Doomed (39 page)

I open both first-aid kits, lay them out on the bathroom counter. Rummage through to see what’s there, even though I already know. Then I rummage through again.

“Procrastinating’s not going to get you anywhere,” Theo says, amused.

Sure it will—it will keep me away from the huge hole in his arm, which is more than enough for me.

But then I look at Theo, really look at him. I notice the
pain bracketing his mouth and eyes, see how pale his skin is. I can’t put this off any longer,

Reaching into the small linen closet in the corner, I pull out a handful of thick navy-blue towels. I wrap one around my arm and then spread another over Theo. “I’m going to have to wash this out. Or you’ll get an infection.”

The eyes staring at me are tired, but there’s a grim amusement lurking in the back of them. “That’s what I’ve been telling you all along.”

There are two shots of lidocaine in the first-aid kit, and I use them both on Theo. I don’t know if it’s enough or too much, but he’s a big guy, and I want him to feel as little as possible. It will help both of us.

“Are you numb?” I ask, poking at his arm.

“Not really, but go ahead.”

“I swear, have neither of you ever had stitches?” Eli demands, exasperated. “You need to give it a few minutes to kick in.”

“Oh. Well, in that case …” I lay out everything I’m going to need. As I do, I see that there’s a problem, namely that there’s no bandage big enough to fit the wound.

Eli notices, too. “I’ll go look around and see what I can find,” he volunteers.

“What if those guys are still out there?” I ask fiercely. “No way!”

“We haven’t heard anything in a while, remember? And anyway, I’ll be careful.”

I start to protest more, to tell him all the reasons it’s a bad idea to leave this office, but Theo latches onto my arm
with his good hand. He doesn’t say anything, but his steady look tells me to let Eli go.

Then he’s gone, slipping out of the bathroom and out of the office in a few long strides.

The door closes behind him and I turn on Theo. “Why did you let him leave?”

“He needs a few minutes alone,” Theo tells me. “Couldn’t you tell? He’s not handling the fact that he shot those two men very well. Give him a chance to walk it off.”

“Walk it off?” I ask in astonishment.

“You know what I mean. He doesn’t want to fall apart in front of us.”

“Oh.” There’s nothing I can really say to that, so I concentrate on getting things ready to clean Theo’s wound. I open some gauze pads, find the antibiotic shot he was telling me about—penicillin, it says.

Lidocaine, penicillin. These are controlled substances not found in your average first-aid kit. How did my dad get access to them? And how did he know we would need them?

But that’s a whole different question, with an answer I don’t want to dwell on too deeply. At least not right now. So I focus on Theo instead. I put on a pair of gloves and poke at the wound again.

“Do you feel that?”

His eyes are closed, his head resting back against the chair. “Feel what?” he asks.

That’s exactly what I want to hear and definitely the best I can hope for. I wet a hand towel and then liberally douse it with soap. Then I rip the arm of Theo’s shirt away.

His eyes pop open. “You know, Pandora, if you wanted
to rip my clothes off, all you had to do was ask. You didn’t have to wait until I got shot.”

His grin is a little goofy, and I wonder if it’s possible for a local anesthetic to make you stoned as well as numb. Then I shake it off—probably not, but if it does, more power to him. It’ll make things easier for both of us. Maybe we should have given him some of that scotch instead of dumping it all.

I lean forward and start to clean the jagged hole that runs through his bicep. He winces, but doesn’t make a sound, and I figure if he can be this stoic about the whole thing, then so can I.

Even if it kills me.

The wound looks awful, and as I clean it, it starts to bleed again. It’s angry and oozing and I’m scared I’m making it worse. By now, Theo is clutching the arm of the chair so hard that he’s gouged holes in the leather.

“I’m almost done,” I tell him.

“It’s fine,” he answers. I glance at him—his eyes are closed again, and sweat is dripping down his face.

I want to hurry this part up, but I don’t want to miss anything that could lead to an infection later. After what feels like forever, I reach for a bottle of water and rinse the wound thoroughly to get rid of all the soap. Then I douse it in hydrogen peroxide, wincing as Theo growls low in his throat.

