Silence for the Dead(41)

The morning after Syd went to war, I stood in the kitchen frying two eggs on the stove. My father came in behind me on silent feet. He took the back of my neck in a viselike grip, bent me forward, cracked my forehead on the edge of the counter hard enough to bleed, and threw me to the floor. My arm hit the handle of the pan and the hot eggs and grease went flying, splattering the wall.

“That’s for leaving my socks on the dresser,” he said, and left the room.

I lay on the linoleum, thinking that the eggs were ruined, wondering whether he’d be angry because they’d been wasted. I absently wiped the blood from my forehead. And then I realized: The surprise was gone. I lay on the floor and felt nothing. And something heavy coiled in my stomach, something that was almost fear and almost anger. You are going to die this way, it said. Perhaps not today and perhaps not tomorrow, but this is how you will die.

The year that followed was the worst of my life. Syd had gone to France and vanished; we had no idea whether he was alive or dead. My father drank. He put a knife in my mouth and threatened to cut out my tongue; he held my hand under hot water until it scalded; he pulled me screaming from under the bed one night, not knowing or caring when my hand caught on a bent nail and the skin ripped from the base of my thumb almost to my wrist. He told me that if I ran, he’d find me, no matter where I went; he’d find me and kill me, dump my body. I believed him. I had no other family, no money, no friends, and nowhere to go.

I could have married, I supposed. I was fifteen, and the local boys liked to catcall as I walked down the street in my ill-fitting dress. But by then I knew men were as dangerous as snakes. If I married one of them and he was the same, then what? Then what?

One night he came drunk into my bedroom. He crawled on top of me, a big, painfully heavy man, pressed his knees onto my thighs beneath the covers, and pinned my hands over my head. He savored the way I froze, my breath in my throat. Then he laughed, his breath hot and painful on my cheek, his body shaking. He got up and stumbled from the room.

I lay awake for hours after that, trembling. Tears leaked down my temples and into my pillow. The heavy coil came back into my stomach. I am going to die this way. I am going to die.

Nothing had changed. I still had no money, no friends, no family, and nowhere to go. I had just turned sixteen. I was utterly alone and helpless.

It didn’t matter. Three days later, I ran.





CHAPTER SIXTEEN


I woke to Nina’s face as she shook me in bed. The sun was high in the windows, glaring through the thin curtains.

“Matron wants to see you,” Nina said.

I blinked at her. “What time is it?”

“Three o’clock.”

“What?” I sat up. “I’m not on duty yet.”

Nina frowned. “Matron’s off duty at night. She wants to see you now.”

I dressed and braided my hair, anger rising within me. Of course I would be expected to attend to Matron’s convenience; how else would it be? That I had been dragged out of bed after working a twenty-four-hour shift, given only a few hours’ rest, would be nothing to her.

The men were being served tea in the common room. A few of them passed me in the corridor and nodded. Somersham stopped me and apologized for the night before.

“It’s all right,” I said to him. “Are you feeling better?”

He moved his gaze from his feet to the window behind my shoulder. “Yes, ma’am. I’m well, thank you. I didn’t mean to bother you last night.”

In the afternoon light he looked haggard, as if he hadn’t slept the sleep of the drugged for some twelve hours. Somersham and I were about the same age, but like most of the men here, he looked much older. I didn’t have the heart to keep him there, asking him questions. Instead I said, “Are you certain? I can fetch you an aspirin.”

“It’s kind of you, ma’am, but if it’s all the same to you, my stomach won’t quite handle it.”

“Of course. Go have tea. I’m on night shift again tonight. I’ll see you later.”

Boney appeared at my shoulder as he left. “There you are,” she said. “Matron has been waiting.”

Boney’s face had its usual expression, but there was a distinct smugness about it. And so I wasn’t surprised when Matron turned thunderously on me when I entered her office.

“Nurse Weekes,” she said curtly. “Sit down.”

I sat in the hard chair opposite her desk, the same chair I’d used for our first interview.

Matron thrust a paper at me. “What is the meaning, exactly, of this?”

I took the paper and looked at it. “It’s my report from last night’s shift. I was told I was supposed to write one.”

“Read it, if you would.”

I cleared my throat. “‘Patient Twelve, Somersham, vomited twelve thirty a.m. Patient Six, Childress, nightmare two a.m. Both now resting quietly. Nothing else to report.’”

I raised my eyes. Matron was glaring at me.

“Well?” she said.

“Did I do it wrong?” I asked.

“Do it wrong?” There was high outrage in her tone, and I realized she was truly angry. “Nurse Weekes, I have been told on good authority that this is far from a complete report. I have been told that you spent a good deal of time alone with Patient Sixteen in his room, which is against regulations about fraternizing with the men. I’ve also been told that Mr. Mabry had another nosebleed, a fact you were apprised of, and yet you utterly failed to note it here.” She took the paper from my hand and raised it. “This is an incomplete report.”