Brenda groaned. Well, not so much groaned as moaned. Well, not so much moaned as whimpered. Then mewled a little. Then a long, high-pitched whine.
Everything hurt. Nothing was comfortable and everything hurt.
Her chest was radiating a broad, vivid stripe of pain into the very air around her, somehow, not to mention the ache against her ribs every time she huffed petulantly about something. Which, she had to acknowledge, had been plenty. Maybe a little plenty much, as her mama might say, shooting her a sharp glance, but had her mama ever had half her chest crunched in, it felt like, she sure didn't think so.
Well, she hadn't to Brenda's knowledge, anyway. An awful thought.
And then she'd distract herself from the pain along her front by thinking about how badly the sutures on her arm itched. And if that didn't work, how truly maddening the dull, endless throb in her head was. How bright the lights were in her dim apartment. The mess of Maura and all these too-complicated feelings she'd thought were long dead.
How much she'd wished she'd woken from the accident with total amnesia, or, better, just stayed in a coma for a good long while.
It had been two and a half days since the damage from her injuries had finally made itself fully known, and if her traitor body would have let her she'd have jumped out of her skin a full night ago, but here she was, whimpering like she had when she'd faked sick to get out of her weekly drawing class, except this time she meant it, and with no too-warm Dr Pepper and General Hospital on the little porch TVto soothe her.
You may think you're a lot of fancy things, Miss Brenda Leigh, but an artist surely is not one of them, withered old Miz Hackley had announced one day, holding up Brenda's lumpy charcoal still life, more Pomeranian than pineapple, but still, she brooded as she wriggled futilely against her soft mattress, desperate to claw at the sutures on her arm, the ones she couldn't quite reach because her other arm was in a sling, still, an awful, awful way to treat a child. Even a seventeen-year-old one who had early admission to Georgetown and was only taking this class because her cheer friend Lisa Ann had promised it would be an easy bonus credit.
"Bitch," Brenda grumbled petulantly, her stitched arm itching like . . . well.
She spared her customary quick glance in the direction of the faint scattering of half-moon scars on her shoulder, just below her left breast, one on the softness of her belly, one high up on her inner thigh. Those had itched worse. But of course she'd also been detoxing at the time, coming down off something nasty that she'd been assured was something else, something light, easy, a way to fit in at the parties she'd so often found herself infiltrating. Young, Western, blonde, fit, clever. Tried to hide the last part as often as she needed to, but then—
Laughed bitterly as she realized she was trying to focus on the pain in her body as it was now; bruised, broken, closer to sixty than fifty. That even this pain on this bed in this moment was easier than being somehow still soft and fresh at twenty-six; alone in a dangerous country, unable to get out of some slick-haired official's leather armchair, limbs not working, tongue not moving, only feeling a maddening, infuriating itch on her skin as that man, the target above her target, but one who had taken a special interest in her, stubbed out his unfiltered, half-newsprint Soviet-surplus cigarettes on the places he had found her the most attractive, as he hissed furiously about knowing what she really was.
He had, however, thought she was an asset for the Germans, not the Americans; her cover had miraculously held, which is the only way she'd survived. She knew that for sure.
Telling her bosses back in Washington that she was prepared to burn herself certainly took on a little more weight when she had showed them her own burns, incandescently painful by then, still only half-healed.
But she hadn't told Maura that. Or Sharon, but they'd been hardly visible after so many years. Had avoided telling anyone, except for the impassive, skeptical men in that room. Had watched their faces change. Had felt that ugly power, but had felt something break inside her at the same time.
She felt something like that sickening helplessness now, except at least this time she wasn't bargaining for her life. She was just tired, and miserable, and abruptly, desperately lonely.
And she couldn't quite reach that itch on her arm.
She sighed in frustration, slammed a pillow over her face, was on the verge of angrily cajoling herself to sleep away a few more hours, when she heard a soft knock at the door.
"Who is it," she called sweetly, tossing the pillow aside, combing at her hair with her free hand.
"Hi," an unknown voice said. "I'm—I'm Katie? I'm Dr. Isles's assistant? I have some things for you."
"Oh," Brenda said, scrambling painfully off the bed. "Just one second, please."
"No rush," the voice called.
Brenda stood up, braced herself for a moment on the bedside table as her head spun slightly. Once she could walk without swaying, she moved to the door, opening it to reveal a young woman, Brenda assumed in her early twenties, her thick black hair held down with a smooth wrap. She was carrying a small canvas sack.
"Hi," she said, a touch awkwardly.
"Well hello," Brenda drawled. Somehow it was easier, less painful for her head, to slip deep into her accent. "I'm Brenda Johnson, it's awful nice to meet you."
"Yes ma'am," Katie said, and Brenda could hear a slight accent of her own.
"Oh," Brenda said, realizing she was just standing there in front of the doorway, "please come in."
"Thank you," Katie said. "I hope you're settling in all right."
"Oh just fine, just fine," Brenda replied, smiling too brightly.
Katie raised an eyebrow. "Well, then, you're doing a lot better than I would be in your shoes," she said.
