands hover above my stomach. Trembling, I lower the tips of my fingers onto my abdomen, feeling for a gash, a hole. But there’s nothing. Only smooth skin and a tiny bandage the size of a penny. How can that be?
I vaguely remember someone else being there. Someone small? A child? It couldn’t be Navi. I press the base of my palms into my forehead, trying to untangle the chaos of images and reassemble them into something that makes sense. There was someone else too. Someone in addition to the child. Someone who helped me. My angel.
“Good, you’re awake,” says a woman, entering the room.
She looks to be my mother’s age, but she’s nothing like my mother. She is tall and lean and breathtaking. Her pearly hair, which hangs just above her shoulders, glistens. She moves like a dancer and glides toward me in a white lab coat that billows behind her. I struggle to get up, but the room spins.
“Do not be silly. Lie back down.” Her delicate hands are surprisingly strong, and she pushes me back onto the bed. “My name is Margaret Turner. You were brought to my clinic last night with cuts to your head and stomach and an injured ankle.” She points out the location of my wounds as she speaks. “Though there appeared to be heavy blood loss at first, once you were cleaned up it was clear that the lacerations were fairly minimal. You will be fine. No permanent damage. Your ankle was twisted, so I have wrapped it.” She pulls up the covers at the foot of my bed to reveal my right ankle bound in a beige cloth bandage. “You can remove it tonight. It will have healed by then.”
She sounds robotic. Despite being immediately drawn to her glorious appearance, I flinch when she touches me.
Margaret peers into my eyes with a tiny light. “Yes, all is good. The surface scarring will heal in a short time. I have something to assist with the process,” she says, and turns away to leave.
Her hurried manner of speaking adds to my state of confusion. “Are you a doctor?” I ask, though I assume she must be.
“Yes, I’m a healer.”
Healer?
“Please.” I reach out and touch the cuff of her white lab coat. “Where am I?”
She looks at me as if I’ve asked a stupid question and snaps her arm back. “You’re in a recovery room, in my clinic.”
“And I’m okay?”
“Yes. You are now.”
“I don’t understand. My ankle snapped. I heard it. Blood was pouring out of me.” I sit up and drag my fingers through my hair, stretching my scalp. “It was everywhere. My clothes were soaked in it.” My voice is high.
Margaret leans her head to one side and sighs heavily. She reaches above my head and adjusts knobs and buttons on the monitor. Her forehead creases as she furrows her brow and regards me for several seconds before she finally speaks.
“I am a skilled healer, and I repaired all your internal injuries using a technique that leaves a tiny scar.” Margaret detaches the wires and tubes from my neck and arms. She returns her gaze to me and smiles stiffly. “Your ankle was not broken. And I have appropriately dealt with that minor injury also. Remove the bandage tonight. You will see that it is fine, and you can walk on it.” She glances at the closed door and clears her throat before returning her attention to me. “Now, if that is all, I will return with the medicated cream that will further minimize the scar.” Margaret turns to leave.
“Wait,” I call out to her, and she stops. She lets out a great exhalation of air. I press on, despite her clear indication that my exam is over. “You said I was brought here. Who brought me? Was it a man? Was there a child?”
She lets out an almost inaudible gasp, and her hands form into tight balls. When she faces me, her lips have transformed into a narrow, tight line. She moves closer to my bed, and my entire body tenses.
“What exactly do you remember about last night?” Margaret asks, her voice noticeably strained.
“I-I-I don’t remember much. It’s all fuzzy. Mostly the blood. I remember there was a lot of blood.”
“Anything else?” she asks, crossing her arms.
“I remember being lost and in an alleyway.” I shift uncomfortably. “I remember a guy dressed in black attacking me, punching me.”
“Mmhmm,” she says, apparently unmoved.
“I also think there was another guy there. But he wasn’t there to hurt me. I think maybe he actually saved me.”
“Yes, well, a young man did bring you in here.” She pulls her hair back behind her ears and straightens her lab coat. “Anyone else?”
“A little boy?” I say, scrunching up my face.
She places her hands into the pockets of her coat, pulls her shoulders back, and clears her throat. “I will go and check on that. The person who brought you here is just outside. I will be right back.” Without waiting for a response, she walks out of the room.
