nothing but fun. By the time they’d chosen their lipstick colors, the backs of the girls’ hands had been striped with every pink and red on the spectrum, and even some purple. They’d loved it. Fruitful was also wearing loose white chinos and a pale-coral top, and there was a pair of delicate backstrapped flat sandals by the door in a daring bronze, suitable for crutches. Suitable for toenail varnish, too. Mani/pedi: another item on the list for tomorrow. There’d be more color-choosing then, because the world was opening its doors.
I handed Matiu his glass of wine and sat down. The girls still needed new names, and passports. I still needed a car. We still needed to see the lawyer and enroll them in school. And what had we done today? We’d gone to the hair salon, and we’d gone shopping for clothes. Shopping for food. Shopping for shoes. Shopping for everything.
If you wanted to be somebody new, though, you needed to feel like somebody new.
Now, I wondered where Gray was. I’d put the pizza under foil, but it was going to be drying out. He’d said he’d come tonight. Hadn’t he? I couldn’t quite remember.
I was still wondering when I heard the knock at the door.
Oh, good. Finally.
Or not. Could be an explosion. It depended on Matiu, and it depended on Gray. Men were different. You’d think they weren’t, and then there they’d be, different after all.
What did it matter, though? If Fruitful was used to hurting, I was used to explosions. I was an Emergency nurse. I’d been through the fire, and I didn’t cower.
Things could hurt. I could survive. It wasn’t as if I had any illusions left.
29
No Florence Nightingale
Daisy
It was Gray at the door. He had Xena with him, and he was still in dirty jeans and boots, which I’ll admit surprised me. Somehow, I’d expected him to … what? Dress up? After a full day of work?
Geez, I was picky. Why was I so picky? The jeans had a tear at the knee, too.
I said, “I wondered if you’d …” and then stopped talking, because something was wrong.
He asked, “What does Gilead look like?”
The chill went straight through me, and I had my arms wrapped over my chest again. “He’s … dark. Uh … medium height. But I haven’t seen him for twelve years. Did you think you saw him? What’s wrong? What’s happened?” I put my hands on his arms, now, wanting to check him over. Was he hurt? He was. I could tell he was.
There. On the underside of his forearms. I picked up his hands and checked. Road rash, down his forearms and on the heels of his hands, like he’d gone over the handlebars of a bike. Swollen, angry red abrasions, and a triangular flap of skin on a palm where he’d hit something sharp. Ground-in dirt. Very nasty and painful. I asked, “Did Gilead do this? How? What happened to you?”
“Nothing happened to me,” he said, pulling his hands away. “I need you to—”
Fruitful said from behind me, “You saw Gilead?”
“Oh,” I said, feeling stupid. “Fruitful will be able to describe him better. You need to stop just standing there, though, so I can clean these up.”
He said, “I’m trying to tell you something!” He roared it, actually. I could hear the thump-thump as Fruitful took a step back on her crutches, and then Matiu’s Emergency-doctor voice, full of command presence, asking, “Something wrong?”
Gray looked like he was fighting for control. Finally, he said, “Nothing’s wrong with me. I’m trying to explain to the most aggravating woman in the world that I caught her ex-husband, Fruitful’s current husband, breaking into her flat, and she wants to talk about how I scraped my hands!”
“Because you’re injured,” I said, “and that’s what matters right now. I’m cleaning and dressing this, and while I do it, you can tell me.”
I could swear Gray was grinding his teeth. “Fine,” he said. “Fine. Wash my hands. Fine.”
“Oh,” I realized belatedly. “Do you have Dettol over at your place? Gauze?”
“I don’t need Dettol,” he said. “I need a bit of soap and water. Stop it.”
The dog, Xena, had been at his side all this time. Now, she whined, and Gray said, “See? Even the dog thinks you’re missing the point.”
“I am not missing the point,” I said. “I’m triaging.”
“Well, stop triaging, because I’m fine! Or I would be if you’d bloody listen.” He shoved the door shut and sank down onto the bench to take off