Nightingale

Chapter 15 Healer

Bron waited for Olivia to answer his question, but she never did. That's all right, he told himself. I can be more patient than you.

Yet he worried about the consequences of her silence. They'd been attacked once already, and it was obvious that their enemies terrified Olivia. Couldn't she see that he needed to know more?

She drove them in silence as they passed the trailhead at White Rock. Olivia nodded off to the side. "That's where I go to practice the guitar sometimes," she said casually, jutting her chin toward some cliffs the color of eggshell. The valley between was spotted with sagebrush, yucca plants, and juniper trees, with a ridge from an old lava flow running down the valley.

She indicated a small warning sign. "All of this land is on the desert tortoise refuge. If you see one by the side of the road, don't pick them up. You'll get a fine."

"Have you ever seen one?"

"Oh, they're all over the place," she said. "They hibernate in the winter. Otherwise they come out to eat in the morning, before the heat of the day."

At that, Bron smiled. It meant that he'd have a good chance of spotting a tortoise.

"But if you pick one up," Olivia warned, "it will get scared and pee, and if it loses too much moisture... well, we live in the desert. Life here is fragile."

She fixed him a warning glance, and he fell silent. He knew that she was talking about more than tortoises.

Soon they reached the Intermountain Medical Facility. The hospital in Saint George was a new affair, backed by cliffs on the east side of the city. It was made of sand-colored rock to blend in with its background.

Galadriel was in Room 411, and when Bron and Olivia reached the room, Bron felt astonished to see how poorly the girl was doing.

She was strapped to her bed, her face contorted and staring blankly at the wall. A heart monitor beeped steadily, while a pair of catheters dripped fluids into her wrist. Her face was pale with shock, and her blue eyes seemed empty of life.

Galadriel's mother sat in a chair at her side. Mascara tracks showed that she'd been crying. She sobbed when she spotted Bron, then broke into fresh tears at the sight of Bron's white rose.

"You shouldn't have come," Marie Mercer said. There was just a hint of blame in her tone, as if this was Bron's fault.

Olivia gave her a hug. "We had to come, sweetie. We had to give you a break." She squeezed hard and asked, "How has Galadriel been?"

Bron held his white rose. He didn't see a vase to put it in.

Galadriel just stared at the wall, completely unblinking. Her chest didn't even move when she breathed. She looked like someone who has witnessed a tragic accident, and then given up on life.

Marie broke into tears. "There's no change. I don't know what could have done this to her. The hospital checked her with a rape kit. She came back clean. There are no marks, no bruises. It's like, like she's looking into the depths of hell. She quit babbling once we got here."

"So do you have any idea what could have caused this?" Olivia asked. Of course she wouldn't have a clue.

Marie pointedly looked away from Bron. Obviously, she suspected that he had something to do with it. In a momentary silence, the beep, beep, beep of the heart monitor seemed unnaturally loud. The smell of antiseptics couldn't hide a peculiar musty odor in the room, as if Galadriel had been lying here, rotting away for days. Bron suspected that the scent came from the muck at the pond.

"We don't know what's wrong exactly yet. The doctors think she's had some sort of psychic break, one that has thrown her into deep depression. She won't eat, won't drink. They've got her on fluids, and they've started her on painkillers and some other pills, serotonin reuptake inhibitors, but it might take days before they begin to have any effect."

Olivia smiled sympathetically, offered some comforting platitudes.

Marie had no idea what she was up against, Bron realized. If Olivia was right, modern medicine was powerless to help the girl.

For a moment, Olivia held Marie's hand reassuringly.

Marie nodded to Bron. "White," she said, nodding toward the rose. "It's the symbol of pure love, wholesome and unselfish."

Bron nodded, but he hadn't known that. Obviously Marie thought that he was being gallant, and he wondered what she would have thought if he'd brought another color—say the peach-colored roses by the back door. What meaning was attached to those? Would they say something crude, like "I want to hook up?"