Brenda's shoulders dropped, her face melted back into the grimace of pain she'd been wearing for almost three days. "Can't fool you," she said wryly.
"Why don't you have a seat," Katie said, indicating the loveseat. "I brought things to help. I mean, Dr. Morales has been checking in, right? Making sure you're taking your painkillers? Icing your shoulder?" Her brow furrowed.
"Yes ma'am he has," Brenda replied, sinking onto a cushion, sighing gratefully at not having to pretend she felt like anything more than last week's roadkill.
"Okay, good. Dr. Isles thinks he's very qualified to keep an eye on you," she said, but Brenda could see something in her expression, something just a little bit knowing.
"He's very qualified," Brenda murmured. "You had some things for me?"
"Oh, right," Katie said, digging into her bag. "First, I found a few opiates hidden away. Please only take one every day if you need it, probably at night. I only brought five, so . . ."
"Nasty things," Brenda smiled. "Always give me a terrible stomach ache."
"Well, the pain will probably get a little worse before it gets better, so just in case," Katie said, setting a small plastic bottle on the table. Brenda couldn't quite see, but the label looked like it might have been in Cyrillic. "But I also brought some aspirin powder. Locally sourced," she said, grinning. "One packet per full glass of water. Along with—" she pulled few jars out, set them on the table. "White willow salve, comfrey root salve, and self-heal paste. The willow salve is the most useful, it'll help with the bruising. Apply it as much as you want, just don't use it on broken skin. Same with the comfrey, that's for your collarbone. Don't put it on your stitches. That's what the self-heal's for."
"Got it," Brenda said.
"And I brought you some nettle and Labrador tea," she continued. "The nettles are good in case you have any pollen allergies, and the Labrador helps with keeping your lungs clear, because coughing isn't gonna be your friend for a while. And some honey," she added, pulling another jar out. "You can put a little of this on those cuts on your hand until they close. Tastes good, too," she said with a little smirk.
"Well you just thought of everything," Brenda said lightly.
Katie smiled at her, in that half-condescending way that reminded her suddenly, painfully of Sharon.
"We don't have a lot here," Katie said, her voice gentle but serious. "We had to learn how to help ourselves with what we had for a long time."
"I—" Brenda stammered, feeling foolish, flippant. "Thank you, so much, I'm sure this will all be a big help."
"It will," Katie said, her voice brooking no argument.
"Do you make all these things?" Brenda asked meekly, trying to get back in Katie's good graces. She'd brought the good painkillers, after all. And the willow salve smelled sweet and pretty. And Dr. Morales was right; she was definitely smart.
"I used to, but we were able to find folks who are really good at it," she said. "One of our residents was a research botanist, and one was a hobby gardener—I know what you're thinking, but we're talking acres and acres, like, prize-winning apples and stuff—and there are a couple of people who are really into the herbal medicine part. So we have a little workshop for them, and Dr. Isles and Dr. Avery, the botanist, make sure it's all safe."
"Sounds impressive," Brenda murmured, meaning it.
"We have greenhouses for aloe and some other plants, herbs and stuff for all year," Katie continued, the pride evident in her voice. "Beehives out at the Flower Farm—that's what people call it, but it's mostly alfalfa for the livestock. The salves are beeswax-based so I hope you're not allergic."
"Honestly sounds like somethin' folks would pay a whole lot of money for back in Los Angeles."
"Good news, then," Katie said dryly. "No money here."
"Never much cared for the stuff anyway," Brenda said.
They sat there in silence for a moment.
"Well, thank you, if that's all—" Brenda said.
"I talked to your friend Dr. Morales," Katie said at the same time.
Brenda sighed, sank back into the sofa. "Oh did you," she muttered. "I mean, I'm sure you did, he tells me you did my triage. Thank you for that, by the way," she said, looking sincerely into Katie's dark eyes for just a moment.
"You're welcome," Katie said. "Yeah, we talked for a bit while you were sleeping. Before Dr. Isles got there."
"Mm-hmm," Brenda murmured, already sick of her inability to hide her blush any time someone mentioned Maura.
"And then . . ." Katie drifted off.
Brenda raised an eyebrow at her. "And then?"
"For a while longer, right before I came here."
Brenda rolled her eyes, winced. "Oh for heaven's sake," she muttered. "That faithless man."
"First of all, he didn't say anything unkind about you."
"He didn't?" Brenda didn't mean to sound so surprised.
"He really cares about you. He'd never say anything to hurt you, I could tell that right away."
"Embarrass me, more like," Brenda grumbled. Katie looked down but Brenda could tell she was trying to suppress a smile. "Oh lord," she said. "What now."
"Okay, the second thing is it's not, um, entirely his fault."
"What are you—"
Brenda gasped when Katie slid a half-empty bottle out of her bag.
"Is that a merlot, or did I really hit my head as hard as it feels like I did?"
