Whisper (17 page)

“Shouldn’t we be opening the windows instead of making her warmer?” Nomad asked.

“We’ll give it a little while. If the pills don’t work, we’ll take her. She doesn’t like hospitals, so 139

Kathleen Lash

let’s see what happens.”

He’d made Heather and Billy leave when she started babbling and trying to scream. They didn’t need to see her so out of control. Hell, she scared the shit out of both him and Nomad. She calmed after a few minutes and only jerked every once in a while, like she couldn’t help the movements while stuck in a nightmare.

The night before, she hadn’t looked good, but went to work anyway. Nomad took her straight home after her shift. Billy had been home two days with the flu. With Whisper’s high fever and chills, Billy obviously shared the bug.

“Can you get the pitcher and fill it with ice water for me?” he asked.

“You sure she doesn’t belong in a hospital?” Nomad replied. “I’d take her and you could stay here with Heather and Billy.”

“Not yet.”

Nomad left and Keith limped to the bathroom.

He ran the cold water before stuffing a washcloth into the stream. Despite the chills, her face was damp with sweat. When he sat next to her, she tried scooting away. She didn’t get far with the blankets trapping her. He started talking before touching her.

“I’m going to wipe your face, Whisper. It’ll feel good, so just relax. See? Nothing to get all hyped about. A nice cool cloth is all that’s touching you.” Thankfully, Nomad took the day off from work.

He ran right over to get Whisper when Heather called.

“My head hurts,” Whisper said, slurring the words but seeming a little more lucid.

“Yeah, I bet it does. You know where you are?”

“No.”

“You’re in my bed again. You said you liked it here, so get comfortable and take a nap.”

“Keith?” At last she realized who sat next to her.

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Thinking about the
bastard
she’d been yelling at wasn’t a wise idea. In fact, he wouldn’t dwell on how crazy she got trying to get away. Someone taught her those survival skills. A
son of a bitch
educated her. One who shoved pills down her throat.
Yeah,
best I concern myself with her fever. Don’t think
about the other stuff
.

“What’s wrong? Why am I here?”

“Billy gave you the flu. You’re running one hell of a fever.”

“I’ve never been sick. Can’t be.”

“Never?”

“Maybe a cold. Not like this.” Her teeth chattered.

“Welcome to an Ohio winter. You’ll be as good as new for Christmas, I promise.” When he stroked her hair, she relaxed. His own tension drained. “Why did you settle in Cleveland, baby?” She yawned. “Closer to Bob. Seemed like a good spot.”

It wouldn’t be fair to get answers while she couldn’t think straight. He wouldn’t take advantage of her too much. “Who’s Bob?”

“Dad.”

“Is he in Cleveland?”

“Yeah. Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. Inducted last year.” Her mouth seemed dry so he helped her sit and she finished the water. “Thanks.” Tucked back in, she yawned again. Her voice was so hoarse, he should leave her alone. He couldn’t, being so close to at least one answer.

“So your dad lives in Cleveland?”

“Mostly. His body’s in San Diego.” Swollen eyes blinked, remaining closed longer each time.

“Whisper, your dad’s dead?”

“As a doornail.”

He swallowed. “Did he hurt you, baby? Did he scare you?”

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“Dad?”

“Yeah.”

“No. Never wanted me, but never hurt me. Poor guy.”

So, who frightened you?
And how the hell could she say her father didn’t want her, and then pity him for it? She’d fallen asleep or he would’ve asked.

She relocated to be close to a father who’d been someone famous and didn’t give a shit about her. A dead man’s memory caused her to settle in Cleveland. Where was her mother?

“Thanks,” he said when Nomad set the water on the night stand.

“She sleeping now?” Nomad asked.

She coughed into the blankets and tried clearing her throat. Moaning, she turned onto her other side.

Mumbled words held a pleading quality as she settled beneath the covers. Nomad moved a chair close to Keith. “I suppose you’ll stay with her.” Keith stood and swung onto the chair. “Yep. Not going anywhere.”

Nomad took a spot on the bed. Watching her grouse, shiver and at times, fight, the kid rubbed his hands nervously up and down his jeans. “You like her?”