"Thank you for bringing it," Marie said, as if she might burst into tears. "It's nice to know that she's loved—I mean, that someone else loves her besides me. I don't think she has gotten that through her thick head—just how much she's loved."

Bron smiled sheepishly just as a nurse came in, making her rounds. She checked the fluid levels in the I.V.s, and then jotted some notes on the chart at the foot of Galadriel's bed.

Even now, Galadriel looked beautiful. Not beautiful and seductive, as she had yesterday. Beautiful and tragic, Bron decided, like a victim of the Holocaust.

Marie was talking ... "move her up to the psych ward" ... but her voice came from far away.

The suction cups suddenly manifested at the ends of Bron's fingers. He was eager to get this over, and somehow the sight of Galadriel looking so helpless called to him.

The nurse was so busy, she didn't even notice, just left the room in a hurry. Marie Mercer was distracted, talking to Olivia. Down the hall, an old woman cried out in pain, while a nurse's call bell dinged.

Bron looked into Olivia's eyes. She'd noticed his sizraels. Olivia shook her head, just the tiniest movement, warning him to take control of himself.

She spoke to Marie Mercer, "Sweetie, why don't you go home and rest. You look positively worn out." She reached up as if to smooth a stray strand of Marie's long blond hair, and suddenly her sizraels popped out like claws. Olivia touched Marie's temple, and Marie said, "Oh, my gosh, I forgot to feed the horses this morning, and they didn't get fed last night at all. I have to go!"

With that, she grabbed her purse and pleaded, "Can you stay with Galadriel—just until I get back?"

"Of course," Olivia offered.

When she was gone, Bron accused, "You made her forget feeding the horses, didn't you?"

"Yes."

"Is it always that quick?" he asked.

"Pulling a simple memory? Yes, it can be done easily. She was just holding the memory short term. But training someone can take a long time, especially when you have to lay down a whole new skill. For those who can do it at all, it takes hours." She came around Bron and closed the door to the room, for greater privacy, then turned off the lights. "Go ahead," Olivia urged, "do it."

Bron winced at the unfortunate choice of words, yet he yearned to see if he really did have this power. The suction cups on his fingertips hardened into little ridges. He cautiously laid the white rose on Galadriel's med tray, and he reached out to take her face in his hands.

Her skin looked smooth and as luminous as porcelain. He pulled her head so that she was staring up into his eyes, but Bron could see no change in her expression, no sign of recognition. Her pupils were pinpricks, gazing off into eternity, as if she could see beyond him, beyond the room, beyond the atmosphere into space where galaxies whirled like pinwheels and universes grew ancient.

Instinct took over. Bron fumbled for an instant, trying to figure out where to place his fingers, but then he reached under her eyebrows with each thumb, careful not to touch her eyeballs. His fingers fanned out around her skull, moistened by the thin glaze of Galadriel's sweat, until his pinkie touched just below her ear.

Galadriel let out a low moan, as if in pain.

Then Bron just stood, holding her cranium in his hands as if he might crush it, or perhaps carry it away for safe keeping. He studied the helpless girl and didn't know what to do.

"Is something supposed to happen?" Bron asked.

"Give her your gift," Olivia said. She studied his face. He didn't understand. She shook her head impatiently. "You have to will it into her."

"I don't feel anything," Bron admitted. "I don't think that it's working."

Olivia came and stood beside him, observing. "What are you thinking about right now?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?" Olivia peered into his eyes. "Nothing at all?"

"Not really. I guess I'm just curious to see what happens."

"Nothingjust happens," Olivia explained. "You have to make it happen."

Bron glanced up to the clock on the wall. It read 5:23. He'd been standing there for two minutes.

"What are you feeling right now?" Olivia asked.

Bron shook his head, moistened his lips with his tongue. "Empty," he admitted.

"Don't you feel anything for her?" Olivia asked. "Warmth? Compassion? Lust? Even the tiniest bit? This isn't just a body that you're holding—it's a life. You're holding her life in your hands...."

