The Risen: Remnants (6 page)

Chapter
7

A
fter a brief introduction of the two men, I reluctantly drive to follow them with a mental mantra of how stupid I am. We discover who their group is where they are waiting for their return. It’s a row of vehicles parked deep along a dirt trail in the wooded area behind the store. A few cars and a very southern Jeep hold passengers with weary eyes and clamped lips. If this is their “welcome wagon” I would hate to see their “angry townsfolk” routine.

Collin and the man who had earlier introduced himself as Terrence exit from their car, heading into the line of stone-faced watchers. I watch their brief exchange with the others and squirm a little, rethinking my decision, as their heads turn toward us.

“Why did you tell them you were a nurse back at the store, Ginjer?” I look to the woman beside me trying to remove myself from the stares.

“I never said how good of a nurse I was.” She shrugs with this comment, watching the crowd in front of us.

“I think they are expecting a pretty decent nurse.” Even Genny’s snarky comment shows how worried she is about what this could mean when they discover the woman’s ruse.

“I know the basics. I doubt anyone needs brain surgery here.” Once again, another shrug and I feel like Ginjer just enjoys seeing how far my patience level can be pushed.

“I dropped out of school after meeting my husband. I know enough and what I don’t know, I’ll bluff.” She smiles as if this all makes a perfect plan. I think I will keep the car running just the same.

Genny, the lover of all things books, asks with genuine interest, “Why did you drop out?”

“The money was better to be married.” Ginjer tells us this as if it should obviously answer any questions we may have. In a way, it does.

Collin is staring at us with confusion, and points to the back of the Jeep. The “town folk” aren’t confused, but they are staring just as hard.

“I hope your acting skills are better than your cooking.” I mutter to her as I exit the car. There are a thousand ways this could go wrong. We only need one to put us back at risk and that one exits the car beside me.

“They can’t be any worse than your cleaning skills.” Ginjer gives me one of her southern, socialite smiles and leads us to the waiting group.

“When did she get so lippy?” I try to encourage a smile from Genny when she exits the car. Forging through a room of dead dogs, discovering a woman who committed suicide, and being taken hostage only to end up willingly at their camp has to be the definition of a bad day.

“You know this could go very badly?” Genny asks holds my hand as we walk, needing the touch of reassurance.

“If it does,” I slip the car keys into Genny’s purse with my words, “you get out of here.”

“Why do all of your plans involve me leaving you?” My daughter turns to me with an annoyed expression over a question I think the answer to is rather obvious.

“Because you are my daughter and nothing is more important to me than your life, but the next time I say we are skipping a store, we are skipping the damn store.” I touch my forehead to hers with our private conversation, hoping to share a smile. It is a brief flash of a grin, but I will take it. Beggars can’t be choosers and right now I am begging for this to turn out right.

Terrence’s son has a long gash on his left calf. His pants have been cut up the seam to expose the wound that lies bleeding into the once white towels that brace his leg. The flesh is jagged and torn framing a wide, perfect arch where the pieces have been removed. The skin around the wound shows signs of scraping with thin ribbons of blood beading along the lines. His skin tone is grey and pale from the pain and nausea that he is suffering. His blonde haircut is in the typical teen windblown bowl look that many young stars brought back to popularity. Strands of his bangs are matted and stuck to his forehead with his moist perspiration. Terrence clutches his son’s hand in a white-knuckle fist, pulling it to his chest. He whispers words of encouragement, trying to soothe the teenage boy while staring at Ginjer with hopeful eyes.

Ginjer swallows against the sight of the wound, blanching for a moment, but when she feels the many eyes staring at her, the curtain rises. Her perfect socialite smile pulls her lips up at the corners. Her head cocks and she beings to make soothing noises as if she were suddenly possessed by Mother Teresa herself.

A woman, who has admitted many times to hating kids, sometimes wishing them brutal harm for their antics, now stands examining a wound that stains her elegant fingers. Her brow furrows with the medical concerns I know she is lacking. I find myself forgetting her admitted secret as I watch her and wonder what else she has hidden from us. Her flip from the demanding and pampered to this resolved survivor with all of her social trappings stripped from her today makes me wonder who is the real Ginjer.

“We have the stuff for stitches, but nobody here knows how to do them.” Terrence hands what looks like a battered tackle box to Ginjer. Inside is many different compartments and tiers that have been converted for medical needs. They are segregated and sectioned into areas, clumping together items depending on the needs they would best serve.

Bandages, gauze and paper tape room together in one tier. Prescription pills with their amber-colored plastic bottles rattle against one another on a higher tier. A collection of fishing hooks that have been stretched and converted into needles with the matching twine nestle in the last compartment. My stomach flutters realizing what she is going to have to do.

“We will need to clean it. Stitching a wound that has been open this long can become infected. Who knows what bacteria are already in there.” Ginjer’s voice is steady and secure in her knowledge. Once again I have to stare at this woman, wondering who she really is.

“We are running short on water. Is there any other way?” The look that Ginjer gives one of the townsfolk with his question is not a kind one.

“Genny, I think we might have something in the car.” I let the words drag, hoping she catches my meaning without revealing too much information about our supplies. These people look worn and haggard. I don’t really want to get into a fight over dog food. My bullshit meter is filled already today.

When Genny returns with an opened, misused, half-filled bottle of water, I have to bite my smile. She caught on perfectly and understood the risks of returning with anything that might gather more suspicions.

Ginjer smiles when she sees the bottle, but quickly masks it as one of appreciation.

“This will do perfectly,” She tells Genny, exchanging our secret with her smile.

