Copperback (10 page)

I
could feel my pulse racing. His grip wasn’t tight, as his other hand came up
and held my hand. I could feel his large, soft fingers across my skin as he
turned my arm, studying my wrist, still bruised from the night before. I could
have pulled away at any time, but I was petrified that, if I tried, he might
grip tighter. At last, he let go, and I pulled my hand back so hard I lost my
balance and collided with the wall behind me. My knees gave out, and I slumped
down on the floor, attempting to catch my breath, holding my wrist close to my
chest.

He
was looking down at his hands, palms up, as if horrified of them. He balled
them into fists, still looking down, terrified to face me. I knew what he was
thinking, but before I could say anything, he spoke up.

“I
– I hurt you.” What he said was clear, but full of anger at himself.

“It
was an accident. You were scared, and didn’t know where you were. I would have
done the same thing.” There was no way I sounded convincing. I tried to stand
up; my legs felt like rubber that wouldn’t support me. I stayed pressed against
the wall, keeping as much space between us as possible.

“You’re
afraid – of me.” He still hadn’t looked up, his gaze fixed on his hands – opening
and closing them, as though he was testing the strength in them. He finally
turned to look at me. There was an anger burning in his eyes, but not for me. I
could see the pain he was feeling at the moment wasn’t a physical one, but
emotional. His expression told me the anguish he was feeling. He didn’t need to
say it, but did anyways.

“I’m–I’m
sorry.”

I
didn’t want him to be sorry. I didn’t like the feeling of guilt for being so
biased to believe he would harm me. I had let the propaganda of the Sayner race
get to me, and couldn’t see that he might be different. He had feelings, the
same as us. He felt pain like us. He was more human than I could have ever
thought.

I
pulled myself off the ground, feeling my legs wobble under me. Stepping forward
hesitantly, forcing myself to ignore my apprehension, I picked the bottle back
up from his lap, handing it back to him. Before taking it, he gently ran his
hand across the back of my own, still trying to convince me he wouldn’t do
anything. His finger brought goose bumps up my arm. I could feel my breathing
slow down to a more even pace. It was a calming effect. I wanted to tell him
that it was alright; that I would find a way to move past my fears and accept
him.

“Thank
you.” His thanks were not just for the water, but for everything: the stress I
had endured; saving his life and letting him stay in my home while he
recovered.

“You’re
welcome.” I gave him a smile back, so he knew I meant it. We stayed silent the
rest of the night as we ate. All that we needed to say had been said. It would
be hard for both of us over the next few days, but I was willing to give it a
try. At that moment, I knew in my heart I could trust him.

Over
the course of the next week, I learned very little about Job. For every ten
questions I had for him, I got back two answers at the most. The very few times
he responded verbally, the answer was usually a quick yes or no related to
something as simple as what foods he liked or didn’t like, if he needed this or
that, or how he was feeling. There was almost a consistent yes when it came to
my cooking.

I
wouldn’t consider myself a great chef. Cooking for Chase taught me that it
didn’t matter what I made, as it all went to the same place. Because of this
philosophy, I preferred to make anything that was quick and easy, or came out
of a box or can. Not once did Job turn his nose up at the food he was given,
and I figured it had to do with the lack of a decent meal before being laid up
in my basement.

He
would devour it in three to four easy bites, usually before I could take even
one. He always asked for seconds or thirds, and continuously cleared my cupboards
and freezer almost daily. The only thing saving me from going broke was Sally,
keeping my shelves stocked with her giving ways.

Some
questions he would answer just by facial expressions, or with his body
language. Physical pain was an easy one to interpret, since it was almost all
the time. It either came with a simple wince, a sudden quickening of his breath,
or as bad as gritting his teeth and holding back screams. I did as much as I could
during these times by going through the list Sally had made. There wasn’t
anything for pain on the list other than ice. The rest was checks to make sure
there was nothing serious about his injuries beyond the visual. It was bad
enough watching him hurt all the time; I had no desire to inflict any more pain.
I hoped he was grateful for it, since Sally wasn’t showing signs of letting up.

I
tried to ask if there was anything he knew of that we could use for the waves of
pain that never seemed to end. I had a stock full of ibuprofen and other over-the-counter
meds that I had no problem distributing at any time. The response to this was
always a shrug of the shoulders. Even when I tried to offer him any of these,
explaining that it may help, he turned them away by pushing my hand aside or
turning his head in the opposite direction, letting me know that he was going
to refuse, no matter how hard I tried. Between seeing my reaction each time he
showed that he hurt, and my forceful attempts to do anything to help, he
started to cover up how bad it was, so that I would stop insisting.

