56
Rachel
At first, nothing happened. Then, I jiggled the key in the lock. The door opened to reveal . . .
A length of pipe?
Pipe? I did not understand. It was old, rusted. I released the key with my throbbing hands. At first, it stuck in the door. Then, it fell, down, down so far. It landed on the floor without a sound, right next to Wyatt.
Below, the water kept rushing, just as it had before. The rhapsody still bloomed. The dissenters came closer. Nothing had changed, nothing. Nothing except that my beloved was dead, and it was all for naught. I had done nothing. I knew that, soon, the men would have their hands upon me, and I didn’t care. I didn’t care.
I looked at the old, rusted pipe below me, and I began to weep, weep for my lost love, my lost life, my lost everything.
And with that weeping, I remembered the blonde woman’s words. There is something else, something only you can do.
And, with that, I began to weep harder. But now, I fixed my weeping eyes right over that old, rusted pipe so that the tears fell directly inside.
And then, I was crying harder, so much harder, like my tears had become a sudden rain shower, and they fell inside that pipe.
A cry went up from the mob.
I looked down below me. The men who had been climbing toward me stopped their pursuit. Indeed, everyone below me seemed silent, frozen, all staring at one thing, at the rhapsody plants.
The flowers drooped, turning from blue to brown before my eyes. The rhapsody was wilting. It was as if my healing tears had sealed up its ability to accept water. It was dying.
And so was my Wyatt. If he was not dead already.
I knew what I had to do.
Now that the job had been done, the mobs of people were moving away, streaming away to the stairs. The rhapsody dead, they were leaving. The man who had been climbing the wall stopped in his tracks, knowing now it was useless. But I could not watch what happened. I knew what I had to do. I knew they would not help. I wanted scissors, but I only had a key. A key with a sharp side. I grabbed a big section of my hair and began to saw upon it with all my might, using the key. I could see below me that it reached nearly to the ground. I sawed and sawed, and as I did, I was crying, weeping for Wyatt. Little bits, then, finally, the whole braid of hair gave way under pressure from the key. It detached itself from my head. I pulled it up beside me. Part of it was still braided, from the car. The rest was not. From where it ended, I began to braid.
Below me, I heard a voice, Mama’s voice. “Rachel!”
I looked down. It was her. It was really her!
I kept braiding, but I shouted, “Is he alive?”
She heard what I said and rushed over to Wyatt. She touched his neck.
A moment later, she said, “Just barely.”
It was enough. But I had to go, had to go now.
I looped the hair around the railing that held the platform in place, then knotted it. It was not completely braided, but it hung to the bottom, beginning to unravel. It would have to do.
I tested the strength of the knot. I could not help Wyatt if I fell myself. When I was certain it would hold me, I grabbed the rope, first with one hand, then the other.
Then, as I had the first day we had met, I slid down it, to Wyatt.
Once down, I rushed toward him. I felt weak, spent. I knew that my strength was gone and I hoped that my other gift, the one gift I still needed, was not. I had counted on it.
I reached Wyatt. He was bleeding in so many places. Yet, I could tell that he was barely alive, and even though I had used so many tears, I found more.
My tears touched his flesh.