Christine Rimmer - Scrooge and the Single Girl

“Is it bad?” she asked.

“I’ve seen worse.” He patted her arm in doctorly fashion. He’d been such a complete crab since she’d knocked on his door that evening, it came as a pleasant surprise to learn that he could drum up a very respectable bedside manner when he had to.

Her booted feet, still encrusted with snow, hung over the side of the couch. He dropped down there and undid the laces and slid them off. She went ahead and straightened herself out on the couch as he stood.

“Right back,” he said, and left her. She watched him set her boots by the door and then, still wearing his jacket, he disappeared behind the half-wall that marked off the living area from the kitchen.

She groaned and felt the bump at her temple. Her fingers came away smeared with blood. But it wasn’t too bad. She strained to look down at herself. Everything in the right place, it seemed to her. And there wasn’t that much blood. She could see a few drops on her coat, but nothing to get too worried about.

He returned with an ice pack and a damp cloth, sat down beside her and oh-so-gently began dabbing at her temple.

She winced. “Let me…”

He gave her the cloth. She cleaned herself up. Then he passed her the ice pack. She set the soiled cloth on the table beside her and pressed the ice pack over the bump. It felt good. Soothing.

He peered more closely at her, his brow furrowed. “Do you know who I am?”

That made her smile. “As if I could ever forget.”

He actually smiled back—well, almost. There was a definite lift at the corners of his mouth. “Tell me.”

“Your name is Will Bravo—and thanks. For coming out and checking on me.”

“No problem. Are you hurt anywhere else, except for that bump on your head?”

She considered a moment. “No. Nowhere. Everything’s fine.”

“Did you lose consciousness?”

“For a minute or two, I think.”

He got up again and went through the curtain at the end of the makeshift sofa. He came out with a cell phone, punched a button on it. But when he put it to his ear, he shook his head.

“Not working, huh?”

He turned the phone off and set it down. “I’m afraid you’re right.”

“I tried mine earlier. It didn’t work either.”

“The storm, probably—not that cell phones ever work all that well up here.”

“How comforting.”

“I was going to call 911.” His mouth twisted ruefully.

“It’s all right. I’ll be fine. Though I could use an aspirin or two.”

He frowned. “Better not.”

She dragged herself to a sitting position. “Because?”

He looked at her for a long moment. “You are feeling better.”

“I am. Better by the minute.” She slipped off her coat, one arm and then the other, switching hands to keep the ice pack over her injury. “If I could just have that aspirin. Or Tylenol. Or—”

“No. You should wait, I think. See if you develop any symptoms.” He took the coat from her and went to hang it by the door.

She asked, “Symptoms of…?”

“Serious brain injury.”

She pulled the ice pack away from her forehead and gingerly poked at the goose egg. “My brain is fine.” He turned toward her again, clearing his throat in such a way that she knew just what he was thinking. “Don’t go there,” she muttered.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about—and keep that ice pack on that bump.”

“Right. Tell me more about these possible symptoms.”

“Things like nausea, disorientation, seizures, vomiting…”

It wasn’t going to happen. As she kept trying to tell him, she was just fine. “And if I do develop those symptoms, then what?” He was back to his old self again, glaring at her. She told him what. “Nothing. Because there’s nothing we can do. We can’t call 911. The phones don’t work. We can’t get out of here because of the storm. We’re not going anywhere until tomorrow, at least.”

“And your point is?”

“There’s nothing to wait for, no medical professionals to consult. What happens, happens—though, as I keep telling you, I’m going to be fine. So could I please have a couple of Tylenol?”

He disappeared into the depths of the kitchen. He was back maybe two minutes later, with a glass of water and the pills she’d asked for. She took them. “Thank you.”

He waited until she’d set the empty glass on the little table beside the sofa bed and then he asked, “Where are the things you went outside to get?”

She confessed, “I left them where they fell, under that tree out there. I couldn’t carry them and crawl at the same time.”

“And what, exactly, are they?”

Reluctantly, she told him.

He grunted. “Absolute necessities, huh?”

“So I exaggerated—and don’t worry, I don’t expect you to—”

But he was already turning for the door again. She let him go. It wasn’t really dangerous out there, between the house and the vehicles—as long as you didn’t have the misfortune to be under a tree when it lost a big branch. And what were the odds of that happening again?

No worries. He’d be fine.

And he was. He came back in the door a few minutes later. He had her boom box and her CDs and even her hat. “Your Cheez Doodles must have blown away.”

It could have been worse. She thanked him again.

He set her things on the kitchen table and then turned to find her starting to stand. “Stay there.”

She made a face at him—but she did sit back down.

He shrugged out of his jacket. “Just lie back and relax for a while.”

“I told you, I feel—”

“Jillian. Humor me.” He hung the jacket on its peg. “For an hour or so, just stay there on the couch where I can keep an eye on you.”

She didn’t like the way he said that. As if she were some spoiled, undependable child who might get into all kinds of trouble if left to her own devices.

Not that she could completely blame him for seeing her that way. After all, she had gotten herself into trouble and she was very lucky he’d been around to help out. She had no doubt she would have made it back inside on her own, but it would not have been fun crawling the rest of the way, and her boom box and CDs would still be out in the snow.

So okay. She owed him. She’d do what he told her to do—for an hour. She glanced at her watch—8:05—and then slanted him a look from beneath the shadow of the ice pack. “I’ll lie here till five after nine, and that’s it.”

He said nothing, just went back to his chair, picked up his book, sat down and started reading again.

Jilly plumped up the two skimpy throw pillows and stretched out once more on the creaky old sofa bed. She readjusted the ice pack so it would stay in place by itself, which meant her right eye was covered. She folded her hands over her stomach and stared, one-eyed, at the ceiling.

Like the walls, the ceiling was paneled in wood. What kind of wood, she had no idea. It had all been painted in high-gloss white enamel long, long ago. The enamel was yellowed now and cracked in places.

For a while, as she studied the ceiling, she strained her ears to hear the radio. But he had it turned down so low, all she could make out were two voices speaking with English accents—maybe about world hunger, though there was no way she could be absolutely sure. What in the world, she wanted to ask him, is the point of listening to the radio if you have it down so low, you can’t hear what they’re saying?

But she didn’t ask him. Who cared? She didn’t. Let him read his big, fat, pretentious book.

He turned a page. The propane-burning wall heater not far from the kitchen door came on—a click, followed by a rushing sound as the gas was released and set alight by the pilot. Outside, the wind went on howling away.