Bron considered. "I feel... relieved," he admitted. "If she was aware and knew what was happening, she'd be screaming. Right now, it's like she's asleep."

"That's the opiates keeping her dazed," Olivia whispered. "Don't you want her to get better?"

"To tell the truth," he said solemnly, "I'm not sure."

At that instant, he saw a purple flash beneath his hands, and the heart monitor began to beep violently. Galadriel's back arched off the bed and she opened her mouth in a wordless scream.

Olivia launched herself across the table and shoved Bron backward, so that he fell against the door to the room's restroom. She shouted, "Stop it!"

"What?" Bron asked defensively.

"You were killing her!" Olivia whispered vehemently. "You can't do that: you can't put your fingers to someone's head and wish them harm, not unless you really want to do them harm!"

Bron stared in disbelief, shocked at the accusation. He felt confused, afraid that he'd fail. He felt guilty.

He hadn't meant to harm Galadriel. He'd just thought, I wish she had died.

Now that the damage was done, he didn't know how to undo it.

Everyone was always pushing him around. In the past few days, he'd been pulled a dozen directions at once. He snapped.

"I give up," he said. "I'm out of here!" He headed out the door, and Olivia was left standing in shock.

She rushed into the hall, grabbed his arm, and spun him around.

"What's going on?" she asked.

"I... can't do it," Bron said. "You want me to heal her, to wish her well, and I can't do that. It's a lie."

"We can't leave," Olivia said. "I promised her mother."

"That's right," Bron said,"you promised her mother!"

He turned to walk away. He wasn't sure where he would go. Certainly he wouldn't return to Olivia's house. He imagined walking to the freeway, standing on the on-ramp, and sticking out a thumb.

"Bron," she begged, "this is important!"

He knew that he couldn't do it. He'd never had a close relationship with anyone. He loved no one, least of all Galadriel.

He stood with his head tilted, jaw set, unwilling to move.

"Please," Olivia said. "When you look at Galadriel, you see a stupid teenager. When her mother looks at her, she's her only child. You want to play the guitar, have people think that you're great. But if you miss this chance, nothing else that you do in life will ever matter. You'll never. Be. Great."

He thought for a long minute. He was afraid of failing. He was afraid of Galadriel.

Deep in his heart, though, he realized that what worried him most was that Olivia might be right about him. What if he had been bred to be cold and cruel? What if his emptiness, his lack of compassion, was like... having an amputated leg, a missing limb?

Shouldn't I fight against it? he wondered. If someone tried to make me into a merciless killer, shouldn't I prove them wrong?

That bothered him more than anything.

He returned to Galadriel's bedside.

"Let me help," Olivia suggested.

Olivia stood at his back. Galadriel kept gasping, and now she trembled over the length of her body. At any moment, Bron expected a handful of doctors to rush in with a crash cart. He worried that Galadriel was having a heart attack, but when he looked up at the monitor, Galadriel's heart seemed to be beating evenly.

"Try it again," Olivia said. She tried to hide some of the disappointment in her voice, and even some of the fear. "Try it again, but think only warm feelings for her. You have to love her, wish her well, with your whole soul. It's like, it's like you have this fire in your chest, a burning ember, and you have to will it out of you, will it into her, so that she can feel its warmth. Do you think you can do that?"

"I'll try," Bron said. He calmed himself, drew a deep breath, reached down, and took Galadriel's face in his hands.

He shook his head, gritted his teeth. Her skin felt surprisingly cold and moist, reptilian. He recalled a snake that he'd found under a board when he was a kid—a big king snake the color of a rattler, as cold as rubber on a cool day.

"What are you thinking?" Olivia asked.

"I was thinking that she feels cold," Bron said. "Like a snake, when you pick it up in the winter. It's barely alive."

"What do you feel for her? Compassion?"

"Nothing," Bron admitted. "I don't like her."