Since when did Nomad want to chat? The last real conversation they’d had, happened a while back when Keith bailed him out of jail. That’s when Nomad became a semi-permanent fixture around the house. Nomad and Mark hung out for years before the incident, otherwise Nomad, his birth certificate name, would’ve been history. Theft or a fight landing him in jail might’ve been overlooked. The arrest for drugs almost had him black and blue and on the street permanently.

Keith finally answered. “Yeah, kid, what’s on your mind?”

“She’s not as jumpy as she was a few months 142

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ago. Figured you and her alone during the days might have something to do with it.”

“Is that any of your business?” The question came out aggressively. The kid knew better than to make statements like the one that just rolled out of his mouth.

“Yeah, I’ll make it my business.” Nomad stared at her, watching her toss and turn.

Keith’s temper jumped up a notch. Before he acted on it and took Nomad apart, he wanted to make sure what the kid tried to say. “Spit it out.”

“She’s been around drugs.” Nomad sat rigidly.

“I figured as much.”

“That’s not a problem?”

“As long as it doesn’t resurface, a person’s entitled to mistakes.”

Nomad slumped and let out a long breath.

“Did you think I’d figure it out, and ban her and Heather from the house?” Keith asked.

“I didn’t know what you’d do.”

“That’s it? You’ve been walking around worried about it?”

“Yeah.”

“Is that the only thing eating at you?”

“No.” The answer was definite and Keith waited for the rest. “What you see isn’t really what you get with her. She’s damaged.”

The word choice made him think for a moment.

Damaged.
Nomad once referred to himself as damaged. It’d been his one word summation of a childhood filled with trauma, abuse and neglect.

“You know something about her you want to share?”

“Nothing concrete.” Nomad probably took in a lot through quiet observation. “She’s grateful to be here though.”

“Why would you say that?”

“I can see it, sense it. She’s been drifting a long 143

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time. She feels a connection here but doesn’t think it’ll last. She’s waiting for the next shoe to drop. I’d bet my last nickel, she’s had more than two come crashing down.”

Could the kid be mistaken? God, he hoped so.

Nomad balled his hands into fists before flattening his palms against his thighs. “That’s my interest in her. I want to make sure nothing happens to her. And if it does, I don’t want her to be alone.” Keith’s stomach dropped and guts twisted.

Nomad thought he knew Whisper. He believed they were alike. The emotional hole in the kid was the size of a crater.

When they’d talked over dinner after the drug bust, Keith asked direct questions about Nomad’s home life. He learned an eighteen-year-old boy could look and act normal after severe abuse. Nomad hadn’t stuttered, got up tight or cried. God, he had a right to cry. His stride in eating the burger and fries never broke as he talked casually about torture, molestation and exploitation.

“Hey,” Keith said. He couldn’t stand the glimmer of deep-seated sadness in Nomad’s eyes.

“You know she won’t get hurt here. You know firsthand.”

“If it comes down to a choice…” He sighed before saying, “I want to protect her, but I owe you my life.”

“For Christ’s sake, Nomad.”

“Don’t write off what you did for me. I’d be whoring to get more drugs and on the street.”

“You weren’t that dumb or desperate.” Aging four years should’ve put some distance between Nomad and his drug habit. Maybe it took eight or twelve years.

“And there’s the problem,” Nomad said, ignoring Keith’s last statement. “She’s the first person outside our family I worry about. With the two of you
liking
each other, I keep wondering what I’d do 144

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if that changed.”

Our family.
Two words said more than he relayed through most of the conversation. It mattered—Nomad feeling like he belonged.

“Why does it have to change?”

“It always does.”

“What about Heather? You don’t feel anything for her?” Keith asked.

“I do, like a kid sister. But she’s strong and can protect herself. Whisper’s also got Heather’s back.

Heather’s safe.”

Again, he listened for everything Nomad didn’t say and tried to bring it out. “But Whisper’s not?”

“No.”

“She’s stronger than you think.”

“Not about some things.” After his last cryptic certainty, Nomad stood and left.

Keith mulled the conversation over. Someone lightly knocked on the door. “Come in.” Heather slipped inside, carrying a plate with a few sandwiches and a cup of coffee. “Roast beef and Swiss.”