I squeeze my head between my hands. I’m in a clinic. I was messed up badly, but somehow this doctor, healer, as she calls herself, was able to put me back together so well that it’s like I was never hurt at all.
But something’s not right. This place. That woman. I get off the bed too quickly and grasp the sides of the mattress to steady myself. Where are my clothes? And then I remember what Margaret said. ‘He’s just outside.’ I can’t go. He said he would wait for me. I can still feel the warmth as he held me in his arms. I need to see him one more time. Just to make sure he was real.
The door opens. “Well, hello there,” says a man, grinning widely as he walks toward me.
But he’s not the one who saved me. He’s not my angel. This person is all bulk. Bulky body, bulky limbs, and a bulky square face, framed by a mass of red hair. And the eyes, those aren’t his eyes. I will never forget those beautiful blue eyes. This guy’s eyes are gray.
I scramble back into bed and shield myself under the blankets. I draw my knees into my chest.
“Great, you’re awake.” He pulls away my covers. Instinctively, I grab them back. “Hey, relax there. I’m not going to hurt you. Just making sure all is healing.”
He’s dressed in a dark green sweater and faded jeans. I’d have expected a nurse to be wearing a uniform of some sort. His presence makes all my muscles tense. I hold tight to the cover, unwilling to release my grip on the sheet.
“Don’t make this difficult,” he says. His eyes narrow into slits. He presses his lips into a tight line and wedges his hand beneath the thin blanket. He pushes my knees away and tugs my shirt up.
The images I’m trying so hard to keep from surfacing rush through me. I’m pulled back into the alley. I can smell the stale smoke. I can feel myself being held down. And then older memories ambush me. My clothes coming off. Other hands all over me. Groping me. No. Not again.
“Get off me!” I scream, trying to get up from the table. But he continues to bear down into my stomach.
“What is going on?” Margaret is back. She glares at the man pinning me to the bed. “Fallon, I already checked. It is fine,” she says, in her halting voice.
“Just making sure.” He smiles again, but briefly, as the person behind Margaret steps into view.
It’s him. My angel does exist. The sight of him makes me forget to breathe. And then I’m breathing much too quickly. He’s really here. He looks exactly as I remember. He isn’t much older than me. Maybe just a couple of years. His layers of straight blond hair are cropped close to his neckline and glisten even under the harsh light. He is tall and thin, regal, in his black winter coat and dark blue jeans. His face is round with high cheekbones. His bangs fall to just above his eyebrows. He does look like an angel. And his eyes, so intensely blue, glare at Fallon.
“Take your hands off her!” he barks and charges toward us.
“Ellis, stop!” Margaret grabs for him but misses. Ellis lunges at Fallon, and they crash onto the floor.
“Get a grip,” Fallon says, as he effortlessly maneuvers himself on top of Ellis.
“You son of a—”
“Now, Ellis, no need to get Mommy Dearest involved,” Fallon taunts.
“Enough of this!” Margaret swiftly walks toward them, bends down, and grabs hold of their collars, jerking them upright.
I lie huddled beneath the sheet as the jumble of fighting and yelling continues around me. I’m so stupid. I should have left when I had the chance. And then as quickly as it started, it stops, and the room grows quiet. Three pairs of eyes turn to me. They study me, as if they’d forgotten I was there.
“Are you okay? Did he hurt you?” Ellis asks, taking a step toward me.
“Of course I didn’t hurt her.” Fallon makes his way closer to me.
“She was screaming,” Ellis says and pulls back on Fallon’s shoulder. “I could hear her down the hall. You’re frightening her.”
I don’t move, as a slew of useless escape plans rushes in and out of my mind.
“I’m frightening her? You’re the one who stormed in here and launched yourself at me,” he accuses, shoving at Ellis with hands that completely cover Ellis’s chest.
“Be quiet, both of you,” Margaret says. She wrinkles her brow and casts them a menacing look. Still scowling, she turns to me. “I have consulted with Ellis. There was no one else with you, other than the man who attacked you.” She nods toward Ellis. “And apparently, he dealt with your attacker, who left the scene.”
“That I did,” Ellis says, a small smile on his face.
