respective jobs in their supporting roles…
…And then there’s Rose.
If Dr. Gideon Box is a ten on the weirdness scale, his assisting nurse, Rose, is off the charts. Don’t get me wrong, she doesn’t act weird. Nor does she look weird. In fact, she’s incredibly beautiful. So beautiful I catch myself constantly staring at her.
It’s not infatuation.
It’s fascination.
She’s beautiful in a Walt Disney/Snow White sort of way, meaning her hair is jet black, her skin impossibly white, and her lips as red as rose petals. While she can’t be more than thirty, when she looks at me, I feel a grandmother’s love washing over me. I feel better in her presence, and I’m reminded of a young woman I met in St. Alban’s Beach, Florida, who could take away your pain by standing near you.
Libby Vail.
Here’s the weird part: just as I was thinking about Libby Vail, Rose says, “Donovan. Have you ever been to St. Alban’s Beach, in Florida?”
“Huh?”
“You should check it out. I think you’d like it there.”
“Shouldn’t you be concentrating on Callie?”
“I work best when I talk.”
“Why do you think I’d like St. Alban’s Beach?”
“Your roots are there.”
“What roots?”
“Ever heard of the pirate, Jack Hawley?”
“No.”
“What’s it been, three hundred years? Where does the time go?”
She smiles. “You used to look just like him.”
Dr. P. and I exchange a look.
“How do you know what Donovan used to look like?” Dr. P. says.
“How do you know what Jack Hawley used to look like?” I say.
“He was your ancestor,” Rose says.
“Of course he was.”
She laughs.
“What?”
“You’re just like him. No wonder Callie loves you.”
I frown. “I’m just like a pirate? From three hundred years ago?”
She looks up, smiles, and there it goes again-grandmother’s love.
“I used to climb onto a beam in George Stout’s store and jump off, daring you to catch me.”
“You dared
“Jack Hawley.”
“The pirate.”
“Yes.”
She smiles again.
Weird.
In a beautiful, Snow White, loving grandmother sort of way.
“We’re done here,” Dr. Box says. “Close.”
“What? You can’t possibly be finished,” I say.
“Why not?”
“We’ve been here ten minutes.”
“Look at the wall clock.”
I do.
According to the clock, we’ve been here ninety minutes.
I think about what Rose said earlier.
52.
WE’RE IN THE recovery room. Callie’s awake, on her side, slightly elevated. There are drainage tubes in her back. Rose is helping her drink some sort of smelly tea through a straw.
“What is it?” Callie asks. “Skunk cabbage?”
“Birch bark,” Rose says.
She looks at me and says, “Like your great-great-grandfather used to drink.”
“Who, the pirate?”
I wink at Callie.
Rose says, “Emmett Love.”
“Who?”
Rose touches my shoulder, and my mind feels like it’s flooded with images. Horses, guns, Indians-every western movie or TV show I’ve ever seen, I think.
Except in all those westerns I watched as a kid I don’t remember seeing a dancing bear.
“Look up these names,” Rose says. “You come from special stock.”
“Right.”
She suddenly flashes a stern look.
“Don’t squander your heritage, Donovan.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You’re beautiful, Callie,” Rose says.
“You’re the pretty one,” Callie says.
“I do what I can. But you’d give Gentry a run for her money.”
“Really?” Callie says.
“Really.”
“Who’s Gentry?”
Rose smiles.
When Callie’s done with the tea, Rose runs her fingertips up and down Callie’s legs.
Callie’s eyes are focused on mine, which is how I can tell the moment she starts crying.
I touch her forehead. “Are you in pain?”
“No. I’m wiggling my toes.”
53.
I HEAR VOICES me, celebrating.
“After all this time, we had to meet her,” Curly says.
Larry waves at Callie. “You’re my favorite,” he says.
She waves back. “Thank you. I think.”
C.H. says, “Hi, Rose.”
“Hi, Charlie,” Rose says.
He blushes.