Often
there were times I couldn’t figure out what look he was giving me, as if I
should know some mind reading skill. After asking the same question in a
different way but getting the same mysterious results, one of us would give up.
It was usually me, frustrated, throwing my hands up in the air or walking away.
I wanted to believe that he didn’t understand, or that he didn’t know the right
words to convey what he wanted to tell me. Even after just one of these
episodes, however, I could tell that there was some other reason for his
silence.

Other
questions he just refused to answer. Brow furrowed, his gaze would direct to
some unknown place. I tried not to press any of those questions, assuming, for
whatever reason, they were either too painful to talk about, or he wasn’t ready
to tell me.

The
only one I asked almost every day was who had done this to him. His looks kept
changing, as if he was hiding some secret he wasn’t going to let me in on. At
first, it was no answer at all – hanging his head and not facing me – but
slowly, it became a sad look, as though he really wanted to say, but knew it might
hurt me more than it hurt him. I could see through his vow of silence each time,
and tried to offer comfort that, if he would just say, I could do something
about it. I had no idea what I could do. It wasn’t like I had a group of
friends that would just go out and beat the scum to a pulp. I wasn’t about to
go fetch the police to tell them, and have him taken away in the process. I
could always ask Derrick, but then he would know, and take him back as his
slave and work him to the bone. I couldn’t bring myself to do that.

Chase
all but disappeared off the radar. His usual drop-ins for dinner had stopped
altogether. There was no communication unless I sent him a text, or called him
on his cell phone – which almost always seemed to go to a voicemail box full of
my unreturned messages. The few times he answered, he always had a different
excuse, saying he was in a hurry or that someone was waiting on him.  It began
to feel as though he abandoned an orphan at my doorstep and fled before being
discovered.

The
one time he came over, I couldn’t convince him to go downstairs and try to
engage in conversation with Job. I tried not to concern myself with his lack of
involvement, since the less he knew, the better. I still had a nagging fear
that he may have been part of the cause of the situation. I tried to pretend
that it wasn’t there, but it was hard not to suspect everyone.

Sally
stopped by every day to check Job’s progress and bring in fresh supplies or
groceries. She was always a welcome sight when she arrived. Early in the week,
she had brought about a dozen reusable ice packs, to give my fridge’s ice maker
a chance to recuperate from its constant abuse. I’m sure if it had a voice, it
would have thanked her.

At
the start of the week, there was a lot of concern around what had happened when
he was having the involuntary shifts and if it had caused any long term damage.
The seepage from the stitches was pretty common, whether he had pulled at them
or not. Each day, the swelling around them would go down bit by bit, even
though the bruising seemed to spread and become more prominent.

The
battered ribs were still painful, and caused him to take shallow breaths. Sally
explained that it was better to take deep breaths to prevent fluid build-up in
his lungs. Taking one of the pillows from the couch, he would hold it against
his chest to assist in deep breathing, or else use it to adjust his position.
Eventually, he gave up on trying to lie back, and insisted on sitting up, even
when he slept. Most of my bedroom and living room set was now in the basement.
I had been reduced to uncomfortable nights on the couch – a price I was willing
to pay to ensure his comfort, for now.

His
cheek and eye still had lingering bruising, but – judging from his ability to
talk without pain and see out of the once-distended eye – the injuries on his
face were superficial, and caused no more concern than one of the many small
cuts or scrapes that had covered his body.

Small
purple contusions appeared in almost every place imaginable. Some took the
shape of fingers, from someone’s grasp holding him against his will. Others
were like the boot print on his back from stomps or kicks, mostly around the
midsection. I was surprised he even survived the mauling, and had come away
with only the few injuries he sustained. Each discoloration that appeared, even
as faint as some were, caused the anger to build inside of me – anger for the
savages that believe such brutality should be allowed, but also anger at Job. I
had already witnessed his strength, yet it was clear he had done nothing to
stop it. There were no marks across his knuckles that would indicate he had
fought back. The risk of being put to death for defending himself had to
outweigh the cruel acts that had been violently placed on him. It didn’t make
sense, but it wasn’t a question I was willing to ask yet, knowing he would
refuse to answer.

The
biggest concern had become his shattered leg. Sally continuously checked for
warmth, a pulse, reflex, feeling and movement. She would ask him to move his
toes, which he did ever so slightly, cringing at the pain it caused. The worst
of the bunch was the reflex test, in which she would use the end of a pen and
run it up his heel, causing him to involuntarily twitch his foot and nearly
double over each time. It was a cruel procedure, but necessary for whatever
reason she had not shared with me as of yet.