"You don't know her well enough to make that decision," Olivia suggested. "You're afraid of her, and we tend to try to destroy people we fear. But what if there is a side to her that you haven't seen? She was trying to impress you by showing how wild and reckless she could be, but there's more to her than that. You could help her become a better person. If only she had a little more ambition, if only she could dream. It's our dreams that shape us, all of our hopes and desires...."

Bron closed his eyes, shut out the lights of the room, the sound.

"Dreams shape us," Olivia whispered. "We come into the world as infants, empty of purpose and thought, and someday a dream comes along and gives our life a direction, a purpose. Everyone's dream is different. Some dream of loving, or being loved. Some dream of fame or glory. Others dream only of being of service to the world.

"Could you love this girl," Olivia asked, "if she found a purpose for life?"

He wondered at that. Right now, Galadriel's life was a waste, a bore. He wondered if he really could change that.

I don't have that kind of power, Bron thought.

"I feel like I'm just standing here," Bron whispered. "Nothing is happening."

Olivia sighed. "Here," she said. "Maybe I can help." She walked behind him and put her arms up over his shoulders, so that her hands touched his face. He felt her warmth as her body leaned into his back.

A memory flared.

Suddenly he was transported back in time. Bron found himself as a child, standing upon a bridge over a roaring river. He was cold, and shivering. His butt stung from the spanking that Mr. Golper had given him. A kitten meowed plaintively in its bag, floating in the river, as the current carried it downstream.

Mr. Golper pulled at Bron's hand, dragging him toward the car, but Bron fought and turned to see if his kitten was still alive.

Something changed. His memory of events seemed to twist.

Suddenly the bag sprang open, and the kitten's head popped up in the water. It meowed plaintively as it tried to swim to shore, the fur of its head looking slick and black. Its tiny white paws lashed at the waves.

Swim! Bron cried in his memory. You can do it!

Bron tried to stay for a moment, hoping that the kitten would escape.

Mr. Golper whirled in anger, lashing out at a willful child. "Come on!" he said. "Let's go. Live or die, that kitten is none of our affair."

But Bron wanted it to live. With his whole soul he cried out, "Boots! Come on!"

Mr. Golper jerked Bron's arm, pulled him away.

In his imagination, the kitten was swimming blindly against the current, borne downstream toward rocks and white rooster-tails of foam.

Something inside Bron broke.

A stone seemed to erupt from Bron's chest, as if it tore free. Bron staggered backward, winded, and stared at his chest, as if perhaps the Alien had burst out. He was in the hospital room, blinking.

Purple sparks lashed out of his hands, flashed and popped around Galadriel's head. She gasped, and her eyes flew wide. She let out a strangled cry and rose up for an instant, clutching at Bron. She grabbed his shirt, and then fainted.

Bron waited to make sure that she really was out, then Olivia invited, "Come, sit down."

He sat on the couch with her beside the bed, so exhausted he wasn't sure he could stand any longer. He bit his lip, brooding. For a long moment, he said nothing, then at last blurted, "You screwed with my memories!"

"Only a little," Olivia said.

"Could you have been any more obvious in your manipulation?"

"Not if I tried," Olivia said. "You still remember what really happened that day. I didn't take that away from you. I didn't try to insert new memories in your sleep. I only showed you a possibility, one that you had never imagined."

"What do you mean?"

"When you left the bridge," she tried to explain, "the bag was floating away. You've always believed that the kitten drowned, and perhaps it did. Probably, it did. But maybe it escaped. It could have fought its way free and climbed ashore downstream. It happens every day. Cats are surprisingly resilient. Even now it might be living with some family who loves it."

Bron fell silent, considering the possibility, and he remained quiet even after Marie Mercer returned.

They said goodbye, with Galadriel sleeping peacefully, her face pale and breathing slowed from sedatives.

Bron remained subdued as they drove toward home, with clouds growing black over the red mountains. He closed his eyes, weary to the bone.

He felt like that kitten, tossed into dangerous currents, bound by conventions and responsibilities. There was no solid earth beneath his feet, and he was beginning to feel desperate.

Perhaps he too could get free.