in. They’re all intact. My palm appears.
Where the hole used to be a neat cut now resides, crisscrossed with black stitches. The hole is gone.
“It’s not just cosmetic,” she says, her mouth pursed into a smile. “It’ll function almost like it did before…when it heals. You have some permanent nerve damage and scar tissue, numbness, but thankfully it was a small-caliber bullet. You’ll have your hand back, Clay. You might be able to shoot from the hip again.”
I stare into her face. “You… fixed me? Why?”
She begins wrappin’ my hand back up with a strange tenderness. “I can’t have my baby all banged up.” When her eyes find mine, they are soft, almost vulnerable. “I told you I wanted to say sorry. For all that I’ve done.”
I look down at my hand and back up to her face. “Bring me Riley and then we’ll talk.”
She frowns. There’s hate in her eyes. “That girl only wants to separate us.”
I shake my head. “No deal, then. I’m still plannin’ to kill you.”
I mean it, too. Hand or no hand. This woman is a danger to our world.
“What about the boy? I can arrange a visit with him.”
I swallow, thinkin’ of poor Ethan. “Bring him,” I say, tryin’ not to betray emotion.
She purses red lips. “I’ll have Betsy bring you to see him this afternoon.”
“What’s wrong with that girl?” I ask.
Nessa sighs. “I’m afraid she’s a little off.”
I study her face for the lie that must be lurkin’ there, but her expression is a stone wall. “I figured you fiddled with her brain.”
Nessa looks hurt. “You think I messed with that poor child’s head? Clay, have you such little regard for your mother?”
“Yes,” I say without hesitation.
She lays a hand on my cheek. I flinch. “My smart, distrustful son. I know I have to earn your trust.”
I keep my body rigid until she backs away. She walks to the doorway, but lingers there, watching me. I feel her eyes fumblin’ on me like Betsy’s hands.
“You look like your father when I met him,” she says, her voice wistful. “So handsome.” She sighs again, strides out the door and shuts it behind her. Then there’s nothing but me, my thoughts, and my mother’s lingerin’ perfume to pass the hours.
***
“Up, sleepy head,” a voice says.
I crack open dry, crusty eyes to find Betsy sitting at my bedside. Her forehead’s damp and matching sweat rings circle both armpits, but at least she’s smiling.
“I’m awake,” I mumble, trying to shake the fog from my head. Why am I so groggy and thick-headed? Nessa’s druggin’ me. The first thing I need to do is get off the I.V.
When I look over, though, the I.V.’s gone, along with the catheter and the straps. I sit up, flexin’ my muscles. They feel thin and weak. All of me feels weak as a starved horse. I look down at my bandaged hand and begin to tear off the gauze.
“Oh,” Betsy moans, hands at her cheeks. “You shouldn’t be doing that. Never, never, never.” She reaches one pudgy hand out to stop me, but I bat it away. “Oh,” she moans again. “Michael!”
Heavy footsteps thud into the room. I whirl around, risin’ to meet Michael as he strides in. He’s one of the soldiers I saw trainin’ in the field—sand-colored uniform, buzzed haircut, heavy eyebrows, no-nonsense face. There’s a side arm in a holster under his left arm. My eyes flick to it.
“Uh-uh, mama’s boy.” His voice is gruff and humorless. He leans in so I can see the hunk of green stuck between his two front teeth. “You wanna go in a wheel chair, strapped in?”
I lock my jaw. “Do what you hafta do, army boy.”
“No, no, no.” Betsy steps between us and tugs on her pigtails angrily. “This isn’t what’s supposed to happen. You two can’t fight.” She turns wide eyes on me. “Clay will be a good baby. Won’t you, Clay?”
I glance at her face and note the crazy lingerin’ there. “I wanna see Ethan.”
“Then be a good boy,” Betsy says,
Where the hole used to be a neat cut now resides, crisscrossed with black stitches. The hole is gone.
“It’s not just cosmetic,” she says, her mouth pursed into a smile. “It’ll function almost like it did before…when it heals. You have some permanent nerve damage and scar tissue, numbness, but thankfully it was a small-caliber bullet. You’ll have your hand back, Clay. You might be able to shoot from the hip again.”
I stare into her face. “You… fixed me? Why?”
She begins wrappin’ my hand back up with a strange tenderness. “I can’t have my baby all banged up.” When her eyes find mine, they are soft, almost vulnerable. “I told you I wanted to say sorry. For all that I’ve done.”
I look down at my hand and back up to her face. “Bring me Riley and then we’ll talk.”
She frowns. There’s hate in her eyes. “That girl only wants to separate us.”
I shake my head. “No deal, then. I’m still plannin’ to kill you.”
I mean it, too. Hand or no hand. This woman is a danger to our world.
“What about the boy? I can arrange a visit with him.”
I swallow, thinkin’ of poor Ethan. “Bring him,” I say, tryin’ not to betray emotion.
She purses red lips. “I’ll have Betsy bring you to see him this afternoon.”
“What’s wrong with that girl?” I ask.
Nessa sighs. “I’m afraid she’s a little off.”
I study her face for the lie that must be lurkin’ there, but her expression is a stone wall. “I figured you fiddled with her brain.”
Nessa looks hurt. “You think I messed with that poor child’s head? Clay, have you such little regard for your mother?”
“Yes,” I say without hesitation.
She lays a hand on my cheek. I flinch. “My smart, distrustful son. I know I have to earn your trust.”
I keep my body rigid until she backs away. She walks to the doorway, but lingers there, watching me. I feel her eyes fumblin’ on me like Betsy’s hands.
“You look like your father when I met him,” she says, her voice wistful. “So handsome.” She sighs again, strides out the door and shuts it behind her. Then there’s nothing but me, my thoughts, and my mother’s lingerin’ perfume to pass the hours.
***
“Up, sleepy head,” a voice says.
I crack open dry, crusty eyes to find Betsy sitting at my bedside. Her forehead’s damp and matching sweat rings circle both armpits, but at least she’s smiling.
“I’m awake,” I mumble, trying to shake the fog from my head. Why am I so groggy and thick-headed? Nessa’s druggin’ me. The first thing I need to do is get off the I.V.
When I look over, though, the I.V.’s gone, along with the catheter and the straps. I sit up, flexin’ my muscles. They feel thin and weak. All of me feels weak as a starved horse. I look down at my bandaged hand and begin to tear off the gauze.
“Oh,” Betsy moans, hands at her cheeks. “You shouldn’t be doing that. Never, never, never.” She reaches one pudgy hand out to stop me, but I bat it away. “Oh,” she moans again. “Michael!”
Heavy footsteps thud into the room. I whirl around, risin’ to meet Michael as he strides in. He’s one of the soldiers I saw trainin’ in the field—sand-colored uniform, buzzed haircut, heavy eyebrows, no-nonsense face. There’s a side arm in a holster under his left arm. My eyes flick to it.
“Uh-uh, mama’s boy.” His voice is gruff and humorless. He leans in so I can see the hunk of green stuck between his two front teeth. “You wanna go in a wheel chair, strapped in?”
I lock my jaw. “Do what you hafta do, army boy.”
“No, no, no.” Betsy steps between us and tugs on her pigtails angrily. “This isn’t what’s supposed to happen. You two can’t fight.” She turns wide eyes on me. “Clay will be a good baby. Won’t you, Clay?”
I glance at her face and note the crazy lingerin’ there. “I wanna see Ethan.”
“Then be a good boy,” Betsy says,
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