Silhouettes Chapter 6

Sorry about the wait, guys! It's been a week! Have a nice weekend! And thank you for your lovely reviews.

-XXX-

Dad is already in the kitchen when I arise the next morning. He sits at the island, staring out at the ocean. I bustle about, making myself tea and setting the toaster. He's just finishing his breakfast as I'm sitting down. Just when I think I'm off the hook, he says casually, "I got a call from Davies last night."

"Oh?"

Dad doesn't meet my eye. "He says he saw you out with the Holly bloke last night. Thought you arguing."

"Did he?" I ask disinterested. "Hm. That's funny. Ben and I were just chatting over dinner. Davies stopped by and seemed a little…well, sloshed."

Unhappily, Dad looks at me from the doorway. "Yeah…yeah, he might've mentioned that." He pauses. "Are you sure that Holly is the right kind of person for you to be hangin' 'round, Vi? There's word of him buying funny things at the butcher's, and, well, the word in town is that he's a little…odd. Funny round the head."

I sip my tea. Slowly, I shake my head. With upmost casualness, I assure him, "Oh no, he's quite normal. Ben likes science. So he does a lot of experiments and things."

My father hesitates. I can tell he's debating himself on asking whatever it is he's about to ask, so I sit calmly, waiting.

"You aren't…you aren't seeing the bloke, are you?"

"What do you mean?" I ask innocently.

Dad sighs. "He's not from around here, Vi. He's bound to leave, come fall, and you're not going to…I just don't want you to get hurt."

"I won't be." Another sip. "I'm not seeing him."

Relief colours my father's features.

-XXX-

"Where is your mother?"

It isn't like Ben to ask such questions, so I am taken aback for a moment, pondering before answering lightly. "I haven't got one."

"Everyone has a mother," he scolds.

"No. Not everyone." As breezily as possible, I lift my chin and say, "I haven't. Not truly."

"She ran off." Ben states this blankly, with no sort of emotion or inflection. It's very matter-of-fact; an observation. Not a question.

I incline my head slowly, looking straight ahead, eyes clear. As though sensing my discomfort, Hugo leans a little more against my leg. The pressure is consoling.

"Yes."

"You were young." He peers at me, trying to deduce an approximate age, the freshness of my wound. "When?"

It's a terribly rude thing to bring up – but that is terribly Ben. I allow myself a few moments before answering slowly. I don't give him the answer right away; he'll likely pry, anyways, and I'd rather get the story done and told, rather than pull it out. Taking breath, I begin.

"She and my dad met and married pretty young. 18, or something. I think my dad was younger. Had me right off the bat. Didn't take her too long to realize motherhood just wasn't something she was cut out for, what she wanted from her life. So, she left when I was about six months."

There are things I don't mention, of course. Over the years, I've gathered bits and piece of her life from my grandparents and my father. She's an American, born in New Jersey, but she moved over here when she was young. She was a good singer, and worked locally before beginning to branch out. But that was before she married my father. When she left she returned to the Opera, briefly. I don't know what she's doing now.

Ben doesn't respond right away. We keep walking, breathlessly silent within the morning mist, the only noise being the distant waves, our ragged breath, and Hugo's own faint puffs of air. It's still early enough that we are the beach's only patrons.

"You never knew her."

"Well – not quite. She did come by, once, when I was ten. Took me out for ice cream. Dad wasn't happy, but he didn't say no. She was…." I stare into the air, searching for words. "Young. Sort of witty. I think she was a little disappointed in how I'd turned out. Still, she seemed to mostly like me. She and Dad talked a bit afterwards, then she left. Next Christmas I got a package – a necklace and a tin of Czech candies. But that was it."

"Curious," he murmurs.

"Is it?"

Ben looks up, catching my eyes and holding the gaze. "It is a pity one should not know their parents."

"Oh? What about you, Ben? You've never mentioned yours."

"I've a brother," he says shortly. And that's as far as we get. He changes the subject. "It's very…smelly, out here, isn't it?"

"It's the beach," I observe. "Dead things float up on shore, then you have the water, all briny… have you never been to a beach before?"

"It's been sometime." He looks around. "Does the sand always have a tendency of sticking?" The hems of his pants are positively covered with a solid layer of the gritty material.

"Yes." I giggle, then immediately regret the girlish sound. "Sticking is quite a big characteristic of sand. That's why I don't even bother with shoes. Besides, it feels good!"

His expression tells me that Ben doesn't quite agree. No matter. I pull him towards the waves with me. He hangs back as I crash about the water. Hugo, dragging up a stick of driftwood, begs to play fetch, so I throw a few times along the shore. He bounds back and forth happily, tumbling against me with each return to be rewarded with a hearty rub of the head. Ben observes from a safe distance.

I leave Hugo to play in the water, making my way up the sand back to Ben. His attention is on the water, so for a moment I openly watch him. Ben doesn't quite fit with the landscape, wearing black trousers and a lavender button-down shirt. Unlike me, he's not carrying his shoes, but has both boots firmly laced to his feet. In the grey morning light he appears paler than ever. His curls contrast darkly against his skin. The blue-white eyes are ethereal, staring off into the ocean's horizon.