The
swelling in his leg seemed to increase since the first day, becoming more
discolored than before, no matter how much ice was applied. Each gap in the
makeshift splint looked as if his shiny, bloated skin was trying to push its
way out – like a balloon that had been squeezed too tightly. I made the
assumption that this was just another part of the healing process, like the
bruising that appeared everywhere else. As Sally continued these tests each day,
she always said “good” or “things look great,” but there was concern in her
voice on Friday.

That
evening, she ran through the normal tests as usual, but the results had changed
slightly. There was no twinge when she ran the pen up the sole of his foot. She
tried again with the same outcome. She asked him to move his toes. Although he
still gritted at the pain, there was nothing. I knew something was amiss. Job
did, too.

She
began a new process of pressing on his big toenail, which to my surprise looked
fairly manicured for someone who had probably never seen an emery board in his
life. She would hold it till it turned white and then let go, waiting for the
pink under the nail bed to return to normal color. It took a few seconds, but
finally came back.

“Can
you feel this?” she asked while touching his toes and foot at the same time,
checking for a pulse. He nodded, with a bit of fear in his pained expression. “You’re
doing great. It’s not a big deal if you can’t move it. More than likely there
is a tear in the muscles, and it’s going to take time for everything to go back
to normal. This is just a little bump in the road.” She smiled at him as
genuinely as possible.

He
returned the smile and looked at me. I gave the half smile I usually reserved
for most guests at the inn. It was as fake as they came, but he didn’t seem to
question it. There was something going on that she was trying to hide from him.
I knew what she said was a lie, and he was buying it. Whatever had her
concerned, it was bad, and I needed to know.

As
she finished her daily routine, I followed her up the stairs, hoping that
whatever she had kept from him, she wouldn’t keep from me – although I wasn’t sure
I wanted to hear what she would have to say. The look on her face was one of
panic and grief, as though she had just lost someone close. Her hands began to
shake as she hurriedly started gathering multiple ice packs and leftover bags
of ice stored in my freezer. In her frenzy, she hardly noticed I was standing
there, desperately trying to get her to turn and notice me. I had to step in
front of her to finally make eye contact. The look in her eyes was the same
pained look I had seen just before she had started the stitches to stop the
bleeding.

“What
is going on?” I said. “I saw what happened down there, but you lied to him. If
you can’t tell him, at least tell me.” I kept my voice hushed, just in case one
of the vents in the kitchen carried my voice down to him.

“There
is a problem.” She broke eye contact and looked off somewhere else.

“Really?
Are you sure? Because the way you’re acting, it doesn’t seem to be anything
wrong. I figured you were going to tell me he will be doing the waltz tomorrow
night.” I said it as sarcastically as I could. I wanted her to know I wasn’t
going to back down till I had my answer.

“His
circulation is very bad. The swelling in his leg has gotten worse, and the
reflexes have stopped.” She bit her bottom lip, as if she didn’t want to
continue. “He may have something called compartment syndrome. It’s rare, but if
he does, then he is in danger without a
fasciotomy
.”

I
was having an issue hanging on to what she was saying. Everything she talked
about was over my head. I crossed my arms, hoping she was willing to give me a
straight answer. “Okay. First of all, he broke his leg. You set it. That should
be the end of the story. Secondly, I have no idea what a fashion-otomy thing is,
since I never went to nursing school. Do you think you could explain it in
English?”

She
was still distraught over the situation, but after a deep breath, she was able
to gather herself enough to spell it out. “There is blood collecting in his
leg. It is causing the swelling. It means that it is not traveling to his foot
as well as it should. A
fasciotomy is a surgery
where they cut open the leg to let the blood drain out. It may have been caused
when he was shifting, and he may have moved the bones back out of place. It
could be because his splint is too tight. I have no idea why, but either way,
if the pressure doesn’t stop, then he is going to have some permanent…disabilities.”

“So,
can you try to move his leg back into place, or maybe try to cut his leg open
to drain it?” I did not want to be around to see him being carved like a
turkey. I had already seen enough gore to last a lifetime.

“No.
If I try to set it again, and I’m not even sure if it is out of place, he may
have a blood clot, and it could break loose and travel. As for the surgery, I
have no idea what to do or how to do it. I’ve seen it, and it usually requires supplies
I don’t have and a skin graft afterwards. I would not be able to do that, and
our outcome would more than likely be the same if we didn’t.”

“Well,
then what kind of options do we have?” It was best to know what I was up
against. There was no reason to panic if it really wasn’t something as bad as
she thought.