“Yes, well, regardless,” Margaret continues, “no one else was there. Certainly not a little boy. Perhaps there was a child in the waiting room when you were brought in, and that is who you are remembering.” She stares at me, daring me to disagree. When I don’t respond, she simply says, “You are fine to leave now. I will need to do a re-check in a week.” She pulls up the collar of her lab coat.
Her tone is absolute, but I can’t shake the feeling there’s something she’s not telling me. My head is muddled, like the replay feature in my brain has broken. I get bits and pieces coming back, but they don’t fit together. Parts are missing.
I watch her warily. In spite of the intense confusion and apprehension that consumes me, I can’t help but notice how truly lovely she is. Her skin actually shimmers under the cold, bright light.
Margaret moves to the counter opposite the bed and opens one of the drawers. She pulls out a sheet of paper, places it on a clipboard, and hands it to me. I slowly sit up and look at the sheet. It’s a questionnaire. Name? Address? Phone Number? Oh crap, now what do I do? No one can know where I am. Or maybe they already do? Have the police been called?
I can’t think. The pen shakes in my hand.
“Is there a problem? It is a simple form. Did I not clearly explain why you were brought here? Do you have any more questions about your injuries?”
“Uh, no.” I swallow, and my throat feels like it’s shrunk. “Does anyone know I’m here?”
“Like who?” asks Margaret.
Fallon draws up his enormous right hand and scrutinizes his fingernails. He looks like he’s assessing the quality of a recent manicure. “I believe she’s talking about the police,” he states and then locks his gaze with mine. He arches his eyebrows and tilts his head as if he has discovered a secret.
Margaret shakes her head. “I have been rather busy healing your injuries. I did not have time to contact the police.” She crosses her arms. She’s not offering an excuse, merely stating a fact. “I am a healer, not a doctor. As such, I am under no legal obligation to contact the authorities about your situation. But if you,” she flicks her hand at me, “if you would like us to contact someone, including the police, then we will.”
“No! I mean, no,” I repeat in a calmer tone. “There’s no point. You’ve fixed me, and he’s probably long gone.”
“Okay then. But I do need that form filled out,” she says, pointing to my clipboard.
I look down at the sheet of paper, feeling her eyes on me. My legs twitch nervously beneath the sheet. How am I going to answer the simple yet difficult questions looming on the sheet of paper in front of me? Address? I can’t put down train station as my home, even though that’s where I spend most nights. And I definitely can’t list Weedsport. I can never go back home as long as Sita, my mother’s cousin from India, is there. Waiting for me. Waiting to marry me off to some disgusting guy who can’t keep his hands off me.
I close my eyes to block out Margaret’s glare, but then I’m overcome by an even more disturbing image—Sita’s stony face, surrounded by all the men she’s forced on me.
I push the tormenting memories back and replace them with Ellis’s kind face. I do this over and over, until the awful memories erode and soften. Even before I open my eyes, I am aware of the three faces staring at me. All of them frown.
How long was I gone, reliving the nightmares Sita made me endure?
Margaret studies my face. “I do not have to call the police, but if you are unable or unwilling to provide these simple answers, then ….”
“No, sorry,” I stammer. “Just a bit woozy.”
I write down the first street name I can think of and continue to make up the rest. I can’t take the chance of my family finding me and forcing me to go back. I hand the clipboard back to her, feeling nervous, like when I would hand in a test I was unsure of.
“Thank you,” she says, as she scans the sheet.
Her eyebrows pinch together and my stomach drops. Does she know I made it up? Will she call the police? I’ve got to get out of here.
“Yes, this will suffice,” she says, and I breathe a sigh of relief.
Ellis looks at me with concern. “You okay?” he asks, exchanging glances with Margaret.
“Yeah.” I shrug. “I’m fine. Ready to go.” My skin is covered in gooseflesh, and I rub my hands across my arms.
“You’re shivering.” Ellis pulls off his coat and places it on top of my blanket.
He rests his hand on top of his coat, and my legs tremble even more despite the sudden warm sensation that fills me.
“Is this normal?” Ellis asks Margaret.
“No, of course it’s not normal.” Fallon shakes his head in disgust. “It’s completely abnormal and pathetic, really, that she trembles in your presence.”
“You’re an idiot,” Ellis says reproachfully to Fallon, and then turns to me, his face gentle again. “Ignore him. Maybe you just need a few more blankets?”
