One to Take (One to Hold 8)
Mariska injured. Go to Missouri River General ASAP.
I’m out of the booth, a distant roaring sound in my ears. Where is Missouri River General? I have to believe a cab driver can take me to her. I’m out the door on the street looking up and down. Not a lot of cabs around this part of town. My lungs tighten and it’s difficult to inhale.
“Stuart.” My uncle grabs my arm roughly. “Come on. Truck’s over here.”
* * *
My sister is crying softly in the background. My mother holds her, stroking her hair, but even Sylvia’s face is pale with fear.
She’s not waking up.
I’m standing in the doorway of the hospital room, fighting to breathe against the pressure in my chest. The fucking nurse almost wouldn’t let me back here because we’re not married. I think the fire in my eyes was enough to convince her she’d better get the fuck out of my way.
Mariska’s tiny body is in the bed. A white bandage covers her head and an array of tubes run from her to monitors and machines making whirring and beeping noises. I want to hold her, soothe her, but I can’t seem to move my legs.
The doctor is talking to my mother and Bill. His words float around me just outside the scrim of torment clouding my brain.
We’re keeping her sedated so her body can rest and heal itself without stress, he says.
A bandage covers one arm. She’s lying on her back, with her eyes closed, her beautiful face pale.
She hit the back of her head pretty hard when she fell, but we haven’t detected a concussion, he continues. Since the injury is near her occipital lobe, I’ve ordered a full brain scan and test of brain function.
Sylvia asks what that means.
The occipital lobe is the primary visual cortex, he says. Extreme blunt force trauma in that location can cause blindness.
My mother does a little wail, and my shoulders collapse. I grip the wall unable to imagine my beautiful artist blind, the light forever extinguished in those sunset eyes.
Let’s not anticipate disaster. Her injuries are severe, but she has no broken bones. The doctor takes a long pause, drawing all our eyes. It appears she tried to protect her stomach, but… I’m so sorry to have to say this. The placenta abrupted. We did all we could, but the fetus was expelled.
My eyes squeeze shut, and I grip the doorjamb. I’m not sure how much more of this I can take. All I can see is the little body lying on its back with its feet up. That little baby Mariska was sure was a girl.
…the fetus was expelled.
Pain rips through my heart, leaving it bloody and torn. My mother’s sniffling joins my sister’s tears. I turn my head slightly to look at Mariska lying on the bed, her body still and empty.
“Will she be all right?” Sylvia’s voice is shaky.
“Oh, she should make a full recovery,” the doctor assures her.
He has no fucking idea what he’s talking about. Mariska will not recover from this. He leaves the room, and I hear Bill’s deep voice soothing my mother. I hear Amy’s whispering sobs.
“I couldn’t get her out,” she weeps. “That little horse kept screaming and kicking. I didn’t know what to do. I was so afraid.”
At that, the tension in my chest explodes. I said I would protect her, and when she needed me the most, where the fuck was I? I gave her that horse. I taught her to trust it. I gave her the thing that killed her dreams. All of this is my fault.
My mind clouds, and I turn on my heel stalking out of the room. I vaguely hear someone call my name, but it’s a small hospital. I’m at Bill’s truck in less than three minutes, jerking the door open without a backwards glance. I shove the transmission into drive, jam the accelerator to the floor, and squeal out of the parking lot.
So many questions torment my mind as I drive. How could I leave her this morning? Why did we come here? Mariska wanted to go to summer school. We didn’t need to be here. It was a selfish trip, motivated by my wants and desires. I did this.
These thoughts torment my mind. Rage and guilt war in my chest, until I pull into the yard of the ranch house. Slamming the stick into park, I throw the door open, storming into the main house. Winona is at the kitchen table, and I vaguely recognize she has several small candles lit. She’s clutching a rosary, and when she sees me, her eyebrows lift expectantly. I don’t stop.
I know what I’m looking for, and I know where to find it. I’m in Bill’s office, going to the cabinet behind his desk. The glass door is locked, but the key is on the top. I use it to access the row of six heavy rifles.
When I was younger, before I entered the service, Bill would let me take one out and hold it, admiring the craftsmanship. Sometimes he and I would set up a target on the prairie and practice shooting. He would show me how to load a gun and care for it. Those days were long gone, and I’m a fucking Marine.
Pulling out the largest rifle in the case, I grab the box of ammunition, tossing it on the desk. A few shiny bronze bullets the length of my thumb fall out, and I grab two. Bending the long, metal barrel down, I shove them into the chamber and snap it shut with a loud clatch.