Transcendence

outside calms my nerves a little. Suddenly I want him closer without alarming her. “It’s kind of stuffy in here. Let me open a window.” Setting the cello down gently, I walk to the bay window that looks out over the street and unlock it. I peer through the glass down to the planter below, but I can’t see Griffon from this angle.

Grabbing the window pulls, I yank the bottom pane up, but it only tilts about half an inch before it sticks tight. Thanks, Mom, and your stupid antique houses. It would be so nice to live in a place where opening a window doesn’t take an enormous feat of strength. I pound on the frame a couple of times to try to shake it loose.

“Here, let me help you,” Veronique says, walking over to the window.

I glance down again, but Griffon is still nowhere in sight, and that makes me feel panicky all over again. I don’t want to look at Veronique in case she can tell what I know, that I’m starting to put the pieces of the puzzle together, and sometime soon I’ll know where she fits. “You grab that side and I’ll grab this side,” I say, pulling on the brass handle. “On three. One, two, three.”

In T.V. shows, when something bad happens they slow it way down so that you can see every detail with excruciating clarity. In CSI, when someone gets sliced by shards of glass, they show the stop-motion trajectory of the sharp edges as they slice through skin, muscle, and bone, the drops of blood falling like one of those splatter psychology tests onto the victim’s shirt. This isn’t like that at all. Everything happens so fast I barely realize what’s going on. The sounds of shattering glass fill the room, and there’s a flash of fear as my left hand crashes through the broken window. Without thinking, I quickly pull my arm back inside, not noticing the long piece of glass that’s sticking out through the bottom of the sill.

At first, I don’t feel anything.

“Oh my God,” Veronique says, grabbing my arm just above the wrist and holding it tight. “We need some help!” she shouts, without moving from where we stand frozen in place.

“It’s okay,” I say, trying to pull my arm away from her.

“We have to keep the pressure on it,” Veronique says to me calmly, her grip surprisingly strong.

“Nicole!” Mom says, appearing in the doorway. She rushes over to the window. “Oh my God! What happened?”

“The window broke,” I say, feeling hazy and confused. I watch as rivulets of blood appear from under Veronique’s hands and drop onto the floor. This is all going to make a big mess, not to mention the shattered window pane. “I’m sorry, Mom,” I say, my tongue feeling thick in my mouth.

“We need some towels,” Veronique says. Her voice is beginning to sound distant, like she’s at the end of a long tunnel.

“Let me see,” Mom says, trying to pull her hand away.

“Not a good idea,” Veronique says in harsh, clipped tones, as if I can’t hear her. “I think she may have severed an artery. You need to call 911. Now.”

Mom races out and Veronique and I are alone in the silent room. My skin feels warm and sticky, but when I look down, it seems like someone else’s hand that’s covered in shiny red blood. My eyelids feel heavy, and my ears are ringing. Before Mom can get back, I know my legs won’t hold me up any longer.

“I think I need to sit down,” I say, and slide against the wall, only partially aware of the red pool that’s forming beneath me. I can smell Mom’s perfume nearby, and that makes me feel better—like everything is going to be fine.

Dimly, I hear pounding at the front door and Griffon’s voice shouting through the glass. I know the door is locked, it’s always locked, but just lifting my head takes more energy than I have left, and all I can do is whisper his name. The wail of sirens sounds in the distance and I want to tell him that the ambulance is coming, that my mom is here, but I can’t open my eyes or make my mouth form the words.

The ocean air is tangy with salt as we sit on the stone stoop of the cottage, my arm wrapped in muslin and tied tight to my body. Looking up, I can see bits of blue sky through the long, brown grass on the roof.

“My poor bairn,” Mam says. “We’ll get this changed quick as a wink and have you on your way again.” She smiles at me, her blue eyes the same color as the sea that roils on the cliffs below us. The fiery red plait hangs down her back and looks like the setting sun against the whitewashed walls.

“’Tis paining me,” I cry, tears filling my eyes as she deftly pulls the bandage off the wound. Angry red skin punctuated by yellow blisters covers most of my arm, and the sight of it is almost worse than the pain.

“Dear, sweet Allison. Just a wee bit of salve and a clean bandage will have this right as rain in no time,” Mam says. A thick covering of ointment blocks out the air, and the relief makes me smile at her for a second, knowing that she is right.

The relentless beeping is driving me crazy. I wave my hand around my head, trying to find somewhere to turn off the repetitive noise that is piercing my brain.

“Cole?” My father’s voice is soft and full of concern. “Are you awake?”

“Hmm,” I say, trying to find the words I need. I run my tongue over my lips and try again. “Yeah.” My throat is drier than I’ve ever felt before. “Water,” I manage.

“The nurse is coming,” Dad says, patting my right hand.

Nurse? Where am I? I try to open my eyes, but the fluorescent lights make me shut them again. “Too bright,” I say.

I hear a click above my head and then Dad’s voice again. “Try it now.”

I open my eyes just enough to see the top of a curtain that hangs on a metal track from the ceiling. My head is throbbing, and without moving it I can see a bank of machines on my right, one of which is making the irritating beeping sound. “It hurts,” I say.

“The doctor says that once the pain medication wears off, your arm is going to hurt a bit,” Dad says. I tilt my head to the right just enough to see him. His face has more wrinkles than I remember.

“Not arm,” I say, barely able to form the words I need. “Headache.”

“I’ll ask about that just as soon as they come in,” Dad says.

I look around, remembering the pounding on the door and feeling frustration that I wasn’t able to let him in. “Griffon,” I say. “Where …?”

“He’ll be back,” Dad says. “Close your eyes and get some rest.”

The effort of speaking is too much, and relief overwhelms me as I let myself slip into a dark stream of unconsciousness.

Sixteen

Griffon’s curls are the first things I see when I open my eyes. His arms are folded in front of him and his head is leaning heavily against the bed railing. I can’t see his eyes, but his deep, even breathing tells me that he’s asleep. I watch him for a few minutes, his fingers twitching, acting out whatever vivid dream is streaming across his unconscious. He seems younger while he sleeps, as if the daily effort of keeping up some sort of barrier slips away in unguarded moments. I think about what it would be like to wake up one morning with him next to me, his curls resting on a pillow near my head, his fingers wrapped around mine.

With my free hand I reach up and gently touch his hair, then more boldly twist one of the curls around my finger, its silky curves hugging my skin. With a jolt, Griffon inhales and sits upright, looking around as if he doesn’t know where he is.

“Hey,” I say to him. My lips feel dry and cracked, and I’m sure that I look like a disaster. I’m still glad that he’s sitting next to me.

His eyes soften as soon as he sees me, the deep indentation in his cheek giving away the fact that he’s probably been in that position for a long time. “Cole,” he says. The corners of his eyes look raw, as if he’s been crying. “You okay?”

I nod, looking around the bed. My left arm is suspended from a pulley, white gauze bandages wrapping the entire length from fingertips to elbow. There are several bags hanging from hooks on a pole, leaking various fluids