What Blood Leaves Behind (The Poison Rose) (17 page)

“We need to get him upstairs,” I say, speaking as softly as she did. I feel like I’m trying not to frighten away a bird that has landed on a nearby twig. “As soon as we can.”

“Why?”

I give up trying to be gentle and raise my voice at the stupidity of the question. “He’s
hurt
. He could even
die
. I don’t know what’s wrong with him.”

Pain, real observable pain flits across her face, replaces that dopey-dazed expression she normally has with something approaching real concern for another human being. But she says nothing, only stands there shifting from foot to foot, rubbing at the side of her nose. She looks so foolish with the blush smeared on her cheeks, her long eye-lashes, wearing a low-cut red sweater two sizes too small like she’s all ready for a hot date.

“Well?”

“Well what?”

“Move. Him. Upstairs.”
I’m shouting now, furious, no longer worried about frightening her away. She hunches her shoulders, pulls her head down, worried I’m going to hit her. Her lips move but no sound emerges. She’s definitely trembling now.

Then she cries out, “No! I can’t. Don’t—” She turns back to the mirror and looks at herself for a moment, then recoils as if horrified by what she sees. She knocks all the makeup off the edge of the sink and on to the crusty tiles of the bathroom floor with one wild sweep of her right arm. As I listen to the smash of glass and the clatter of metal she darts past me and rushes out the door.

William’s scrunched up
tight in a corner, wedged between a battered, water-stained desk and an ancient rusted filing cabinet. Keeping perfectly still—although I’m sure he’s heard my footsteps.
I
can hear the sound my heels make as I pull them free from the little sumps of mud and debris littering this place that try to suck them in.

Keeping perfectly still—although I’m sure he knows I’m standing right by him. I have to smile at the fact that he’s gone so far as to pull an old mildewed desk chair on rollers in front of his hiding spot.

“This is worse than being in the school—the Orphanage. Isn’t it?” The sound of my voice produces no movement, no response. “You look pathetic. You must be really scared to be hiding out here.”

Out here
is the small, one-story maintenance shed in back of the school. It took me a while to build up the determination to go outside. But I’d looked everywhere else. This one outbuilding looked like the only place left for William to hide. Unless he left the school grounds, ran away. But after what happened to Aiden I don’t think he’d try it. No matter how frightened he is.

“Not scared of you.” His voice is muffled, flat, like he’s talking into his sleeve. He kicks the chair away and hauls himself to his feet, grunting and sighing. He steps away from the desk and file cabinet, clearly doesn’t like that I’m so close to him and retreats to the far side of the room.

Part of the roof of the shed has collapsed. Large sliding steel doors have been knocked off their rollers, one door yawning into the schoolyard, one tipped into the building. The place was ransacked ages ago. Weed cutters and leaf blowers and lawnmowers have been taken apart, their innards spread around like they were dissected by monkeys. Rakes and shovels and hoses are thrown in a pile, all twisted together. And it stinks, a smell of brackish water, mildew and oil.

“Look at you, William. You’ve got cobwebs in your hair. You’re smeared with all the crud that’s on everything in here. You look pathetic.”

He gives me a nasty look and for a moment I think he’s going to charge straight at me, tackle me. It’s a well of shadows in this corner of the building, under the intact half of the roof. But I can see him well enough to tell that he’s looking for a way out.

Instead of furiously charging at me, he edges away, slinks back to the opening left by the sliding doors. But he trips over the handle of a garden tool, falls backward, keeps himself from completely tumbling on the ground with the palm of his right hand which splashes up a spray of muddy water.

I laugh, not really amused but wanting him to know I’m in control. “Are you really going to try to run? You know there’s nowhere to go. I don’t think you’re going to leave the Orphanage.” He’s up on his feet again, trying to straighten himself up. I take a few steps toward him. “And it’s getting dark out.”

He says nothing, looks around helplessly. He knows what I want, what I’m going to make him do if we go back to the school. He doesn’t want to go back inside the Orphanage but he can’t go anywhere else.

“So you’re not scared of me. Even after what I did to Gideon?”