Ginjer has rubbed a packaged alcohol prep swab over her hands and dragged the needle she selected to use with the fishing twine through another. The kid’s eyes roam from the needle waiting on the swab to Ginjer with unmasked fear.

“This is going to hurt.” Terrence pulls his son’s upper body against his chest to help brace the boy. It does nothing to settle the fear in the boy’s eyes.

Without a word spared, Ginjer begins to pour the water over the wound. It may as well have been molten lava by the way the boy clenches his teeth and exhales his misery. She alternates between pouring the water and pressing against the wound, releasing new blood to flow with hopes of expelling anything that may set an infection. Terrence’s arms bulge, defining each muscle with the act of holding his son still. We are all lost in his misery, forgetting the risk his loud moans may present.

Pinching the wound together so that the edges are aiming outward, Ginjer pushes the needle through. The thread appears to be connected to the boy’s stomach. With each puncture, he hisses in pain and with each pull, he gags with the length of the thread that is sliding through his skin. She pulls the thread just tight enough to hold the wound’s edges together with each steady stroke and ties a knot on one side of the wound, never on top, repeating until the wound is closed. With the final knot in place, she and Terrence both exhale the breath that I bet neither of them were aware that they were holding.

With the leg stitched and bandaged, both the boy and his father start to regain their normal coloring. Ginjer accepts the smiles and pats on the back with extreme grace, never letting on to the truth. She is calm and collected, appearing as if she never had a doubt the outcome would be positive. Glad one of us didn’t.

“Beth?” The voice only proves that today is full of surprises, and I spin to be sure of what I am hearing. I return the shocked smile of the woman who has been my “partner in crime” for the past many years.

“Aunt Alicia?” Genny’s nerves have hit their brick wall and this new discovery frees all her tension that has been building with today’s events in an explosion of emotion. She forgets her teen dignity with its perfect aloofness and runs into my sister’s arms. They stand, rocking with their embrace, celebrating in a rare moment in this new life; happiness.

“Who is that?” Ginjer asks of me, unhappy that she is no longer be the center of the attention she had gained.

“My Guardian Angel.” Is the only response that I seem to find fitting at this moment.

“Who?” Ginjer misses both the point and the moment with her cold eyes gazing at whom she perceives as a threat to her imagined crown.

“My sister. She’s also Genny’s God Mother. We even went to college together.” She is many things and I stand patiently awaiting our moment letting Genny take all the comfort that she needs.

“You went to college?” The shock in her voice does not dampen my mood as I realize the show is over and the woman I have come to know is back.

Her flippant demeanor will not take this moment from me. I watch my daughter lost in her joy. She has lost her father, her friends and her way of life, but she has never given up. She has fought and killed to survive to stand here today. We have spent nights huddled together, our stomachs a pit of dread and starvation, praying to make it through to the morning.

We have watched houses burn and people kill each other for something as simple as a box of crackers. Never, never has she given up though.

My cheeks grow wet with my tears as I watch them whispering and embracing, lost in the miracle of finding each other. Alicia and I had become better friends in college than we had our whole lives. We were both lost and out of our league at the local university. For both of us, college was something of a dream for our family. It was a fantasy and a threat of bankruptcy to our middle class life-style. We had both earned scholarships and worked part time jobs to make our dreams come true, determined to live better lives than our parents. With as much as we had in common, we also had apart.

Alicia, with her cluster of Daddy issues, seemed to like men who were unobtainable. The harder the romance was to reach, the harder she burned for it. Where as I, a Dear Diary of my own “Daddy” issues, preferred men who were safe and secure and ones who were almost boring. It always started the same for me. A few romantic dates would soon simmer, resulting in us reaching the “friend zone”, before finally ending with our false promises that we would keep in touch. I never kept in touch and the colder my flames became the hotter hers burned.

We stayed close after we crossed that stage. She was my Maid of Honor when I married Charlie. She was the first person in the hospital room after Genny’s birth. She was the supplier of cookie dough and chick-flicks when the divorced was settled. There has not been a day when I have not prayed that she was safe somewhere. I guess someone is still listening, after all.

Their eyes turn to me and I go to them. We don’t speak. We just embrace in our gratitude for finding each other, a small part of our souls heal from the suffering we have faced.

“All this time…,” Alicia’s voice is soft with wonder, “I kept hoping I would find you. I kept looking, but after all this time. After all this time I just gave up.” Her voice cracks. The guilt and grief she has been holding inside of her is too much for her to not convey. “I went by your house,” she continues, “but it is was all gone. The whole street looks as if it fell to madness or bombs. Hell, maybe both. Houses were burned or gutted; just destroyed. It was unbelievable.”

“I was hoping you had stayed on your trip far away from here.” I say to her. “Maybe on some tropical island with a nice umbrella drink. Dancing with the dark-skinned, male natives.” I smile at her but my resolve is breaking with my sister’s strength faltering beside me. I’m not alone anymore and that realization tears down the false strength I have been hiding behind.

“I wish.” She tries to smile but her face slides back into the creases her frown leaves. “I came back the day it happened. If you think flying was bad before, you should see how long check-in lines become when people start dropping.” She means it as a joke, but the laughter doesn’t reach her eyes.

“How did you find us?” Alicia asks. She is still clutching Genny to her, refusing to release her, too afraid of her vanishing like the ghost of a dream. It is evident in the way she strokes Genny’s hair, leans her cheek against the top of Genny’s head and whispers soothing words to her in-between our conversation. Which is why when Genny tells her how we made it here, she explodes.