Quillan closed his eyes. He must be more confused than he thought. Something wet dabbed his lips, and he sucked before he realized what he was doing. It was an automatic motion, something from the fog he’d climbed out of.
“Are you in pain?”
Quillan didn’t want to probe that question. “Where am I?”
“Dr. DiGratia’s treatment room. Do you remember anything?”
Quillan frowned. Dr. DiGratia—Carina’s father? He didn’t understand. But it hurt to think. It hurt to breathe. And he still couldn’t move. Wait . . . one leg seemed to respond. His left.
“Don’t do that. You need to be very still. You’ve had a delicate surgery.
Well, more than that, but that’s most fragile at the moment.”
Yes, Quillan felt fragile. His throbbing right leg was completely stiff; he could do nothing with it at all, and the hip pained him sharply. His right arm also seemed stiff, and both were bound against his chest. He tried to lift his head to see down his body. It was more than he could manage. He couldn’t remember ever feeling so weak, so helpless. He swallowed, wishing desperately for water.
As though Vittorio had read his mind he brought a glass and a spoon. “Let this run down the side of your tongue so you don’t choke.”
Quillan took the water like a baby, then closed his eyes again, too exhausted to wonder anymore. After a time, he heard two voices conversing, the same he’d heard before. Again they spoke Italian. He—awake a moment. Yes—asked where—so many of the words Quillan hadn’t learned yet. The other voice was deeper. Dr. DiGratia’s. We will see.
Quillan felt hands near his throat. Fingers probed along the collarbone. Quillan remembered. He had felt it break, heard it snap when he fell, before the wagon landed on top of him. He winced when the fingers found the spot, then forced his mind to clear. The hand stopped probing and reached for the edge of the sheet. With a tiny motion, Quillan gripped the wrist and opened his eyes.
Startled, the doctor looked at him. Their gaze locked. Quillan glared, or thought he did. He wasn’t sure his face obeyed, but the doctor seemed to get the message.
“You can relax. I’m only going to bathe you.”
Quillan maintained his grip. “No, you’re not.”
“Cleanliness is essential to recovery.” With his other hand, Dr.
DiGratia folded the sheet down across Quillan’s chest.
Feeling exposed and helpless, Quillan tightened the squeeze on the man’s wrist, though it sent aching throbs up his arm and across his shoulder to his neck. “I’ll wash myself.”
“Will you? Which hand will you use?” The doctor’s frank stare sent panic through him.
Quillan stared down his chest: the right arm trapped in plaster, the left bound up across his chest to the wrist. He had only movement enough to grab the doctor’s hand when it passed from his shoulder to his chest. Sudden claustrophobic panic choked up. He tried to sit but couldn’t, feeling the band strapped across his ribs. His legs were immobile, and one felt stiff as a log. An indistinguishable pain grew inside him. He felt like a trapped animal. “What’s wrong with me?”
“It would be shorter to name what’s not.” Dr. DiGratia folded the sheet again, exposing his belly. Quillan tensed. The air of the room was warm, but his flesh quivered. Vittorio came over with a bowl of scented water. Quillan sniffed.
“It’s arnica for bruising.” Dr. DiGratia said, gently working a bandage loose from the lower right side of Quillan’s abdomen.
Quillan recognized the source of burning pain, although it seemed to penetrate all through him. What had happened there? Something worse than anything he’d known before.
“Laudanum, I think, Vittorio.”
“No.” Quillan shook his head, clenching his teeth, though the thought of dulling the pain was hypnotic.
The doctor raised his brows, but Quillan was not about to have his senses lulled again, no matter how much it hurt. He wasn’t sure why he’d been put into the care of Carina’s father, but he knew enough not to lose his wits again. It would be a simple thing for Dr. DiGratia to remove him permanently from Carina’s life.
“It’s not for pain only. We must keep the intestine relaxed, allow the surgery to heal.” The doctor nodded to Vittorio, who set the aromatic bowl on the table beside the doctor and prepared the opium tincture.
Surgery on his intestine? And he was alive to protest? Dr. DiGratia must be as skilled as Carina claimed. That brought scant comfort.
The doctor soaked a cloth in the bowl and wrung it out, then began swabbing Quillan’s skin. “Your fever broke last night. Do you remember the delirium?”
Delirium. How did one remember delirium? But Quillan did have a vague sense of thrashing, reliving the explosion, the crushing pain of the wagon upon him as it began to burn. Crying out for his horses. He wondered now where they were. Had someone cared for them?
“Once the perspiration began, I guessed you would come out of your stupor. But now I must wash the perspiration away so it does not putrefy your wounds.” The doctor continued to swab him with the warm cloth.
Cringing inside, Quillan resisted the comfort of that warm swabbing. He couldn’t remember ever being touched in a healing, nurturing way, except for Carina. Where was she? He wanted to ask, but he feared she had been locked in some corner of the mansion, as far from him as possible.
Vittorio brought the tincture of opium.
Dr. DiGratia unfastened the strap across Quillan’s ribs. “Help me get his back first.” They raised him only enough to rub his back with the warm cloth, then wipe it dry and lay him back down.
Quillan’s ribs shot with pain, but they were nothing to the throbbing wound in his abdomen and the muscles surrounding it. The doctor raised quizzical brows. “Now you will accept your medicine?”
Awareness of the pain grew until it sapped his thought, his will. Quillan closed his eyes and nodded.
“I thought as much. Vittorio.”
Again Vittorio spooned the liquid into the side of his mouth. Quillan swallowed, lulled into a false complacency that evaporated the moment Dr. DiGratia lowered the sheet. Humiliated and fiercely resentful, he lay still while the rest of him was cleaned. Had he ever felt so stripped and vulnerable? God, what are you doing? Only the image of Christ likewise stripped and humiliated kept him from kicking with his one good leg. That, and the weakness that again overcame his fury.
TWENTY-FOUR
No horror terrifies the soul, like rendering the flesh unwhole; Poor feeble spirit tethered by a mangled man too dense to die.
—Quillan