“You think you’re tougher than they are? You’re not so tough. You’re just a girl. Not even a smart girl. If Jendra were here…”

“She’d be leading you around by your collar like you were her little puppy. But Jendra’s not coming back here. She’s…”

“Shut up. I don’t want to hear it.” He’s thinking fast. “I’ll help you take care of him down there, in the cellar. But we can’t move him. They wouldn’t like it.”

“We’re going to move him.” I hold up my hand. I can hardly see it any longer. “Do you realize, William, we can barely see each other now? It’s dark out already. What if they come back and catch us both out here?”

This time he tries to run as fast as he can, weaving and crashing through all of the debris. I follow him but step more carefully, not really concerned that he’s going to escape from me.

When I step free from the crumpled maintenance shed, everything’s swathed in the half-dark of twilight. A soft drizzle envelopes me but it feels good, cleansing. I want to stand outside long enough for my hair to get soaked, for my skin to be slick with the damp. It doesn’t even feel cold to me. I look past the two stories of the school to the side streets of the neighborhood surrounding it. It would be so easy to walk away, to disappear into the night.

I see William walking from one end of the concrete-covered play area and back like there was a real fence barring him from going any farther.

I slowly make my way over to him. “I may be just a girl but I’m stronger than you. You know I am.” He lowers his head and keeps on pacing. “Come on, William. Let’s get this over with. Do this for me and I’ll leave you alone. No more hiding in dark corners.”

He keeps pacing, pacing. Hunches his shoulders against the rain dribbling down the back of his collar.

“Do you hear that?” I ask him. He doesn’t respond, doesn’t even look at me. “It’s early but it could be
them
.” He finally stops pacing, stares out at the dark neighborhood streets. I shrug my shoulders. “Maybe not. But I thought I heard something.”

He turns to me and says, “Damn you. You’re on my nerves like nobody’s ever…” His voice trails off and then he says, starting to surrender, “If we move that bastard and they find out,
you’re
the one who’s getting the blame. You’re the one who’s responsible for him once he’s upstairs. I’m not involved.”

I laugh again, like he’s being the idiot now and it’s my chance to be all condescending. “You’re responsible for
me
. You’ve been dumping the work you’re supposed to do on
me
. They think
you’re
in control. Which is totally laughable.” Then I say slowly, wanting him to feel the importance of my words, “I don’t care about preparing food and trying to look after the kids but this is different. If he something happens to Aiden…”

William looks away, stares into the night. It’s almost completely dark out now.

“All right,” he says. “We’ll move him. But I’m not responsible. Remember that, Gillian, I’m not responsible.”

“Is he okay?”

I snap awake, a soft little voice near my ear startling me. I told myself I wasn’t going to fall asleep no matter what, no matter how tired I might be.

I’m bolt upright in the chair I chose to sit in for a reason. The chair I chose to keep watch over Aiden in. A desk chair that’s uneven on the floor because the rollers have broken off and left small metal stumps behind. There’s a cushion under me that’s been worn as flat as a washcloth and the back of the chair is a fan of hard wood slats.

The chair should have kept me awake but it hasn’t.

Tetch is beside me. She looks as disheveled as William did the last time I saw him. Her layers of makeup have worn away, hair straggling limp and greasy. Her face is pasty pale—plump cheeks like blobs of yellow custard on a round dish tinted pinkish gray.

It takes me a moment to process what’s happening. That Tetch has woken me, that I’ve been sleeping and that Aiden still lies under the blankets I’ve covered him with, still curled on his side and perfectly still. His face is turned to me, eyes wedged tight but his mouth slightly open. A crack in his lips still oozes blood and the bruises around one eye and along his jaw rage angry and purple.

A circle of candles flicker on either side of the bed. William produced several for me and, most precious of all, a half-full box of kitchen matches. I have lit all the candles even though it seems wasteful. I have to see what I’m doing. I have to watch Aiden carefully.

We’re in a small inner office on the first floor that’s been stripped nearly bare. It still possesses a small desk and the comfortless chair I’ve slept in. It seems safe to me, windowless, several rooms back from the main corridor. It is here I have dragged a cot all the way down from the dormitory. Here where I have stored the scant supplies I’ve found, blankets and a mattress less soiled than most others I’ve seen, a basin I’ve tried to scour clean for holding water, a few dusty towels.

