Free Stay With Me by Beverly Long Page B

thinking she might
beat him if he wasn’t already half-dead. “You’re barely conscious.
You’re not going anywhere.”
    “No,” he said. “I don’t want to take your
bed.” He pulled his elbows back and tried to sit up. He got his
head about three inches off the pillow. Every speck of color left
his face and he closed his eyes.
    “Lie down,” Sarah ordered, scared that he’d
slip away from her again. “Fine. You can sleep in the barn,” she
lied. “Just rest first.”
    He didn’t respond but he did lower himself
back onto the bed. She breathed a sigh of relief.
    “I’ve got some water here,” she said. “I’m
going to wipe the blood off your head.”
    “You shouldn’t have to do that,” he
protested.
    “I don’t mind. I’ll be as gentle as I can.
You’ve got a big bump and a pretty deep cut.”
    She wiped away the blood, getting as much as
she could from his hair, being careful to avoid the edges of the
cut. When she wrung out her rag, the water in the bowl turned a
dark pink. She picked up a new rag and dipped it into the remaining
fresh bowl. She dabbed around the edges of the cut, trying not to
pull the reddened skin. It looked so deep. She felt helpless.
    “You need stitches,” she said. “You really do
and I can’t help you. I can’t even do a stupid hem. Scalp is way
out of my league.”
    “It will heal,” he dismissed her concerns.
“I’ve had worse. I’m just tired.”
    “You should stay awake,” she said. “In case
you have a concussion.”
    “No concussion,” he said, closing his eyes.
“Just tired.”
    She closed her own eyes, unwilling to let the
tears escape. Did he know the seriousness of his injury? Did he
realize that he might lapse into a coma and never wake up? That at
this very minute, his skull could be pressing into his brain,
causing internal bleeding that would ultimately cause death?
    Just weeks earlier, a ten-year-old girl from
her school had been riding a bike without a helmet and had sailed
over her handlebars. She’d died two hours later from a compressed
skull fracture. Her parents had both been at work. They hadn’t even
gotten to say goodbye.
    She placed her hand on his chest. It rose and
fell, with each steady breath. She leaned forward until her lips
were just inches from his ear. “You are going to wake up,” she
whispered. “You’re going to wake up and smile and insult me and do
whatever else comes naturally to you. I’m leaving in five days and
by God, you better be there for me to say goodbye to.”
    She got up, picked up both bowls, opened the
front door, and threw the bloody water out into the yard. She
needed fresh. Regretting that she’d been so quick to make soup, she
picked up an empty pail, grabbed the lantern, and walked outside to
the pump. She hurried, not liking the night sounds, the crickets,
the yelp of the prairie-dog, or the occasional call of the
coyote.
    She filled the bucket and quickly returned to
the cabin. She checked her patient first. Still sleeping. She
pulled two canning jars of what appeared to be cooked beef off the
shelf, and added them to the simmering barley.
    “Way to multi-task,” she said, feeling a bit
loopy. “Cook. Clean. Care for others. No problem. Who needs a task
list? If I had a phone, I could check my voice mails, maybe send a
few text messages. If my computer had made the trip, I could whip
up a few spreadsheets. I could do it all. I’m Superwoman.”
    She sat down hard on the wooden chair, the
impact reverberating up her spine. “You need to shut up, Sarah,”
she said. “You’re losing it.”
    With the back of her hand, she wiped the
sweat off her forehead. Pulling at the collar of her blouse, she
tried to free her neck of the moist material. She wanted to open a
window but knew the bugs would be attracted to the light from the
lantern.
    “Screens,” she said, adding them to her
things-to-be-thankful-for list, right behind indoor toilets and
transportation with four wheels instead of