“Do you need more lidocaine?” I ask.

“
Is
there more?”

“No.”

“Then why bother asking? Just get it done, okay?”

“Yeah. Sure.” And then I douse his arm with iodine.

I only thought he was pale before. Theo turns whiter than I knew a human being could, his skin chalky and sick looking. Plus, it seems like he’s going to throw up. I rush for the small trash can under the sink, thrust it at him.

He gives me a what-the-hell look, and I take it away again as he swallows convulsively, trying not to get sick.

“I’m sorry,” I tell him. “I’m really sorry.”

He shakes his head. “Next time, warn me, okay?”

“I thought it’d be better if you didn’t know what was coming.”

“Obviously not.” He runs his good hand through his hair. “Are we done?”

“I don’t know. I mean, do I need to do anything else?”

Please let him say no, please let him say no.
I’m not sure how much more of this I can take—and I’m not even the one who’s injured.

But the wound is bleeding again, pretty steadily, and I know what’s coming before Theo even opens his mouth. “I think you’re going to have to stitch it. Do you know how to sew?”

A million answers run through my head, and all of them start with variations of “Hell, no!” But I figure why waste my energy on protesting when it’s abundantly clear that he does need stitches. And that there’s no one else around to do them.

But that doesn’t mean I have to be gracious about it.

I rummage through the first-aid supplies until I find the suture kit. The needle is long and supersharp and pretty much scares the crap out of me. There are also three different
kinds of thread, or sutures, or whatever you call them, all different widths. I don’t have a clue which one to use.

In the end, I decide on the middle one—it looks pretty multipurpose—but my hands are shaking so badly that it takes me three or seven tries before I’m able to thread the needle.

I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to do this. I
really
don’t want to do this. I took a sewing class last year with Emily, who talked me into it because she said it would help with the costumes for the school plays. Sliding a needle through fabric is a far cry from doing it to human flesh.

But Theo’s waiting, his whole body tense, and it’s not fair to torture him just because I can’t work up the nerve to do what needs to be done.
Just finish it
, I tell myself.
And then you can fall apart later.

When I’m ready, I look at Theo, who is very determinedly not looking at me or the instrument of torture in my hand. “Are you ready?” I ask.

He laughs and it sounds rusty. “No. But do it, anyway.”

I squeeze his hand and he latches onto me, his big fingers squeezing mine tightly for the space of one heartbeat, two. And then he’s pulling away, taking a deep breath. “I’m okay.”

The next fifteen minutes are among the most excruciating of my life. I hate every single stitch, have to brace myself for the little “pop” of the needle every time it slides through Theo’s flesh. And it slides through a lot of times.

He’s a great patient, doesn’t move, doesn’t say a word to distract me, but still. By the time I’m finished, I’m a nervous wreck. Shaky, sweaty, scared to death.

When the last stitch is done on the second side, I knot the thread quickly and then drop the needle onto the counter. I’ll clean it up later. All I know right now is that if I never have to touch that thing again it will be too soon.

“How’re you feeling?” I ask Theo, crouching down in front of him.

His smile is weak. “I’ve been better.”

“I bet.” I strip off the gloves, then fumble two Advil out of a package, as well as the first of the antibiotic pills. “You need to take these.”

He nods, and I hand him a bottle of water from his backpack.

I wash my hands as he takes the medicine. When he’s done, Theo hands me the empty water bottle. I set it aside to refill, then look at him, really look at him for the first time since this whole thing began.

“We need to get you cleaned up.” I glance at the glass shower stall in the corner. “Get the blood rinsed off you.”

“You have no idea how good that sounds.” He pushes to his feet, sways unsteadily for a second, then seems to get it together.

“Do you, umm …” I look everywhere but at him. “Do you need help?”

He grins. It’s weak, but it’s definitely a grin. “I think I’ve got it.”

Oh, thank God. Stitching him up was one thing, but dealing with a completely naked Theo is something else entirely.

I quickly finish cleaning up, then yank a pair of jeans out of Theo’s backpack, lay them next to the largest towel I
can find on the edge of the counter closest to the shower. I don’t include a shirt because I’m afraid getting into one will strain his stitches.

