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Authors: Kerry Schafer
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her, but I said it anyway, hands behind my back like a six-year-old kid, shaking my head in denial.
"You agreed to a price which is not yet paid."
"Butâ"
She actually smiled. It felt like lying in a warm patch of sunlight and diving into icy cold water all at the same time. "I expect you to fix it, Jesse. Clean up after yourself. Surely your mother taught you that before she left."
And the very next minute I was back in my haunted house with a briefcase in my hand, knowing that the Merchant was right. I had a sudden and vivid memory of standing in the middle of this very kitchen as a child. A shattered bowl lay at my feet, milk and cereal splattered from here to kingdom come.
My mother stood there, looking down at me and the mess. No smileâmy mother wasn't big on smilesâbut no anger either. Sort of a resigned look. And then she shrugged. "Put the pieces in the trash, and wipe up the rest."
I whimpered something about it being hard, and she said, "It's your mess, Jesse. Not mine. Clean it up."
If I'd thought cleaning up a broken cereal bowl was difficult, my current mess belonged on an impossibility chart. I had no idea what to do about most of it, but the one thing I could do was check on Mia. Even then, my motives weren't pure as the driven snow. There was so much I didn't understand and I was looking for answers as much as I needed to know if she was okay. I also wanted to know why her dream was all about love and forgiveness, while the desire of my heart was apparently to run around blowing people up.
The Williamsville Sisters of Mercy hospital had been renovated during my absence. I parked in a far corner of the lot, under the shade of a decorative tree, and wrapped my mind around the changes. New entryway, with wide automatic sliding doors and outdoor benches. Landscaping with decorative bushes and flowers. It had been a dirty white, and was now faced with some sort of honey colored stone. It still looked like a hospital, though, and no matter what they might have done to the inside, there were miserable, dying people in there.
Mia was probably still in the ER, so I figured I'd bypass the main entrance and dive straight into the lion's den through the doors where the ambulances pulled up. Still, I paced outside for a good ten minutes, trying to get up my nerve.
I really hate hospitals. People go there because they are dying or in pain or sick, or visiting somebody who is. The whole place is a festering cesspool of misery. As for me, I spent some time in this ER the night my father died, and I wasn't in the mood to deal with flashbacks.
Give me long enough, and my own anxiety pisses me off. Anger gave me the momentum to draw a deep breath, and I catapulted myself into the building like all the bats of hell were behind me.
Reality is seldom as bad as what I imagine. Once inside I was okay, despite the inevitable hospital smell. It was a small ER, maybe seven bays. Only two of them were occupied, and the glass doors were closed, the curtains drawn, and the suffering occupants screened from my sight.
A couple of nurses sat behind a long desk, absorbed in computer work. The young guy in the white coat, presumably the doctor, was playing with his cell phone and glanced up when I came in. His face lit up with an ear splitting smile.
"Well, I'll be damned. Jesse Davison! What drags you back to the old homestead?"
I recognized him vaguely from high school, but couldn't come up with a name. So I smiled back, playing along. "Oh, you know. Moth to the flame."
He laughed like I was funny, which I definitely wasn't. "Know exactly what you mean. I intended to never come backâplanned to work at a big hospital in Seattle or whatever. And yet here I am. What are you doing here?"
"I'm looking for Mia James."
He had the decency to sober then, stuffing his hands into the pockets of the white lab coat. We both knew that technically he shouldn't talk to me, but small town bonds tend to win out over the
"You agreed to a price which is not yet paid."
"Butâ"
She actually smiled. It felt like lying in a warm patch of sunlight and diving into icy cold water all at the same time. "I expect you to fix it, Jesse. Clean up after yourself. Surely your mother taught you that before she left."
And the very next minute I was back in my haunted house with a briefcase in my hand, knowing that the Merchant was right. I had a sudden and vivid memory of standing in the middle of this very kitchen as a child. A shattered bowl lay at my feet, milk and cereal splattered from here to kingdom come.
My mother stood there, looking down at me and the mess. No smileâmy mother wasn't big on smilesâbut no anger either. Sort of a resigned look. And then she shrugged. "Put the pieces in the trash, and wipe up the rest."
I whimpered something about it being hard, and she said, "It's your mess, Jesse. Not mine. Clean it up."
If I'd thought cleaning up a broken cereal bowl was difficult, my current mess belonged on an impossibility chart. I had no idea what to do about most of it, but the one thing I could do was check on Mia. Even then, my motives weren't pure as the driven snow. There was so much I didn't understand and I was looking for answers as much as I needed to know if she was okay. I also wanted to know why her dream was all about love and forgiveness, while the desire of my heart was apparently to run around blowing people up.
The Williamsville Sisters of Mercy hospital had been renovated during my absence. I parked in a far corner of the lot, under the shade of a decorative tree, and wrapped my mind around the changes. New entryway, with wide automatic sliding doors and outdoor benches. Landscaping with decorative bushes and flowers. It had been a dirty white, and was now faced with some sort of honey colored stone. It still looked like a hospital, though, and no matter what they might have done to the inside, there were miserable, dying people in there.
Mia was probably still in the ER, so I figured I'd bypass the main entrance and dive straight into the lion's den through the doors where the ambulances pulled up. Still, I paced outside for a good ten minutes, trying to get up my nerve.
I really hate hospitals. People go there because they are dying or in pain or sick, or visiting somebody who is. The whole place is a festering cesspool of misery. As for me, I spent some time in this ER the night my father died, and I wasn't in the mood to deal with flashbacks.
Give me long enough, and my own anxiety pisses me off. Anger gave me the momentum to draw a deep breath, and I catapulted myself into the building like all the bats of hell were behind me.
Reality is seldom as bad as what I imagine. Once inside I was okay, despite the inevitable hospital smell. It was a small ER, maybe seven bays. Only two of them were occupied, and the glass doors were closed, the curtains drawn, and the suffering occupants screened from my sight.
A couple of nurses sat behind a long desk, absorbed in computer work. The young guy in the white coat, presumably the doctor, was playing with his cell phone and glanced up when I came in. His face lit up with an ear splitting smile.
"Well, I'll be damned. Jesse Davison! What drags you back to the old homestead?"
I recognized him vaguely from high school, but couldn't come up with a name. So I smiled back, playing along. "Oh, you know. Moth to the flame."
He laughed like I was funny, which I definitely wasn't. "Know exactly what you mean. I intended to never come backâplanned to work at a big hospital in Seattle or whatever. And yet here I am. What are you doing here?"
"I'm looking for Mia James."
He had the decency to sober then, stuffing his hands into the pockets of the white lab coat. We both knew that technically he shouldn't talk to me, but small town bonds tend to win out over the
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