She finished washing, rinsing the cloth in the tub and then in clean water several times before she felt at least halfway decent, but not really clean. She didn’t know if she’d ever feel clean again. What she wanted at this point was a douche, but it wasn't likely Lance would happen to have one of those lying around. This was the best she could do in that regard.
She rinsed and towel dried her hair, breathing heavily from the exertion of the bath. After pulling a comb through the tangled mop several times, she saw a slight improvement in her appearance.
Brook sat on the lid of the commode and put on a soft blue flannel shirt. Next, she suppressed a smile at the huge pair of boxer shorts and the safety pin attached to the waistband. She slipped into a pair of gray sweats and tightened the drawstring, pulling the legs up over her knees so she could tend to her wounds. She found it difficult to care for the big cut on the back of her leg and the damage to the bottoms of her feet. After treating her accessible wounds she stopped, and rested.
She could hear Lance’s movements in the other room, pans being stirred, dishes clinking, and the tiny metal sounds of silverware being pulled from a drawer. These were homey familiar sounds in an unfamiliar environment, and she wondered about the man. He seemed so self-sufficient. Needing no one else, living out here in his rustic home, raising his animals, and hunting his own food.
The noise in the kitchen stopped and a moment later Lance’s voice came from outside the door. “Did you call?”
“Yes,” Brook said, wishing she didn’t need to ask for help but having no choice. “Can you help me with my leg and feet?”
“Of course. Are you ready for me to come in now?” Lance asked. After receiving an affirmative, he opened the door and entered.
He moved past Brook and reached into the tub, pulling the plug, and releasing the water to flow into gray- water storage. Turning, he saw a look of humiliation on her face. “What?”
“I didn’t know if I could just pull the plug. Everything is so different here. I’m not a slob, really.”
“I never thought you were. I figured it was just as you said.” He smiled gently. “Now, let me at those wounds.” The room was filled with his presence, which made Brook uneasy, but she fought to overcome the feeling.
Lance treated and bandaged her leg and then turned his attention to her feet. “I’m going to have to spend some time on these pretty soon. There’s still debris in some of the cuts and we need to get it out so you don’t get infected. But, for right now I’ll just apply some drawing salve and bandage them.” He followed his words with the deed, pulled down her pant legs and rolled them up so she wouldn’t trip on them, then he slipped a clean pair of socks over the bandages. “There, all set. Are you ready to go out?”
“Not quite yet.” She smiled a soft smile and he gave her knee a friendly pat, washed his hands, and left the room.
Brook sat on the edge of the tub, wondering how long the bath had taken. Her ability to track time was severely compromised. As far as she could determine, it had been about an hour. Her thoughts tumbled; how long had she been a captive? She thought it had been less than a week. It amazed her that it could take less than a week to forever alter the person she was. But then, she supposed, sometimes it took only a moment. Sadness pressed down on her spirit and she sighed as she stood.
Looking into the mirror, she worked the strands of hair into some semblance of a style with her fingers. She leaned over the basin, brushed her teeth, rinsed and spit. Some lip balm would feel good, she thought, and remembered she’d had some in her purse at one time. She realized with a shock that she hadn’t brought her purse into the bathroom with her and became anxious.
She opened the door and limped a few steps. Lance dropped what he was doing, and came to her side. Wordlessly, he supported her with an arm as he led her to the table where a feast awaited her. She clung to his sleeve as she lowered herself onto the bench seat, glancing over to the bed to make sure her bag was still there. It was.
Chapter 32
Lance and Brook talked as they ate. He was surprised at how the words kept rolling out of him. Lance hadn’t enjoyed a good conversation with anyone for longer than he could remember. He told Brook about fixing up the cabin, about his adventures in homesteading and raising animals, the general location of the cabin, and how long he had been there. He found she was easy to talk to. For her part, she welcomed the distraction from her inner thoughts.
“With your skills, you could easily find a job,” she said encouragingly. “I’m sure there are lots of employers who would be happy to hire you. You don’t have to live like this.”
He stared at her for a moment, realizing she had misunderstood his life entirely.
“I’m not out here because I have no other choice.” He smiled at her. “I know I might look like some crazy hermit down on his luck, but I actually chose this life. I love it here.”
“I’m sorry.” Her cheeks flushed. “I didn’t mean any offense.”
“It’s okay; none taken.” He was quick to ease her embarrassment. “It’s not the kind of life everyone would want. But it works for me. It’s better for me out here. I wasn’t very happy before I came here.”
“Why is that?” she asked tentatively. “If you don’t mind me asking.”
“I was somebody else back then. It’s kind of a long story.”
'Well, I’m not going anywhere. I have plenty of time to listen.”
Lance’s expression turned thoughtful. “I had a wife,” he said finally. “And I lost her.”
He had been a different person then, with a different name. As Sullivan Proctor, he had worked as a CPA for Boyd Wilkins, a large accounting firm where he was just another face in the break room, just another suit and tie in a cubicle. He had assumed he was happy. Ellen was still alive and he was moving up the corporate ladder, taking classes to advance his degree. They’d had the requisite three-bedroom, two-bath home in the suburbs with a patio for cooking out and a privacy-fenced yard where their eventual children would hopefully scamper. Sully to his wife and friends, Sullivan had been just another ordinary man living an ordinary life. Although he did not involve himself in politics, clubs, or causes, he thought of himself as an educated liberal-minded guy. He woke looking forward to each day and encountered relatively few rough waters on the ocean of his life. Until Ellen got sick, that is.
It was a stroke that got her. Out of the blue. Not the kind of stroke where a blood clot develops and makes its evil way into the skull, but severe hemorrhagic stroke. She bled out into her brain. He had found her unconscious on the treadmill, dressed in her exercise clothes. Having no idea how long she had lain there, or even what was wrong with her, his shaking fingers dialed 911. The moments and days that followed were a blur in his mind.
The fear and sorrow of Ellen’s illness drained him. As days turned to weeks, he juggled hospital visits with his work schedule and dropped out of school altogether. His interest in work waned, and he did the bare minimum to get by, always anxious to return to Ellen’s side and watch for any little sign of recovery. He thought of Ellen’s parents as the walking wounded. In the first days, they had hung by Ellen’s bedside, their eyes red but hopeful. His own parents moved in and out of the room like shadows, taking care of things at the house, silently doing the practical chores, their quiet strength reinforcing him, holding him up.
The medical staff was excellent at first, very understanding and caring. But as time went on, their attitudes shifted. They began dropping hints about “quality of life” and “letting go”. At some point, even Ellen’s parents began to look at him with pity when he spoke optimistically about Ellen’s eventual recovery. They said they had come to understand their Ellen was gone, that it was time to let go. But what it amounted to, in his opinion, was that they had given up hope, and he resented them for it.
It was with supposed kindness, and in a roundabout way, suggested to Sullivan by well-intentioned others that he was selfish, clinging to a woman whose life was technically over, a shell of a body kept alive by artificial means. But Sullivan would not give up. It seemed he was the only one who saw small signs of a living Ellen submerged inside the husk, struggling to return to him. The doctors called it wishful thinking on his part, her small movements nothing but normal mindless responses, mere reflexes. Sullivan disagreed. He simply
