KARMA

24. WHIRLPOOL

LISA

My sister, Jenny, unbuttons my coat. She's crying quietly. Her husband, Charlie, helps her to slide the heavy coat sleeves off my limp arms. Charlie takes off his coat and together again, they slip my unresisting arms into the sleeves. The coat is far too big for me, and its hem reaches down to my ankles.

I can't stop shaking.

"Liz, oh Liz. It's going to be okay, sweetie," Jen chokes, her voice wet and spluttery. Her arms wrap around me and I rest my mat of dirty blonde hair against her chest, close enough so that she can feel the exhalation of my breaths on her skin, reassuring her that I'm alive, though inside, I am dying. She rocks me to and fro, as if I were a baby; she used to do that when I cried as a little girl. She'd hold me and rock me to and fro. Jen, my big sister, who's always been there for me. What would I do without her? She was the first person I called at the hospital, after they rushed Maxim into the Operating Theatre for emergency surgery. Within fifteen minutes, she and Charlie were here at the Leeds General Hospital.

"Nurse, could I have a blanket, please?" Dimly, I hear Jen say.

A thick, warm blanket is wrapped around my shoulders. I look down. I'm wearing my boots on my feet. Maxim loves this pair of boots. They're leather and lined with faux fur. But now they're stained with blood. His blood.

"Drink this." Charlie hands me a mug of hot coffee. "This will warm you up."

I take a sip, but I'm still cold. I feel as if my insides are filled with snow and ice. I'll never be warm again. My teeth can't stop chattering.

"Liz, Liz...are you okay? You haven't said a word, talk to me, sweetie..." Jen says, her hands rubbing my icy palms, trying to warm them.

I'm so scared he'll die, I think.

"Oh, sweetie, we have to pray for the best."

I must have said it out loud. My worst fear.

The sound that emerges from me is one I've never heard before, a raw keening sound akin to an animal dying. Jen holds me tight, as harsh, painful sobs rake my body, making it spasm and shudder, and Jen, too, begins to cry. "Liz. Oh, sweetie. Let it out. Let it all out," she says gently, gathering me in her arms protectively, stroking the back of my head. Someone has taken the mug of coffee from my hand. Who? It's all a blur.

She lets me sob my heart out for a long, long beat.

"Let's go and get you cleaned up, okay?" She takes my hand, and helps me to my feet.

The washroom is empty.

I stare at my reflection in the mirror.

I'm covered in blood, my hands and clothing, even my hair. It stains the strands of my blonde hair red. My skin is a frightening white, translucent in the dim glow of the light. I'm a ghost, a phantom, with an empty expression on my face; the lights are on but no one's home. Tears are frozen on my cheeks, streaks running down, criss-crossing my pallid cheeks. My knees buck, then buckle, and I start to sink to the floor, to the cold, gray tiles; Jen grabs me, hoists me back to my feet. She is wiping my face, my hands, my hair with paper towels, the faucet running.

I sit on the edge of my chair, staring ahead. How long has Maxim been in that Operating Theatre? Three hours? Four? Five?

Shadows play on the wall before me.

I'm slumped over where I sit when a doctor comes out finally, still in blue scrubs.

"The surgery went well. It's a good thing the blade missed his vital organs. Mr. Chamberlain is stable. He is sedated, and we are monitoring him closely. No visitors are allowed at the moment, I'm afraid."