Now awoken by Tetch, I get to my feet and weave from side to side for a moment, unsteady with the sudden exertion. I put the back of my hand close to Aiden’s mouth, the swollen surface of his damaged lips brushing the hairs on my skin, making them tingle. I let myself breathe when I feel the warmth of his breath. But he’s breathing so softly, with such shallow little puffs, it doesn’t seem like enough to sustain him.

I turn to Tetch and thoughts start racing through my mind. Can I trust her? Can I rope her into helping me like I have William? She’s not paying any attention to me. She’s wringing plump little hands that look like fish flopping in a net, staring down at Aiden like she’s a grieving relative just arrived at his deathbed. I’m amazed at how completely overwhelmed she is. I had no idea Tetch had it in her to get this emotional.

I whisper the words, “Help me.” She looks at me now, her face suddenly contorted by something like panic. I can sense her pleading with me without speaking the words out loud,
Don’t ask me to do something it isn’t in me to do
. But I tell her, “Lift up the blankets.”

She looks at Aiden. Back at me. “Lift up the blankets,” I say more firmly.

I reach over and take her by the arm and pull her closer to the bed. She resists but then lets herself be pulled along. It feels like tugging on the arm of CJ or Terry. I then place her left hand on the top end of the tattered wool blanket covering Aiden’s body. It reaches the bottom of his chin. “Lift it up gently,” I tell her. “Hold it up a little so I can take a look at him. I don’t want him to get cold.”

Tetch moves her hand robotically, gingerly grips the top of the blanket and slowly peels it away from Aiden. I’ve removed his jacket but left his bloodied shirt on. I feel like I have no time, like I have to do something for him—help him with his wounds, his bruises, his fever—or it will be too late.

Picking up a small dish on which a candle stub gutters, I bend low to peer under the blanket and move the candlelight slowly over Aiden’s torso. His chest flutters a little as he draws a breath. The wound in his side still looks sticky wet and raw. The blood that’s seeped across his shirt looks black as pitch under the faint light of the candle.

Aiden still has an old white tee shirt gummed to his sticky skin. I want to rip it off him so I can bathe his wound with soap and water, see exactly how bad it is but I’m afraid to touch it.

He also had a thick sweatshirt on under his coat which I had William help me pull off right after we got him upstairs. He was limp, unresistant at first but just as we were pulling it free from around his head, his arms up just enough so we could slip it off, his mouth fell open and he let out another awful groan. The sound ricocheted through me like the aftershocks of an explosion. Then he shrank into himself, curling up tight like a premature baby.

I’ve thought of taking a pair of scissors or even a knife to cut the tee shirt free but he seems so fragile, like the act of peeling this thin layer of cloth ever so gently from his body might be enough to cause him pain I can’t even begin to imagine.

“How is he?” I hear Tetch ask me again.

I pull back from Aiden, set the candle down while Tetch carefully lets the blanket drop back over his body.

I feel annoyed now, pissed off at how useless she is, how useless and hateful everyone is in this wretched place so I snap at her, “Will you just shut up? You think I have any idea? Stop asking me that. Can’t you be
useful
for once in this shitty, pathetic little thing you call your life?”

Tetch reels back, retreating almost all the way to the door. I want to throw her from the room but I need her. I still need her help
and
William’s and I do not want to lose control of the situation. I want both of them under my thumb.

But anger at Tetch is just a smokescreen for my own feelings.

I’m furious at how helpless I am to do even one simple thing that might help this badly wounded boy. I’ve taken on total responsibility for him. I don’t know him at all, never met him before, never spoke a word to him but I feel that if he dies it will be because I’ve failed.

It will be my fault.

And if I believe way down in the deepest, darkest part of me that it’s
my fault
, how will I carry on after something like that? How will I wake up tomorrow and the next day and the day after that and feel like I can do anything to help the remnants of my little family, to help myself?

I cannot start to feel helpless. I
have
to stay in control.