In twenty-five years of life, she had learned that understanding didn’t always – or even often – bring peace. Currently, since returning to her motel room with root beer, she existed in a purgatory of ignorance and confusion, where life resembled a waking nightmare or at least a bad and edgy dream. But if she found answers and a final resolution, she might discover that she was trapped in a living hell that would make her yearn for the comparative serenity and comfort of even this nerve-fraying purgatory.
As before, Dylan drove without his full attention on the road, repeatedly checking the rearview mirror and periodically glancing over his right shoulder to assure himself that Shep was not in any way harming himself, but now two worries distracted him from his driving. Following Jilly’s dramatic roadside performance – her babble of birds and blood – the attention that Dylan paid to her had the same brother’s-keeper quality that colored his attitude toward Shepherd.
‘You actually tasted it – the blood, I mean?’ he asked. ‘Actually smelled it.’
‘Yeah. I know it wasn’t real. You didn’t see it. But it seemed real enough.’
‘Heard the birds, felt their wings.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Do hallucinations usually involve all five senses – or involve them so completely?’
‘It wasn’t any hallucination,’ she said stubbornly.
‘Well, it for sure wasn’t real.’
She glared at him and saw that he wisely recognized the mortal danger of continuing to insist that she – Southwest Amazon, fearless cactuskicker – was susceptible to hallucinations. In her estimation, hallucinations were only one step removed from such quaint female complaints as the vapors, fainting spells, and persistent melancholy.
‘I’m not an hysteric,’ she said, ‘or an alcoholic in withdrawal, or a consumer of psychedelic mushrooms, thank you very much, so the word hallucination doesn’t apply.’
‘Call it a vision, then.’
‘I’m not Joan of Arc, either. God isn’t sending me messages. Enough already. I don’t want to talk about this anymore, not right now, not for a while.’
‘We’ve got to—’
‘I said not now.’
‘But—’
‘I’m scared, all right? I’m scared, and talking it to death isn’t going to make me less scared, so time-out. Time-out.’
She understood why he would regard her with new concern and even with a measure of wariness, but she didn’t like being the object of his solicitude. Even the compassion of friends was difficult for her to bear; and the sympathy of strangers could easily curdle into pity. She would not tolerate pity from anyone. She bristled at the thought of being perceived as weak or unfortunate, and she had no capacity whatsoever for being patronized.
Indeed, Dylan’s glances, each of which glistened with dewy commiseration, so deeply annoyed Jilly that she soon grew desperate to distract herself from them. She unhooked her safety harness, drew her legs under herself, leaving potted Fred in full possession of the passenger’s foot space, and turned half sideways in her seat to watch over Shep, making it possible for his brother to pay more attention to the road.
Dylan had left a first-aid kit with Shep. Much to Jilly’s surprise, the young man opened it on the seat beside him and made proper use of its contents, although in a state of such intense concentration and with an expression of such blank detachment that he seemed to be machinelike. With swabs soaked in hydrogen peroxide, he patiently removed the obstructing clots of blood from his left nostril, which had played like a whistle with each breath he took, proceeding so delicately that the crimson flow did not resume. His brother had said this was a mere bloody nose, not a broken one, and Shep seemed to confirm the diagnosis, tending to his injury without one wince or hiss of pain. Employing cotton balls moistened with rubbing alcohol, he scrubbed the dried blood from his upper lip, out of the corner of his mouth, and off his chin. He had skinned a couple knuckles on his teeth; he treated these minor abrasions with alcohol followed by dabs of Neosporin. With the thumb and forefinger of his right hand, he tested his teeth, one by one, molar to molar, top and then bottom; each time he confirmed that a tooth was firmly in place, he paused to say, ‘Quite as it should be, m’lord.’ Judging by every indication – by his refusal to make eye contact; by his otherworldly air; by the absence of any nobleman in the SUV, either lord or duke, or prince-in-waiting – Shep wasn’t speaking to anyone present. ‘Quite as it should be, m’lord.’ His ministrations were methodical to the point of robotism, and often his movements had an awkwardness that suggested a robot from which the mechanical kinks and the programming errors had not yet been entirely eliminated.