TWENTY-EIGHT
My mother, who had spent the past three years begging me to leave Hunter, was not home when I got there. I had managed to forget that she was going to be in Antigua until I rang the front doorbell and discovered the sweet, moon-faced young woman who had been left in charge.
“Hi,” she said when she opened the door. “I'll bet you're Abra?” She held out a pale, plump hand bearing three silver occult rings. “I'm Pagan.”
“How did you know who I was?” But I already knew. Pagan had all the earmarks of a Piper LeFever groupie—clever eyes, interest in the supernatural, cat T-shirt.
“Your mother said you'd be dropping by to check on Pimpernell and a few of the other sick ones. She also mentioned that she wouldn't be surprised if the holidays brought out the worst in your husband this year.” The gray eyes were apologetic.
“Sounds like my mother. And, strangely enough, here I am. Is the guest bedroom free?”
“She said to take the master suite. I've just moved into the guest room.”
“There isn't another free room in the house? What about the green bedroom?”
Pagan shrugged. “Not fit for humans. I have a lot of musical equipment set up right now, but if you want me to move—”
“No, but thanks.”
My mother's huge, circular bed had been left strewn with duvets, newspapers, magazines, discarded clothing, jewelry, and cats. For some reason, most of the felines seemed to react badly to me, hissing and arching away. Only a little brown Burmese with a strange fungal growth on his face didn't seem fazed by my presence. He sharpened his claws on the headboard and watched me as I moved around the room.
It took me an hour to organize things and to strip the bed of the faintly musty-smelling sheets and blankets. Feeling like I had to make the effort to be festive, I put on the crushed velvet medieval dress my mother had bought for my birthday and went down to the kitchen. I had started a load of laundry in the kitchen and managed to find a casserole dish when Pagan knocked tentatively on the door.
“I hope I'm not disturbing—wow, you look great. What a dress!”
“My mother's idea. I don't suppose you feel like some anti-Thanksgiving dinner, do you, Pagan?”
“Actually, since you're here—I was going to go tomorrow for just a few hours, but since you are here—” The girl, whom I now realized was really no more than twenty, began to blush.
“Go on,” I said, throwing back the long, trailing sleeves of my gown to grate some green mold off the cheddar.
“I'll be back tomorrow afternoon to help with the cats.”
“Don't bother.” I looked up and smiled at the young girl, who clearly had somewhere better to be. “I can manage for a couple of days.” I placed the casserole in the preheated oven and closed the door.
Pagan's smile was radiant. “Oh, you are great. Thanks so much for this, I volunteered before Griff and I—”
“Go on before I change my mind.” And then, just as I heard the front door slam, I realized I hadn't asked for any instructions regarding the animals. I raced after Pagan, found out who needed close monitoring and who didn't eat dry food, and returned, only to discover I had neglected to put the grated cheese in the casserole. As there seemed to be no potholders, I used a towel to bring the pot down.
I was about to put the casserole back when the phone rang, but by the time I found the receiver under a pile of old bills whoever was calling had hung up. I returned to my dinner, and, in one of those priceless maneuvers you do when your mind is really a hundred miles away, I put my hands right on that metal dish, straight from the 450-degree oven. The pain was so surprising, I gasped and dropped the dish. I was so discombobulated that it took me a full moment to realize that my elegant medieval sleeves had just swept over the lit burner. My sleeves were on fire.
For a moment I just stared at my hands in their nimbus of flames, and then I screamed and beat at them, and finally I remembered to roll until the flames were out.
Hands. My hands. How badly were they—? Bad. Breathe slowly. Assess the damage. The adipose tissue was exposed; white fat bubbled over the blistered palms. No fabric melted that I could see, but a mess of charred tissue, blackened like bacon at the edges, and, worst of all, no pain. No pain meant serious trouble.
“Oh, God. Oh, Jesus. Help. Oh, Christ, somebody, help!” But the front door was closed, and my hands were in no shape to be opening doorknobs. Think, think. The phone. I knocked the receiver off the hood and bent down, trying to use my nose to dial 911. No good, buttons too small. Elbow? Worse. Concentrate, don't panic. I kicked off my shoes and jabbed with my big toe. Please, 911, please.
“911. What is your emergency?”
“Oh, God. I've burned my hands, third-degree burns, there's no one here.”
“Okay, stay calm now. Do you know your name?”
“Abra Barrow, the Beast Castle Animal Refuge.” My teeth were chattering.
“Good, I've got a unit coming. Are you feeling faint or dizzy?”
“No. No sign of shock yet, but … this is third-degree, full-thickness burns.”
“Okay, okay, stay calm. My name is Helen, Abra. Are you a doctor?”
“I'm a veterinarian.” Was a veterinarian. Oh, God, my hands, my hands.
“Good, okay, the unit is saying they are only three miles from you now. Is there anyone we can get to come to the hospital for you?”
Oh, God, who could they get? Not Hunter, not my mother, not my father. I had no one.
“Miss Barrow? Abra? Are you there? I asked if—”
“I don't know.” I started to cry.
“Don't worry, I'm sure there's someone. A friend, perhaps? Is there a friend who can meet you there?”
“Red Mallin.”
“Can you spell that so I can look up the number, Abra?”
“Red Mallin, Wildlife Removal Operator.” I heard the sound of footsteps. What was the operator's name? I couldn't remember. “I think they're here,” I said.
“All right then, Abra, you hold on, and I'll get that Red Mallin for you.”
The emergency medical technicians came in wearing white uniforms and huge black boots. There was one white and one black, just like in the TV programs. I looked into their young male faces and had the strangest desire to just close my eyes and surrender to their care. But I stayed upright. “I need an IV of lactated ringers,” I said to the black one. “Are you an EMT or a paramedic?”
“My name is Joe, Abra. Try to relax.” I stared at his hands as he worked over me.
“I need, I think I need a surgical debridement …”
“Don't worry, you're going to be fine,” said the white one. I wondered if I had insulted him by asking his partner if he was a paramedic first. And then something cool flowed through my veins and I closed my eyes.