Christian looks at me. I clear my throat and gesture that it’s his turn to use the bathroom. He nods and gets up and brushes past me, his movements stiff and jerky, like his muscles have only now caught up with all the hell he’s put them through in the last twenty-four hours.
I sit on the bed and listen to the shower running, to Web’s breathing, to the clock ticking on the nightstand, to my own stomach growling. After about five minutes the water stops abruptly, the shower curtain rips aside, hurried footsteps cross the bathroom floor, running, and then there’s the sound of the toilet lid banging and of Christian throwing up. I jump to my feet and go to the door, but I’m afraid to open it. He won’t want me to see this. I lay my hand on the smooth painted wood of the door frame and close my eyes as I hear him retch again, then groan.
I knock, lightly.
I’m okay, he says, but he is not okay. I’ve never felt him less okay.
I’m coming in, I say.
Give me a minute. The toilet flushes.
When I go in exactly sixty seconds later, he’s standing at the sink with a towel wrapped around his waist, brushing his teeth. He unwraps a glass from the tray on the counter and fills it with water, takes a swig and swishes it, spits.
His eyes when they meet mine in the mirror are ashamed.
Failure. He feels it, too.
I look away, inadvertently gazing down at his body, and that’s when I see the jagged wound in his side.
“It’s not as bad as it looks,” he says as I gasp. “But I probably shouldn’t have showered without tending to it first, because it’s opened up again.”
It doesn’t matter what he says—it’s bad, a deep nine-inch gash from the top of his left rib to his hip, black on the edges like the sorrow dagger burned him as it cut.
“We need to get you to a hospital,” I say.
He shakes his head. “And say what, exactly? That I was attacked by a pair of evil twins who cut me with a knife made of sadness?” He winces as I make him lean over the counter so I can get a better look. “It will heal. It should have closed already. I normally heal faster than this.”
“It’s not a normal cut.” I look up at him. “Can I try to fix it?”
“I was kind of hoping that you would.”
I have him sit on the edge of the counter, and I stand in front of him. My mouth is dry with sudden nerves, and I lick my lips and try to concentrate.
Focus.
Strip away everything, all the thoughts, the feelings, the silent accusations, and burrow down to my core. Forget what’s happened. What all I’ve failed to do. Just be.
Call the glory.
A few minutes later I glance up at Christian apologetically, sweat shining on my forehead. He rests his hand on my shoulder to help, to add his strength to mine, and I try again to bring the light.
Again, I fail.
Web wakes up and starts screaming like somebody poked him.
“I’m sorry,” I say to Christian.
“It’ll come back to you,” he says.
I wish I had his certainty. “We can’t leave the wound like this. This needs professional care.”
He shakes his head again. “If you can’t fix it with glory, we’ll have to do it the old-fashioned way. I’m sure they have a sewing kit around here somewhere.”
Now I’m the one who’s queasy. “Oh no. You should see a doctor.”
“You want to be a doctor, Clara,” he says. “How about you start now?”
After the hard stuff is done, he falls into a deep sleep, thanks in part to the little bottle of hotel whiskey he drank before I started sewing him up. I can’t help but feel that the world is ending, that this is just the first act of something horrible to come, and I curl up next to him.
I watch Web sleeping in his crib. His breathing seems labored and uneven, and it scares me. I lie on the bed on my stomach with my feet dangling over the side and observe his tiny chest moving up and down, afraid that it will suddenly stop, but it doesn’t. He keeps on breathing, and pretty soon, exhausted, I fall asleep.