“It’s just that I know what a sound larynx should feel like, and I can tell what yours feels like, and … I put my fingers there and envision the way it should feel.” That’s what McEwan had said in response to Roger’s questions. I wondered if I knew what a normal larynx felt like.
“There was a sensation of warmth.” Roger’s eyes had closed again; he was concentrating on my touch. The smooth bulge of his larynx lay under the heel of my hand, bobbing slightly when he swallowed. “Nothing startling. Just the feeling you get when you step into a room where a fire is burning.”
“Does my touch feel warm to you now?” It should, I thought; his skin was cool.
“Yes,” he said, not opening his eyes. “But it’s on the outside. It was on the inside when McEwan … did what he did.” His dark brows drew together in concentration. “It … I felt it … here—” Reaching up, he moved my thumb to rest just to the right of center, directly beneath the hyoid. “And … here.” His eyes opened in surprise, and he pressed two fingers to the flesh above his collarbone, an inch or two to the left of the suprasternal notch. “How odd; I hadn’t remembered that.”
“And he touched you there, as well?” I moved my lower fingers down and felt the quickening of my senses that often happened when I was fully engaged with a patient’s body. Roger felt it, too—his eyes flashed to mine, startled.
“What—?” he began, but before either of us could speak further, there was a high-pitched yowl from the clearing below. This was instantly followed by a confusion of young voices, more yowling, then a voice immediately identifiable as Mandy in a passion, bellowing, “You’re bad, you’re bad, you’re bad and I hate you! You’re bad and youse going to HELL!”
Roger leapt to his feet. “Amanda!” he bellowed. “Come here right now!” Over his shoulder, I saw Amanda, face contorted with rage, trying to grab her doll, Esmeralda, which Germain was dangling by one arm, just above her head, dancing to keep away from Amanda’s concerted attempts to kick him.
Startled, Germain looked up, and Amanda connected full-force with his shin. She was wearing stout half boots and the crack of impact was clearly audible, though instantly superseded by Germain’s cry of pain. Jemmy, looking appalled, grabbed Esmeralda, thrust her into Amanda’s arms, and with a guilty glance over his shoulder ran for the woods, followed by a hobbling Germain.
“Jeremiah!” Roger roared. “Stop right there!” Jem froze as though hit by a death ray; Germain didn’t, and vanished with a wild rustling into the shrubbery.
I’d been watching the boys, but a faint choking noise made me glance sharply at Roger. He’d gone pale and was clutching his throat with both hands. I seized his arm.
“Are you all right?”
“I … don’t know.” He spoke in a rasping whisper, but gave me the shadow of a pained smile. “Think I—might have sprained something.”
“Daddy?” said a small voice beside me. Amanda sniffled dramatically, wiping tears and snot all over her face. “Is you mad at me, Daddy?”
Roger took an immense breath, coughed, and went over, squatting down to take her in his arms.
“No, sweetheart,” he said softly—but in a fairly normal voice, and something clenched inside me began to relax. “I’m not mad. You mustn’t tell people they’re going to hell, though. Come here, let’s wash your face.” He stood up, holding her, and turned toward my mixing table, where there was a basin and ewer.
“I’ll do it,” I said, reaching out for Mandy. “Maybe you want to go and … er … talk to Jem?”
“Mmphm,” he said, and handed her across. A natural snuggler, Mandy at once clung affectionately to my neck and wrapped her legs around my middle.
“Can we wash my dolly’s face, too?” she asked. “Dose bad boys got her dirty!”
I listened with half an ear to Mandy’s mingled endearments to Esmeralda and denunciations of her brother and Germain, but most of my attention was focused on what was going on in the clearing below.
I could hear Jem’s voice, high and argumentative, and Roger’s, firm and much lower, but couldn’t pick out any words. Roger was talking, though, and I didn’t hear any choking or coughing …. That was good.
The memory of him bellowing at the children was even better. He’d done that before—it was a necessity, children and the great outdoors being what they respectively were—but I’d never heard him do it without his voice breaking, with a follow-up of coughing and throat clearing. McEwan had said that it was a small improvement, and that it took time for healing.
Had I actually done anything to help?
I looked critically at the palm of my hand, but it looked much as usual: a half-healed paper cut on the middle finger, stains from picking blackberries, and a burst blister on my thumb, from snatching a spider full of bacon that had caught fire out of the hearth, without a pot holder to shield my hand. Not a sign of any blue light, certainly.
“Wassat, Grannie?” Amanda leaned off the table to look at my upturned hand.
“What’s what? That black splotch? I think it’s ink; I was writing up my casebook yesterday. Kirsty Wilson’s rash.” I’d thought at first the rash was just poison sumac, but it was hanging on in a rather worrying fashion …. No fever, though … perhaps it was hives? Or some kind of atypical psoriasis?
“No, dat.” Mandy poked a wet, chubby finger at the heel of my hand. “Issa letter!” She twisted her head halfway round to look closer, black curls tickling across my arm. “Letter ‘J’!” she announced triumphantly. “‘J’ is for Jemmy! I hate Jemmy,” she added, frowning.
“Er …” I said, completely nonplussed. It was the letter “J.” The scar had faded to a thin white line but was still clear if the light struck right. The scar Jamie had given me, when I’d left him at Culloden. Left him to die, hurling myself through the stones to save his unborn, unknown child. Our child. And if I hadn’t?
I looked at Mandy, sherry-eyed and black-curled and perfect as a tiny spring apple. Heard Jem outside, now giggling with his father. It had cost us twenty years apart—years of heartbreak, pain, and danger. It had been worth it.
“It’s for Grandda’s name. ‘J’ for Jamie,” I said to Amanda, who nodded as though that made perfect sense, clutching a soggy Esmeralda to her chest. I touched her glowing cheek and imagined for an instant that my fingers might be tinged with blue, though they weren’t.
“Mandy,” I said, on impulse. “What color is my hair?”
“When your hair is white, you’ll come into your full power.” An old Tuscarora wisewoman named Nayawenne had said that to me, years ago—along with a lot of other disturbing things.
Mandy stared intently at me for a moment, then said definitely, “Brindle.”
“What? Where did you learn that word, for heaven’s sake?”
“Uncle Joe. He says ’at’s what color Badger is.”
“Who’s Badger?”
“Auntie Gail’s doggy.”
“Hmm,” I said. “Not yet, then. All right, sweetheart, let’s go and hang Esmeralda out to dry.”