A Lady Under Siege

22

Sylvanne sat on her bed while Thomas paced her room. He’d been speaking for some time about his wife, most especially the history of her illness. “She suffered no convulsions, or twitching or spasms to serve as signposts of what was to come. No, it was just a gradual malaise, a sickly cough such as anyone might have in the winter season, only this one lingering into spring, and growing more bold with the lengthening days. Her pulse weakened till she could scarcely rise from her bed in the morning, and lay there much of the day. Some days, by sheer strength of will, she would pull herself to her feet, unsteady as a newborn foal, and make her way to the chapel for prayers.”

Sylvanne tried to distract herself from his words, for she feared that such a sad story might arouse sympathy within her, and weaken her resolve. She encouraged her own mind to wander back to her former life, well before the siege, when she and Gerald had been newlyweds, when he had loved her keenly. He had written poetry for her, not only before they were married, but afterward as well, in fact the later poems became even more ardent and explicit in describing her charms, because by then he’d gained intimate and detailed knowledge of them. How she wished she had committed some of his poems to memory, for she knew not what had become of them in the siege. She hated herself for being able to recall only a handful of random lines in full, for it made it all seem so wasted, as if Gerald, the poems, her former life, none of it had ever really existed. She was lost in such thoughts when Thomas, in his pacing, stopped and stood directly before her, mouthing words she barely heard.

“The soup and the vegetables are working wonders,” he said. “And now that we have ceased to open her arm for bloodletting, the infection grows less livid. The oranges I expect to arrive before dark tonight. If not, then tomorrow.”

Sylvanne turned away from him and looked out the window. “Look at me when I speak to you,” Thomas ordered her. “I need to be sure this is heard. There’s been such vast improvement already, I wish there was some way I could thank you. I am of course addressing Meghan with these words. There’s an unreality to it, for although I address myself to someone who has already proven herself helpful, sweet, and kind, yet I speak these heartfelt words of thanks to the sullen face of one who can’t bear to look upon me.”

Sylvanne met his eyes. “Why should I look upon you, when you speak not to me, but some imaginary creature?”

“You have a point,” Thomas said. In softer tone he continued, “It’s my mistake—I should know by now not to expect much from you in the way of sympathy. I wish you would be helpful. Come along now Sylvanne, I wish to show my daughter again to the woman Meghan, who dwells inside you. Come, we’ll go see Daphne now.”

Sylvanne made no effort to get up.

“Come.”

“No.”

“Dear Meghan,” said Thomas, exasperation in his voice, “Forgive me if I resort to driving this uncooperative lady like a beast of the field. Know that my intentions are pure. Grant me one moment.”

He left the room only briefly, then came striding back through the door straight to Sylvanne on the bed. He carried a fresh-cut switch in his hand, a whip suitable for herding cattle or goats, and without hesitation he slapped it down hard on the table next to the bed, so that a pewter goblet tumbled and fell to the floor. Sylvanne involuntarily jumped to her feet.

“You’re a bastard,” she spat.

“I’ll do whatever it takes to save my daughter,” he told her. “If you stand in the way of that, you will suffer. Do you understand? Now. Do I need shackle you, and drag you there, or will you walk beside me?”

Sylvanne stood and walked toward the door. “This must be what hell is like,” she said wearily. “A place where all action is coerced by threat.”

DAPHNE WAS FEELING MUCH better—she was sitting up on her bed, knitting with raw wool, attended to by a servant girl named Beth. As Thomas and Sylvanne entered she called out brightly, “Daddy, I’m knitting you a winter scarf.”

“Wonderful,” said Thomas. “How has she been?”

“Fine, Sir,” answered Beth. “Her fingers are much more nimble than my own, and she never drops a stitch.”

“What colour shall we dye it?” Daphne asked excitedly. “Shall we use beetroot to make it red?”

“I prefer a nice green,” said the servant girl. “It’s a colour not seen enough in winter.”

Thomas leaned forward to give Daphne a kiss. “Red suits me fine,” he said. “Red as the blush in your rosy cheeks, my love.” But the smile on his face quickly disappeared, for Daphne began to cough violently. Sitting on the bed, he took her in his arms to comfort her, holding her until the cough subsided. “There there, my darling, you’ve overdone it for one day,” he said softly. “We can’t expect you to be fiddle-fit on a few days’ good soup. Full health will take some time.” He told Beth to fetch a drink of water, which he brought carefully to his daughter’s lips. Then he turned to address Sylvanne.

