Alex Bledsoe - The Hum and the Shiver

Inside, he found Lassa again behind the counter. “Morning, Reverend,” she said brightly.

Her cheer defused most of his annoyance. “Good morning, Lassa.”

“You’re in town early.”

“I wanted to catch a few people and extend personal invitations for them to come to services tomorrow. Including,” he added with what he hoped was a charming smile, “you and your family.”

Lassa giggled. “I’m afraid we can’t make it, Reverend. But it’s sweet of you to ask.”

He leaned on the counter and asked seriously, “Lassa, why won’t any of you Tufas come to church? Any church?”

She looked down, studiously rearranging a display of portable lighters beside the cash register. “I don’t know about anyone but me, I’m afraid. I have to work tomorrow morning, six A.M. to two in the afternoon.”

“I just spoke to Mr. Hicks over at the post office. If he came, would you?”

Lassa looked up, eyes wide. “Did he say he would?”

For an instant Craig seriously considered lying. “No. But if I convinced him, would that convince you?”

“What’s that old man to me?” Lassa said flippantly. “I hate to see him come in the door. He pays for things out of a tube sock full of pennies.”

Craig contemplated pushing the point, but again remembered this was a preliminary scuffle, not a final battle. He patted her hand and said, “Well, just know you’re always welcome.” As he turned to leave, he spotted the young man referred to as Stoney kneeling beside Rockhouse, deep in conversation. When he opened the Fast Grab’s door, both men turned to look at him. He was too far away to see their expressions, but he felt a chill that had nothing to do with the mountain breeze.

Bronwyn returned from Knoxville that night with her leg in a removable fiberglass cast.

As promised, Bliss drove her there in the Cloud County Emergency Services ambulance. Bronwyn asked that no one else accompany them; she never again wanted to wake up in post-op and find a ring of concerned Hyatts hovering over her the way she had at the VA hospital.

The office visit had been scheduled for the weekend in case there was a mob scene with the media, but not a single reporter seemed to know about it. After examining Bronwyn, the astounded doctor scheduled immediate surgery to remove the pins and screws; normally this was done with local anesthetics, but her injuries were so complex, they decided to put her under a general. The surgeon, called in from his son’s soccer practice, was also amazed at the rate of recovery, and for one brief moment thought he might have to rebreak one place to get the metal out. But eventually they left the two pins that would be permanently needed and closed the incisions.

While she waited for Bronwyn to wake up from the anesthetic, the surgeon appeared, still in his scrubs, and took Bliss aside into a conference room. He seemed agitated, and frequently scratched under his beard. “Ms. Overbay, may I ask you something? You seem to know your stuff, and I know you’re from the same small town as my patient. Is there anything unusual in Ms. Hyatt’s medical history that might not be mentioned in her files?”

“Unusual?”

“Yes. Something in her family history, perhaps. Frankly, if I didn’t have X-rays showing what her leg looked like six weeks ago, I’d be convinced this was a whole different patient. She’s healed a good three months ahead of any normal prognosis.”

“That’s good, isn’t it?”

“It depends on the reason. If she’s just a freakishly fast healer, then yes, it’s good. If not, then it’s the sign of some deeper condition.”

“Such as?”

“Hell, I don’t know. It’s just weird. I looked over the army’s medical records on her, and I can’t imagine that the woman I just worked on was really in as bad a shape as they said she was.”

“You saw her on the news.”

“Yes, but the news is no different from the drunk in the corner bar: he might have a good story, but that doesn’t mean you can trust it.” He paused, considering his next words carefully. “I’m worried that the army might have treated her injuries as more serious than they were, in order to get more PR use from them. That would be a gross mistreatment of the patient, needless to say, but sadly it’s not outside the realm of possibility. Has Ms. Hyatt given you any indication that might be the case?”

Bliss almost laughed. “Doctor, I promise, Bronwyn’s injuries were real. What you see now is the result of rest, good home care, and following doctor’s orders. I’ve watched it happen. If it’s faster than normal, then it just is.”

The doctor nodded, although he didn’t appear convinced. “I’ll make lots of notes about this, should Ms. Hyatt ever need them to pursue any legal action against the army. Or the Iraqis, for that matter.”

“Thank you. I’ll make sure she knows.”

After Bronwyn woke up, drank some water, and was able to answer basic questions, the doctor returned to explain the results of the surgery. “There’s a lot of rehab still to go. Realistically you’re looking at months, maybe years before you can walk fully unaided again. But all in all, it’s close enough to a miracle to have me looking over my shoulder for angels.”

She looked down at her withered, pale leg. The sutures were fresh, the incisions stained orange by antiseptic and already starting to scab over. Patches of long, soft hair grew between the surgical sites. Her other leg, smooth and muscular, only made this one look even more deformed. She felt something in her chest like a sob struggling to escape.

Bliss stroked Bronwyn’s hair and asked the doctor, “How soon until we can head back? I know it’s Saturday, but I’d like to miss as much evening traffic as possible.”

His eyes widened. “Back? Tonight? I really think we should keep her at least overnight, just for observation.” Then he turned to Bronwyn. “Sorry, I don’t mean to talk about you like you’re not here. But you’ve been through a lot, not just today’s surgery, and I’d feel better if we waited.”

“I’ve been observed enough,” Bronwyn said, her tongue still heavy with the dregs of sedation. “I want to be the audience, not the show. I want to go home.”

“She’ll be in an ambulance with an EMT,” Bliss said. “And clearly, whatever she’s doing at home is working.”

The doctor chewed one end of his mustache for a moment. “It’s against my better judgment. But you can’t argue with the results you’ve been getting.” He threw his hands up in a shrug. “Drive safely, ladies. And call me if you need anything.”

The trip home was uneventful; Bronwyn slept most of the way. Bliss hummed all the songs of comfort she knew. When she heard Bronwyn moan once, either in pain or a nightmare, she began to sing a tune originally written as a hymn. For the Tufa, though, its symbolism carried a far different meaning:

It was almost ten o’clock when they passed through Needsville, and twenty minutes later Bliss backed the ambulance up the hill to the Hyatts’ porch. Deacon carried his semiconscious daughter from the stretcher inside to the couch. Bliss undid the cast, exposing the sutures to the air. Bronwyn awoke to find Aiden, hair tousled from sleep, kneeling beside her and staring at her leg.

Aiden said, “Wow.”

“Yes, that’s where the pins went in,” Bliss said. “And came out. Your sister’s been through a lot today.”