Expiation: Part II
Chapter 12:
Propitiation
A few hours after Harry's visit, Ruth is in bed, hospital blanket drawn up around her, hoping that the next 24 hours or so will pass quickly. And she is determined, no matter what he might say or do to get her to stay longer, to hold him to his side of the bargain: 24 hours in total, and not a minute more.
She intends as well to raise no red flags, to cooperate fully, and give no reason otherwise why she should not be recommended for release the following day. And when they do release her, she knows she will have to be on guard more than ever to keep his suspicions at bay; he already suspects too much. But she needs to be home; she needs her memories, her journal— and her guilt— to keep her on her path which she has chosen.
But away from home and her journal—especially coupled with his obvious feelings for her, she can feel her resolve wavering. "Just 24 hours," she whispers. "Just 24."
The day's events take its toll on her. Her head falls back onto the pillow, and in minutes, she falls asleep.
The day takes its toll on Harry as well. Going through Ruth's stuff gives him no particular pleasure, and when he is finally done, he is exhausted. Still, he remembers one last thing on his list: He goes over to her fireplace and notices some ash, rather than charcoal, from burning wood. He examines the fireplace more closely. It is clear to him that something was burned there, most likely paper. He thinks of the sole page written in her journal, a copy of it on his mobile, and wonders if she has written other pages and burned them as well. But why keep just the one, he wonders?
He leaves that to ponder upon for later; minutes later, he is replacing the little paper back in the doorjamb, and locking her front door.
When his driver returns for him, it is already dusk. Fortunately, there were few phone calls, and the Grid is relatively quiet. Nor has Beth called in; perhaps she is on her way home from China. He knows he should call her, but he puts that off until later. He gives silent thanks to whatever god there is that no emergency occurred on this day when Ruth needed him so much.
He gets into the car. "Take me to St. Charles, please," he tells his driver.
During the drive, the copy of her journal on his mobile seems to burn right through his coat pocket and straight to his very soul. But he cannot bear to open it and read it again. Reading it the first time broke something inside of him, and it is only now, hours later, that he feels whole enough to actually see her.
And see her he must. He must convince her that she needs help— professional help. He will not allow her to sacrifice herself because of some misplaced feelings of culpability for others' evil actions.
As far as for the rest, he is stymied how best to handle it. But he is gratified—in a wholly selfish manner he realizes— to know her true feelings about him.
"St. Charles, Sir Harry," the driver says, breaking into Harry's musings, as the car pulls up to the kerb.
He makes his way to her room, but when he gets there, he doesn't enter. Instead, he takes a peek through the little square window in her door. She is lying in bed, and appears to be sleeping, the blue light above her bed casting an eerie tint on her face. He watches her as she sleeps for a while. Then touching the glass, he turns and leaves her.
The next morning, she is sitting up in bed, waiting to speak to the doctor, when Harry shows up. She wonders why he did not call the evening before, or this morning as well.
But he is here, now and she cannot hide her gratitude to see him especially if it means she will soon be home.
He smiles as he enters the room. "Ah," he says, noticing the tray on the little table nearby, "The Full English Breakfast, I see."
She smiles back at him. "Not quite," she says. "It does leave something to the imagination."
He looks at the less than appealing items on the tray, and nods in commiseration, but he takes note that she did drink her tea and a bit of yoghurt which pleases him no end.
"How are you feeling?" He asks, dragging a chair around to face her, before he sits down on it.
"Fine. And ready to go home."
"Ah." He says. "About that…"
"Harry. You promised." She says, giving him a warning look.
"Actually, I said that you should—"
"—24 hours, you said."
"To revisit this."
"You cannot be serious." She says.
He leans in a bit more towards her. "I...need to talk to you, Ruth. "
"What is it? "
"I went to your house, yesterday."
"Why?" She asks, her face perfectly impassive, even as the rush of adrenaline courses through her body.
His voice drops. "I was—am—worried about you." His hand instinctively reaches towards hers, but she pulls away from his touch.
He sighs. "You're not...taking care of yourself properly."
"—Must I remind you again, that you are not a doctor?" She says, articulating every syllable.
"Ruth," he says as patiently as he can, "You've lost a great deal of weight, you're pale, passing out, and I saw little to no food in your refrigerator. It doesn't take a genius—"
"—You have no right to interfere in my private –"
"—I am not going to idly stand by and watch you fade away to nothing; I had to make sure that—"
"—-How dare you?" she asks. "How dare you?" She asks again, tamping down the nausea that threatens to rise up and spill over.
"Ruth. Listen to me. You need to talk to someone about…what happened. To you. To George. ….Nico."
And it is at that precise moment, that she realizes her worst fear has come true: he has not only searched her house, he has found—and read—her journal. She manages—through sheer willpower— not to throw up her breakfast.
"Tell me, Harry, she says, swallowing visibly, her eyes locked on his, "Did you enjoy going through my knickers, too?"
"Ruth."
"You need to leave, "she says, her voice as icy as he has ever heard it.
"You need to know that I going to recommend that you take a medical leave; and in fact, I believe that it would be would be best if you—"
"—"You have no right—"
"I have every right as your superior and as ….someone…" He trails off, at a loss for words.
"No, Harry. You may have every right as my superior, but we are not… "She begins again, "If you want to relive me of duty, then you are quite right: that is your prerogative. But you will not, cannot, tell me how to live my life. Now please leave.""
"This isn't finished, Ruth." He says, getting up and heading towards the door. "Understand me when I say to you, it is not."
When the door closes behind him, she flings the blanket off of her. "Just who the bloody hell does he think he is?" She says to the empty room.
She peels the tape off her IV, and then searches for the needle in her vein with her thumb. Slowly she works it out, ignoring the pain. She alternates as well between concentrating on sliding the needle out and glancing at the small window in the door. She knows she has little time, but it's essential that if someone should come in, she hide what she is doing.
In less than a minute, she is free; the site from the IV site bleeds a bit, but she forgoes blotting it with the package of tissues near her bed; she hasn't the time.
Swinging her legs out of bed, she grabs the IV stand, and reaching up, unhooks the hanging bag of medication. Still keeping a careful watch upon the door, she carries the bag and now loose plastic tubing as if still tethered to it; for the moment, it will serve her well as a cover. She moves quickly to the small dresser next to the bathroom with her personal belongings inside. She yanks open the drawer and gets her stuff, quickly heads into the bathroom, and locks the door behind her.
Less than 15 minutes later, she is gone.