“You can clearly see she’s looking so much better, and it’s all down to you, Meghan. I don’t know how to repay you. Words of gratitude are inadequate to the soaring feeling that has filled my heart these past days. I wish I could embrace you, but the woman who stands before me will have none of that, I’m certain.”

“For once you know my feelings,” Sylvanne said.

“I’ll make do with embracing my darling daughter, who needs love along with her vegetables.” He tenderly took Daphne in his arms.

“Thank you Daddy,” she sighed. “It feels so nice.”

“Poor dear,” he worried. “You’re so light and thin. As if made of feathers, not flesh and bone and skin.” He held her at arm’s length and looked searchingly into her eyes. “Promise us you’ll get better.”

“I want to,” she said, her voice a whisper.

“I’m glad. Keep wanting.”

Daphne glanced over her father’s shoulder and met Sylvanne’s eyes. She took a sudden fright, chilled by the hostile glare that was returned to her.

“Why does she stare at me so coldly?” she whispered in her father’s ear.

“Don’t be frightened, my dear. There is someone who cares about you very much, inside her. Very much. She’s hidden from sight, but she is there.”

“I wish I could see her.”

“She sees you, and that is what matters. Trust me, darling. She is there.”

23

Betsy woke in the middle of the night to the angry wail of a car alarm. She parted the blinds to peek down at the street below and recognized Derek’s beat up old two-seat sports car, screeching back and forth to squeeze into a tight spot between two SUVs. The one in front had been bumped—aglow with blinking orange parking lights, it blared an angry cycle of blips, whoops and wails to wake the dead.

Derek’s car lurched one last time and settled in place. Betsy saw him stumble from the driver’s seat, slam the door behind him and stagger toward the still-screaming SUV. With his palms squished protectively against his ears, he kicked ineffectually at the back bumper a few times. Meanwhile from Derek’s car a woman emerged and sauntered over to him, a little unsteady on high heels. Betsy couldn’t make it out, but whatever they said to each other made them laugh. Then the woman stepped up and laid her hands on the SUV’s sun roof, and in that very instant it stopped screaming, and for a moment the dark deserted street returned to an almost spooky calm.

“You’ve got the magic touch,” Derek whooped gleefully. As she stepped to the curb, he held out a hand, and when she took it he pulled her to him, kissing her so roughly the two of them nearly tumbled.

“Careful,” she playfully scolded him. “Not out here, let’s get inside where it’s private.”

“I can’t wait to get inside,” Derek murmured, and the woman said something back Betsy couldn’t catch. She watched as Derek led her to his door, and heard it slam shut behind them. She stared at the shadows of tree branches swaying on the street for a moment before she lay back down to sleep.

AT NOON DEREK WAS sitting at his picnic table in a threadbare housecoat, the Saturday Globe and Mail spread before him, smoking a cigarette and drinking coffee from a chipped mug. Betsy’s head appeared over the top of the fence, looking down on him like a mischievous angel.

“Is that your breakfast—coffee and a cigarette?” she asked.

“No. Coffee and a cigarette is what’s popularly known as a whore’s breakfast,” he answered irritably. “Throwing in a newspaper elevates it to an intellectual’s breakfast.”

In a singsong Betsy asked, “How was your Friday night?”

“If you want to be my friend, you need to learn something: Don’t bug me when I’m reading the morning paper.”

“I saw you with someone last night,” Betsy said teasingly. “Is that your girlfriend?”

“Did you hear what I just said?” Derek scowled.

“Is she still inside?”

“No. She turned out to be a head case and I kicked her out. Didn’t you hear the yelling?”

“You kicked her out? In the night time?”

“Screw off, little girl,” Derek muttered. “You hear me? Get lost. I’m sick of looking at you.”

Betsy’s mouth fell open, and the tiny gasp that came from it was the sound of her heart shattering. She dropped from sight behind the fence; seconds later Derek saw her scuttle up the steps to her deck and dash tearfully inside the house. He felt a pang of remorse, and almost called out to her, but in his hung-over mind the urge to apologize was trumped by a fierce desire for peace and quiet, caffeine and nicotine.

AN HOUR LATER HE was still in his housecoat, stalemated against a brutal hangover, stretched out atop the picnic table using his rolled up newspaper as a pillow, snoozing in the sun.

“Hello Derek. Are you awake?”

He opened his eyes and saw Meghan looking at him, from the exact spot Betsy had occupied earlier.

“First the daughter, now mommy dearest,” he muttered darkly, shielding his eyes with the crook of his elbow.

“She doesn’t need to be verbally abused on a Saturday morning.”

“Is that what I did?”

“From what she told me, yes you did. I have enough to worry about without you adding to it.”

