She spoke, but Mortimer couldn’t understand. Maybe it was Latin. Ancient angel language.
What is it, little angel? Speak to me in your holy tongue.
“I asked if you wanted some soup,” the woman said.
Mortimer propped himself up on one elbow, rubbed a knuckle into his eyes. He lay in bed. Clean sheets. He looked around the room. Almost like a hospital room but softer, less sterile, flowered curtains, personal belongings, books and things spread about.
He looked at the woman, who was young and fresh faced. No more than twenty. She wore clean white pajamas. No, not pajamas. Hospital scrubs.
“Where am I?”
“Saint Sebastian’s of the Woods,” she said, her voice soothing, calm.
A hospital, thought Mortimer, or some sort of clinic. Thank God. He’d been found, or some good Samaritan had brought him. He flirted with the brief fantasy that the past nine years had all been a coma delusion, but that was going too far.
The room’s heavy curtains were drawn. The light came from a bulb in an overhead fixture.
His many cuts and scrapes had been cleaned. A bandage over a deeper slash under his left eye. A fresh bandage on his pinkie stump. He’d been bathed and wore a clean hospital gown. He ran a hand down the soft cotton.
“Your clothes are in the washing machine,” she said.
Washing machine. The words were almost alien to him. He remembered his first washer and dryer, a gift from Anne’s parents. It seemed the ultimate luxury when they no longer had to make those weekly trips to the Laundromat.
“Who are you?”
“Ruth. Who are you?”
“Mortimer. How did you find me?”
“Not me,” Ruth said. “Mother Lola. She said it was fate to find you just in time.”
How far had Mortimer fled in his blind panic? Five miles? More maybe. He remembered being dizzy, pressing on. He didn’t remember finally collapsing but figured he must have dropped from exhaustion.
“Did she find anyone else? I was with some other people.”
She shook her head. “Just you.”
Mortimer felt a pang of regret. He wondered if he’d see Bill again. Found that he hoped he would. The cowboy was the closest thing Mortimer had to a friend.
“It’s mushroom soup,” Ruth prompted.
He was hungry, famished in fact. “Okay.”
She smiled, childlike, as if she’d accomplished something by getting him to eat. “I’ll be right back.” She left, closed the door behind her.
He sat up, arranged his pillows.
Another woman brought a tray with his soup. She was older, sagging white skin and frightened brown eyes. She approached tentatively, set the tray gently on his lap.
“Thanks.”
She gasped, jerked back.
“It’s okay,” Mortimer said. “I didn’t mean to startle-”
She yelped and ran from the room, waving her hands in the air.
Mortimer blinked. “What the fuck?”
He shrugged and picked up the spoon, filled his mouth with mushroom soup. He spooned fast and slurped. In three minutes, he’d finished the whole bowl. He belched and wiped his mouth on a white cloth napkin.
Ruth entered, smiled at the empty bowl. “Oh, my.”
“I was hungry.”
She held a glass and handed it to him. Water. He drank. It was cool and clean.
Ruth asked, “Is there anything I can get you? Anything you need?”
“I’m trying to think of what to ask,” Mortimer said. “Where is this place?”
She frowned. Not angry. A little kid confused. “I told you. Saint Sebastian’s of the Woods.”
He laughed. “But where is that? I know we’re south of Evansville, but I don’t know how far.”
She offered a blank look in return.
“I was on my way to Chattanooga.”
One of her eyebrows went up. “I’ve heard of that town.”
“Uh…maybe I’d better talk to…who did you say was in charge?”