“I will recheck her temperature and circulation.” Margaret pulls a thin white tube from her pocket and places it just behind my ear. After a few seconds it beeps, and she pulls it back and twists it between her fingers.
There is a noticeable strain in the room. Even Fallon, who a moment before was smug, looks apprehensive.
“Her temperature is normal.” Margaret places the thermometer back into her pocket. “Like I said, I repaired the injuries fully. There should not be any lingering effects,” she says, emphasizing the last two words. Fallon’s face relaxes. “All is good. Now here is that medicated cream. Apply it to your scar twice a day.” She pulls a small tube from her pocket and hands it to me.
Scar? Did she say scar? “I have a scar? On my face?”
“Yes, you have a scar. No, not on your face. That wound I repaired completely. There is a small scar on your stomach. That is why I gave you the cream. Twice a day.” Margaret turns and leaves. She stops at the threshold of the door. “Fallon,” she calls, without looking at him.
Fallon stands rooted to his spot, as if he hadn’t heard. His eyes narrow, and he glares at me.
“Fallon,” Margaret says, more severely, tapping her fingers on the doorframe.
He jolts, turns away from me, and plods toward the door. His thick, trunk-like arms dangle at his side. Words are muttered between Ellis and Fallon that I can’t hear. My breath catches as I realize that Ellis is walking toward the door, away from me.
“Are you leaving as well?” I ask, unable to conceal my disappointment.
“Just so you can get dressed. I’ll be waiting right outside the door. Call me when you’re ready.”
I want him to promise me that he actually will be waiting. I have no idea why it matters so much to me that I get to see him again. After months of living on the streets, I’m used to being alone, taking care of myself. But it was exhausting always being on guard and constantly worrying about my safety. I’m so tired of it. I just want a break. And for some reason, I feel safe with him.
But I stay silent. Even I know that it sounds miserably desperate to ask a complete stranger to be with me. Instead, I stupidly nod and try to get changed as quickly as I can.
I gingerly get out of bed, uneasy about putting weight on my ankle. But it doesn’t hurt. I cross the room to the counter, and with each step, place more weight on my right foot, shocked that there is no pain.
I find my clothes neatly piled in the corner. Last night they’d been drenched in blood. I poke at them, as if the clothes might come alive and blanket me in red slime. I flip up the sides, and when nothing comes at me, I pick them up and turn them in my hands. Someone’s really cleaned them.
I’m still feeling a bit wobbly, so the whole process of dressing feels like it takes an eternity. I fumble with my various zippers and buttons, but finally I’m done.
I find a small mirror hanging on the inside of a partially open cupboard. I glance at myself, nervous at what my reflection will look like. I raise my chin and take in the face staring back at me. There are no gaping wounds. In fact, my face looks completely normal. Not a scrape on it. I run a hand across my forehead, cheeks, and neck, amazed by how smooth it feels. I actually look okay. A little thin maybe. My cheeks are slightly drawn, and I am pale. My hair is still a tangled black mess, but at least there’s no blood in it. I take a quick whiff under my arms. I smell like a combination of sweat and rubbing alcohol. I clamp my arms tight to my side. I’ve only been able to clean myself in the bathroom sinks at the train station since I ran away a few months ago. I’m so gross, I can’t imagine my time with Ellis will last much longer.
I pull open the door, praying Ellis is on the other side. And he is. I steady myself against the frame. He turns to me and smiles. His eyes sparkle, and his head tilts slightly.
“Great, you’re ready,” he says, as he grabs onto the door.
His fingers come within inches of my hand. I want to reach out and touch him. I can’t remember the last time I ever wanted to be near a guy, let alone touch him. But then I do remember. It was at a high school dance and I’d been furtively watching Bradley Lawson dance all night, thinking about how lucky those girls were. And then suddenly he came over and asked me to dance. He put his arms around me, and that was it. I couldn’t bear it. It felt like being mauled by Sita’s men. Poor Bradley. I ran out of the building and never looked back.
Something about Ellis pulls me to him. But I fight my urge and grip the door instead of his hand. My legs wobble as beads of sweat dampen my face.
Ellis steps into the room with me. Before I know it, the door has closed and we are alone.