Squinting in the sunlight, Derek dragged himself to a sitting position, tugging at his housecoat to keep his privates covered. Meghan caught a glimpse of his thigh and glanced away quickly to avoid having to acknowledge that something might have briefly been on display. Glancing down, Derek satisfied himself that he was decent, then fumbled for a cigarette.

“Here’s my theory of worry, yours to take away at no charge,” he told her. “Physically, we humans are hardly more evolved than our mammalian brethren, but mentally, through some fluke of evolution, we’ve developed a massive consciousness, which compels us to build elaborate empires of worry in our minds. Upon death, like our physical bodies, these worries dissolve into maggot food. Why worry about maggot food?”

“I’m not. I’m worried about my daughter.”

“Are you?”

“Yes.”

He took a deep drag on his cigarette. “Don’t you think your lady under siege is an appropriate metaphor for your own life?”

“I already have a therapist, thank you. She made the same observation, but I’d already thought of it myself. She at least believes me when I tell her what I’ve experienced.”

“She’s paid to dole out sympathy. Or pretend to.”

“Maybe I should pay you then,” Meghan said sharply. “I suppose I should be grateful you’re willing to listen to me, that you haven’t told me to get lost. But it would be so much easier if I thought you believed me.”

“What difference would it make if I did?”

“It would help me a lot. I could pass information to Thomas without you getting all strange about it, and letting me know by smirks and grimaces that you think I’m a freak.”

“This Thomas, what is he like? He looks just like me, correct?”

“His face is the same, but he’s better groomed. He holds himself well. He’s very fit—he spends much of his time in training, for jousts and warfare. So he gets lots and lots of hard exercise. And there’s no junk food in his diet, it’s pretty much coarse bread and meat, from what I’ve seen. So yes, he’s like you, but in better shape, and better turned out. Super-fit people are never slobby, it seems.”

Derek sucked in his paunch and sat up straighter on the picnic table. “I’m actually in pretty good shape for a man of thirty-eight,” he said.

“If you say so,” Meghan answered. “Now if you don’t mind, I need to say a few things to Thomas.”

“As if I could stop you. Round two.”

“All right then. First off, Thomas, I’ve been doing research into natural antibiotics. Those are plants that might help heal Daphne’s arm where that surgeon’s been hacking at it. To help kill any infection there, vinegar and lavender oil are strongly antiseptic. They should be used when cleaning it, although I’m sure they’ll sting. Thyme and tarragon are good in her soup, and onion and garlic too. I was going to suggest myrrh, the same stuff the Wise Men brought to baby Jesus—it’s a tree sap with wonderful antibacterial properties, but it would have to come from the Middle East and I doubt you’d be able to get it. Now secondly, I have a theory, based largely on the sound of that cough of hers, that Daphne might have a lung disease called tuberculosis. The most obvious symptom of it is night sweats. So I’m asking you: does she perspire a lot in her sleep? If she wakes soaked in sweat I feel we’re halfway to a diagnosis.”

“I’ll make sure he gets the message,” Derek assured her. “Maybe I’ll sing a little song for him about tuberculosis—rhyme it with psychosis.”

“Please don’t say things like that. It’s not helpful.”

“It’s my nature,” he said. “I’m just messing with you. I do have some sympathy—I may not believe what you tell me, but I believe you believe it. I don’t doubt your sincerity.”

“Right. It’s my sanity you wonder about.”

“Since you put it that way, yes.”

“I have an idea,” she said. “I’m going to ask Thomas something. Thomas, I need to convince Derek here that I’m not mentally ill, and I think there’s a way you can help me. Can you please think of some really private, obscure thing you know about him? Something you’ve observed from being in Derek’s head, something no one else could possibly know? Please, share it with Sylvanne, and I’ll hear it, and then come back to Derek with the evidence, with rock-solid proof, and then he’ll finally have to believe me that there is, in fact, a Thomas in his mind.”

Derek thought a moment. “Thomas, listen up. Porn habits are off limits, bud.”

“Please. That’s the last thing I want to hear about,” Meghan sighed. “I’m fully aware of all the deviant crap that clogs the internet, and if you’re looking at it you’re just one in a billion, apparently. That’s not what I want Thomas to tell us. I’m hoping for something more personal, something absolutely unique to you.”

“If he’s in there, and truly the gentleman you describe, he’ll respect any real secrets I have, and not go blabbing them.”

“His goal is to cure his daughter,” Meghan said. “He’ll do whatever it takes. This could be the swift kick we need to get you motivated to help us save a child. So Thomas, please do it. Give me something good from the private world of Derek.”