"Most of the original people in Seabrook are from Washington State," Katie said, "and it turns out they made a lot of wine in Washington State. Obviously we kinda keep an eye on it, since we've never had much of a penal system and we don't really need a lot of people drowning their sorrows. But sometimes we break out a few bottles. When it's important."
"Like gettin' my traveling companion liquored up so he'd spill all my secrets?"
Katie just shrugged.
"Well," Brenda huffed, wincing again, "if you know all about me—"
"Not all about you, I promise."
"What, then?"
"Just the CIA stuff"—Brenda groaned—"and that you were in LA working for the police when it happened, and that you and Dr. Morales went to Utah first before you went back to California."
"So basically everythin'."
"He told me about Sharon," Katie said softly, flinching when Brenda did. "Not a lot," she said quickly. "Just that she was with y'all when it happened. And that it was her family's house you went to. And that you two were together after a while, and then . . . she died, and that's why you went back," Katie whispered, not looking at Brenda. "I'm so sorry."
"It was a few years back now," Brenda said as evenly as she could manage. "We think it was cancer. It was quick, at least. Anyway," she said, her tone artificially bright. "Anything else my dear Judas shared with you while under the influence?"
"I mean obviously he told me that you and Dr. Isles, uh, knew each other a long time ago."
Brenda sighed, tried to sink more deeply into the loveseat.
"But that's all he said about it, I swear on this bottle of very good wine. At least Dr. Isles says it is. And Dr. Morales."
"You don't like it?"
Katie shrugged. "I was a 16-year-old science nerd from the Missouri Panhandle when everything happened. Not much opportunity to develop my palate."
"I was wonderin' where it was you were from!" Brenda cried. "You sure don't sound like these Yankees."
"Are people from this part of the country still called Yankees? That seems weird."
"You're a Southerner or a Yankee," Brenda said firmly. "That's what my grandmama taught me, and she was mean as cuss and sharp as a rooster's tooth so you best respect it. Plus we gotta stick together!"
"Hmm," Katie murmured, smirking again.
They sat quietly for another long moment, but it felt almost companionable this time. There was something Brenda definitely liked about Katie, her calmness, her unflappability, but also that she clearly knew how to get what she wanted.
Brenda eyed the half-empty bottle still sitting on the coffee table.
"Nuh-uh," Katie said, following her gaze. "This is incentive for you to keep taking care of yourself."
"Why does everyone think I'm so eager to hurt myself worse," Brenda grumbled.
"Maybe Dr. Morales shared a few more stories about you," Katie smirked. "So forgive me if I keep an eye on you for a little while."
"Fine," Brenda sighed. "But you better bring me a whole one."
"Deal," Katie smiled.
"And also I'm sittin' here thinkin' you know so much about me, and I don't hardly know anything at all about you. Just that your name's Katie, and you're from Missouri."
"Not much else to know," Katie shrugged.
"Come on now," Brenda said, feeling that old spark of excitement, that old thrill of prying out someone's secrets. "We're all friends here."
Katie frowned a little. "What do you want to know?"
"Well," Brenda paused, thinking. "Everythin', I guess. How'd you get here, for a start?"
Katie's eyes darkened. "It's a long story."
"Yes," Brenda said, her voice softening. "I ran into Miss Cherry on Sunday, and she promised to tell it to me, but I haven't hardly been able to move since then."
Katie rolled her eyes affectionately. "Miss Cherry was six years old when it happened, to her it's more like a family legend."
"Mm-hmm," Brenda murmured. "And you were . . . you said sixteen?"
"Yes," Katie whispered.
"You don't have to tell me," Brenda said gently, patting Katie's hand. "Not right now, if it's too much."
She knew about too much when it came to that particular past. They all did.
"No, it's all right," Katie said, taking a deep breath. "I just haven't really talked about it in a long time."
Brenda nodded, her face kind. "You think we should have a little tea while we chat? My mama would be simply appalled at how long it's taken me to offer you something."
Katie smiled. "Well, you didn't really have much of anything. And sure, but let me make it. You put on some of that willow salve, I can see your bruises through your shirt."
Brenda blushed slightly, scooped out a bit of the sweet-smelling paste and rubbed it gingerly just below her collar. It felt nice, a little cool, soothing the heat radiating from the hurt places.
Katie lit the small propane burner on the counter, set a pot of water to boil, dropped pouches of her nettle tea into two thick ceramic mugs. Dropped in a dollop of honey. Brenda adjusted herself on the loveseat, tried to discreetly spread more of the salve along her chest. Picked up the small jar of green paste, the one Katie had said was for her arm, sniffed it, wrinkled her nose. It had a strong astringent smell, but not totally unpleasant.
"Let me help you," Katie said, bringing their mugs back to the table. She carefully spread a tiny bit of the green paste along the stitches on Brenda's arm, and the relief was enough to make her drop her head back with a light groan. Katie grinned. "Smells kinda terrible, but works like magic," she said.
"It sure does," Brenda mumbled, feeling a swell of relief as the itch faded. "Thank you."
"Well," Katie said, sitting back down on the armchair, her face suddenly serious, a little anxious. "Where should I start?"