“Thanks, honey.” He accepted the plate and she placed the coffee on the night stand.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“For making me something to eat?” She smiled and he couldn’t help smiling too. She was a cross between an awkward teen and a woman.

One moment she could be shy and uncertain, and the next, knowing and confident.

“For calling,” she replied.

“You did the right thing. You should’ve called sooner.”

“I wasn’t sure what was wrong. She’s never been sick.”

“She said the same thing. Hard to believe.” He saw a tear fall as she turned to leave. “Heather?”

“Yes?” She continued facing the door.

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“You worried, honey?”

“Yes.”

“She’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“If we can’t work it out here, we’ll take her to the hospital.”

She spun around, the color having left her cheeks. “But you’ll do what you can here first, right?”

“Sure,” he replied, wondering what problem the sisters had with hospitals. “By the way, how’s my little guy doing?”

“He ate and zoned out on the couch with some cartoons. He’s just sleepy today.”

“Good. Could you do me a favor?”

“Yes.”

“Make sure he gets plenty to drink. Anything he wants except milk. Got it?”

“No problem.”

“You feeling okay? No headache, sniffles—

nothing weird going on?”

“I’m fine, why?”

“The flu is the gift that keeps on giving. It’s contagious. The first sign of sneezing, sore throat, even being more tired than usual, let me know. We’ll dose you up on some vitamins, stick a gallon of orange juice down your throat and pray.”

“Is that all it takes to avoid it?”

“Not always, but sometimes you get lucky. If Nomad goes out, have him pick up a few gallons of orange juice.”

“I will. And Keith?”

He looked in her direction after taking a bite of a sandwich.

“Thanks for everything. Despite the cold, snow and flu, I’m glad we came to Cleveland.” In truth, he’d never been more pleased with the area. Mentally postponing the move, he wanted time 146

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to let the home front settle down to see where life took them.

For the time being, with Whisper and Heather in the picture, they could stay right where they were.

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The phone woke Whisper on Christmas morning. At five sharp, Keith explained Billy couldn’t wait much longer to open presents. When she and Heather arrived with their gifts, the house exploded in a flurry of activity.

The kids exchanged presents. Christy gave packages of homemade cookies. Nomad supplied gift cards for everyone. Corey and the boys in the band made homemade autographed CD’s, with a printed copy of all the lyrics to the songs. Mark and Keith purchased clothing items and some expensive leather jackets to keep the kids warm. Billy had a huge mound of video games, a new gaming system and toys.

She rethought the gifts she and Heather made, wondering then how adult males might feel about getting Christmas stockings. When Heather passed them out, a lot of laughter and sounds of surprise traveled through the room. Each stocking held different items, depending on the receiving individual. All of them held homemade chocolates.

She and Heather worked days to make the pounds of sweetness.

The room quieted as stockings were emptied to see what lay inside. Christy exclaimed, “My favorite perfume. Thank you.”

They’d chosen small personal gifts for each of them. Keith opened the undersized box from his stocking and she filled with dread. At the time she purchased it, nothing seemed more appropriate.

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Purposely watching the others, she didn’t want to see his initial reaction. She’d chosen poorly. What could she have been thinking?

“Whisper?”

He held the silver key fob and his eyes glistened.

He motioned for her to come near, which she did somewhat hesitantly. She knelt beside him and he stroked her hair. “St. Joseph?” He at least recognized the image on the medal or maybe he’d read the tiny inscription.
St. Joseph—may he protect
you.
Sometimes she forgot not everyone had her upbringing. “Isn’t he the patron saint of carpentry?”

“Yes,” she said, looking down, “a lot of things actually. I thought more about him being the patron saint of fathers.”

“But I’m not a father.”

“Neither was he. He was a surrogate father. I figured you two have a lot in common, and he might look out for a guy who can build a porch, work construction and has this thing for making sure kids are safe and well cared for. It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

The rest of the noise and confusion in the room dwindled as he drew her closer. Holding her chin with his fingers, he kissed her very softly before saying, “Thank you. It’s one of the most thoughtful gifts I’ve ever gotten.”