Another step forward and I scream, plummeting to the sand.

"Oh…Oh God. Oh my God…."

Above me, Ben has frozen, looking down. He slides down the dune towards me, landing on his knees. A panicked flash enters his eyes. Two hands cup either side of my face in an attempt to steady me.

"My foot," I whimper. "I stepped on something and…and I think I'm bleeding."

Ben moves to look at my feet. Relief colours him when he sees, but the grim expression has soon returned. "You've stepped on a shard glass. It's gone in fairly deep."

Without another word, he's scooped me up. Whistling to Hugo, he adjusts me so that I'm cradled against his chest, head on his shoulder.

"My shoes," I whisper.

"Later," he replies shortly.

Ben carries me across the beach and up the stairs to the parking lot in silence. I'm terribly glad I convinced him to let me drive – his house is nearly two miles away. I am loaded gently into the back seat. Hugo hops into the front. Ben drives, and in no time we're -

- at my house.

"No, no, please," I protest. "Dad can't see me –"

Ben meets my eyes the rearview mirror. "Viola, you're going to be limping, he'll find out sometime."

"Better later than soon," I say hastily. "Go, go!"

We end up in his drive. Again, I am lifted up. Ben is surprisingly gentle. He navigates us through the threshold, then up the stairs for the bathroom. I am set on the edge of the tub and told sternly to sit. He returns with a bowl, a wash cloth, and a sewing kit. I blanch at the last item, only to be scolded for not sitting still. Retrieving a pair of tweezers from the medicine cabinet, Ben elevates my foot with his knee. After a moment's examination, he looks at me seriously.

"This will hurt. It's in the tender part of your arch. I need you not to wiggle, flinch, or otherwise move. Is that clear?"

"Okay," I whisper.

With a steadied hand, Ben begins removing the glass. It comes out, bloody, a jagged brown piece nearly an inch long, and is dropped unceremoniously into the bowl with a distinct "cling!" I wince at the sound. The pain deepens. I can feel my foot get wet with sticky, warm blood. Bile rises in my throat.

Using the cloth he's soaked in warm water, Ben wipes away the layers of blood and sand to examine the cut. I hiss when he uses the pads of his fingers to part the wound. A grim expression takes his face.

"You need stitches. It's reasonably deep."

I bite back a moan. "There's a physician in town -"

He gives me a look. "You don't want your father to know."

The thought of homemade stitches terrifies me. "Do you know how to…how to do that sort of thing?"

"Yes, of course," Holly assures me with a lightness I know to be forced. He's meeting my eyes fully, so it doesn't take much to realize he's blatantly lying. I don't doubt that Ben knows the practice – in theory. However, I cannot believe he's exactly certified in performing such medical actions. "It's nothing."

Nervous, I blink up at him. "Ben. If it's going to hurt -
"I have an anaesthetic."

I could question why he'd have such a thing just lying around, but at the moment, I am simply grateful. Sinking with relief, I nod. Ben disappears in a flash to return several seconds later with a syringe, a shot glass, and a 3/5th a bottle of scotch.

My eyes widen at the booze. "Is that…um, necessary?"

"Takes the edge off," he answers shortly. My foot is placed in his lap again. Setting the glass on the porcelain edge of the sink, Ben measures out a shot. He hands the glass to me. "Take it back when I inject you," he orders. "No sipping – though this is a terrible waste of good scotch, thankyouverymuch Ms. Carters - knock it straight back. We need the alcohol to influence you as soon as possible."

I tense when the needle is readied. Ben gives me a few second's warning. When the think metal piercing my sole, I tip back the glass and drain it of its contents. My mouth feels sour for several seconds. I sit up, swallowing thinly. My foot is already beginning to feel numb.

"Take another."

I obey. This is followed by a third, then I sip at a forth while I watch my physician work.

Ben is busying himself readying the needle. To my surprise and wonder, he's got a proper, curved hook and black surgical thread. I watch as he threads the flashing silver hook. Once that task is completed, Ben twists 'round to retrieve a bottle of peroxide. Holding the bowl beneath my foot, he pours the peroxide over the wound with a measured hand. I cannot feel the sizzle of white bubble eating away at bacteria, though I know they're there. Satisfied, Ben wipes off the excess, then picks up the needle.

He meets my eye for a brief moment. Biting my lip, I look to him, apprehensive. Without a word or gesture or any indication, he begins.

In less than ten minutes it is done. But it still feels like ages to me.

Ben seals the cut up with great precision, then places a few layers of cotton gauze and tape over the stitches. He then fetches me another pair of woolly socks (reminding me I have yet to wash and return the ones I'd borrowed). When it appears I'm relatively stable, he helps me hobble downstairs.

I am left alone for several minutes. Without a piece of reading within arm's length, I'm forced to turn to the closest thing. Which, happens to be a few manila folders on the small side table. Official, and clearly off-limits. But, being bored and a little drunk, I nudge one open. What I find leaves me incredibly confused.

-XXX-

Ah, the mysterious mother and cliché injured-so-I'mma-gonna-sew-you-up.

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