“I’m going out there.” I point to the office. “See about getting something for you to eat.”

“Okay.”

I nod, start to leave, but he grabs my hand with his good one, stops me in my tracks. “Thank you.”

I go to brush it off—I’m the one who got him shot, after all—but when I turn back to him there’s an intensity in his eyes that I can’t ignore. That I don’t want to ignore. “I’m just glad you’re okay.” I have a difficult time getting my tongue around the words.

Theo must understand, though, because he reaches up, strokes the back of his hand over my cheek. My breath catches in my throat, and I turn my face a little, press my cheek more firmly into his touch. It feels good, right, the spark that’s been there between us from the very beginning building to a full conflagration. To something more.

I lift my hand, cover his so that our fingers tangle together. He squeezes just enough to let me know he’s as affected by this moment as I am. I smile, then, and he smiles back, a lopsided grin that has no trace of his usual coldness. And when his thumb brushes over my lips, once, twice, it’s all I can do not to close the small distance between us.

I want to feel his body against mine, want to know—really know—that he’s safe. That he’s going to be okay. I actually take a step forward before reason kicks in and I stumble back. He’s been shot, for God’s sake. Now is not the time to be thinking about anything but helping him heal.

“Try not to get your arm wet.” My voice is huskier than usual, and though I clear my throat, it doesn’t change. “And call me if you, umm, need anything.”

He laughs. Here I am, doing my best Florence Nightingale impression when all I really want to do is curl up against him and make him promise me that everything is going to be okay, and he has the gall to laugh. I pick up the backpacks and flounce into the other room, closing the bathroom door firmly behind me.

It doesn’t matter. I can still hear him laughing.

While he showers, I clean the gash on my own arm. It’s not as deep as I originally thought, so after I douse it with peroxide and iodine—which, I might add, gives me a whole new sympathy for Theo—I bandage it up and hope for the best. Nothing else to do right now.

I glance at the huge ticking clock on the wall. It’s close to five thirty. This whole terrifying, mind-numbing experience only took about three hours. It’s hard to imagine as it feels like several lifetimes have passed since we left the farm earlier.

Theo comes out of the bathroom dressed in jeans and an old Aerosmith T-shirt. It’s from their
Pump
album, the one with the two trucks on the cover, and I stare at him for a second, shocked. If there was one person in the world—besides my mother—who I’d guess would never wear that T-shirt, it would be Theo. Looking at him in it makes me wonder what else I’m wrong about in regard to him.

I guess I stare at the shirt longer than I think, because he finally asks, “Is something wrong?”

“You didn’t hurt your arm getting into that?” I seize on the excuse.

He holds up the arm in question. “I’m good.”

“Still, you need to lie down for a while,” I tell him, gesturing toward the couch.

“I’m fine. I just want some water. I’m thirsty.”

“That’s because of the blood loss.” I walk him to the couch, and when he stands over it, like he’s going to argue, I give him just a little push. The fact that he topples onto the couch and doesn’t immediately get back up tells me more than anything else can about how he’s doing.

“Here, drink this.” I hand him a bottle of water. “And then you need to eat.”

I reach for an apple to hand to him, but at that moment, the office door slams open. We both jump, thinking it’s the bikers coming back for a second look, but it’s only Eli. And his arms are loaded with medical supplies.

“There’s a doctor’s office on the second floor. I got bandages and a bunch of other stuff we might be able to use.” He deposits the supplies on the desk, then opens a big plastic bag that he’s been carrying. “And I brought dinner à la vending machine. It’s not great, but it’s something.” He pulls out a few sandwiches, some yogurt, a couple of bananas.

I reach for a roast beef sandwich and hand it to Theo. “You need protein after all that blood loss. It will help replenish the iron you lost.”

“Since when are you a nurse?”

“Since you made me perform surgery on you.” I shudder. “I’m going to have nightmares for the next six months.”

He flashes a grin that looks tired but real. “Careful, Pandora, a guy could get the wrong idea with all this babying.”

Eli slams a bottle of Coke down on the table harder than necessary. “I only brought enough for dinner, but I figure we can raid it again before we leave.”