Run To the Sea
Chapter 4
by Sue
Glasgow
Father had been feeding his patient warm broth from a mug, but at last he felt Vincent was ready for more substantial food. At his suggestion, Catherine brought a bowl of soup from the cooking chamber, even though Vincent declared he was not hungry. She spread a cloth across his chest. With a determination born of Father's statement that Vincent needed to eat for strength, she stirred the soup to let it cool, and informed Vincent she was going to feed him.
His voice still carried the slur, "Catherine, I truly am not hungry."
"Father said you need to eat."
He lifted his right arm and painfully massaged his left shoulder where the muscles ached beneath the scratches. The motion caused the napkin to slide out of place. Catherine picked it up and replaced it, tucking it near his chin.
He turned his face away in irritation. "Catherine."
"Father said you'll feel better after you have some food in your stomach."
"Later."
"No, now. Open your mouth."
Catherine saw a shudder pass over him. For an instant something like fear played across his face, but then he opened his mouth slightly, and she fed him a spoonful of the soup.
He took several more swallows successfully, but then he suddenly coughed and a good portion of the soup spilled down his chin. Catherine took the napkin and began to wipe the spill.
"Don't do that."
She frowned at him. "What?"
"Give me the cloth."
She put it in his hand, and he cleaned his face and the bedcovers till they felt dry to his touch. He held the soiled napkin out to her and stated, "Enough."
"Enough?" She protested. "You hardly ate a thing."
"Later."
"When?" She persisted.
His voice carried an icy finality. "When I can feed myself and do not need your assistance."
For an instant Catherine glared at him in a flare of anger. But she caught herself and sighed. "All right. What if we try it your way? Can you do it yourself?"
He hesitated and answered quietly, "I can try."
She set the bowl on his chest and steadied it with one hand as she gave him the spoon. He felt the bowl with the lower edge of his hand as he dipped the spoon, but as he brought the soup to his mouth, his sightlessness and the necessity of using his right hand resulted in another spill. He made a rapid downward motion and accidently hit the bowl, pouring hot soup over his chest. With a growl he swiped hard at the bowl and sent it skittering across the room. Soup went everywhere. Catherine gasped and put her hand to the mess on her face and in her hair.
Father walked into the chamber and surveyed the damage. He handed Catherine a cloth and lifted a mushroom off her shoulder. "I see we have a problem here."
"You might say that."
Vincent lay on the bed panting. Father lifted the spoon out of his hand and put it on the table. "Evidently you are feeling better."
Vincent rasped, "I can't see."
"I know you can't see. This is temporary. I told you that. You are going to have to be patient."
"How long?"
"A few more days...for your eyes. Longer before you can get up." Father retrieved the bowl from the corner. "Even longer if you do not eat. Catherine? Shall we try again?"
This time Vincent accepted her help quietly.
***
The hour was very late at night, and it seemed to Catherine that everyone in the Tunnels was asleep. Father had changed Vincent's dressings, and then, at Catherine's insistence, he had left to spend his first entire night in his own chamber. Catherine was very tired, but she could not sleep. The light was poor in the upper alcove, and she had come down to Vincent's table to read a new book she had snatched from her coffee table when she had gone to her apartment for her clothes. It was a relatively thin book she had bought because she recognized the author's name. The same woman had written a little children's fable which Vincent had given her. This new story was a bitter-sweet autobiography.
She had read only a few pages when she heard Vincent moan in his sleep. Putting down the book, she watched him. His nightmares often started like this. She would wait a few minutes. The candlelight reflected off the white bandages across his eyes. She had grown to hate those bandage almost as much as he did. More than once she had had to keep him from clawing them off in his sleep. The empty sleeve of his nightshirt and the bruise on his leg did not seem to threaten his independence nearly as much as these bandages. Perhaps her feelings came from the deep empathy she felt. For ten days her own eyes had been sealed behind a wall of gauze and tape. Being sightless brought a terrible loss of control and helplessness which she had found almost impossible to tolerate. How much worse must it be for a being like Vincent...who had spent his entire life depending upon his strength and ability to control every situation.
He moaned again and his upper lip drew back. She decided not to let it go so far this time, so she pulled the chair closer to his bed and touched his shoulder. "Vincent...Vincent." He woke with a gasp and lifted his head in alarm. "It's okay. You were dreaming."
He turned toward her. "Dreaming?"
"Yes." She pulled the covers around his shoulders. "It's late. Do you want to go back to sleep?"
"No."
"I could read to you."
He nodded.
Catherine reached for her book. With her free hand resting upon Vincent's, she turned the pages to a passage she had particularly liked, and she read softly. "I waited for Ian in the moonlight by the gate in the stone wall. There was something glorious in the waiting for him there, as if the danger we shared brought our passions to an edge, sharp and fine...giving every moment a value more common lovers were never asked to pay. Some nights he did not come at all, but on this night I could feel the presence of him in the..."
"Catherine. Enough..." His harsh voice silenced her.
She looked up in bewilderment.
Vincent's hand reached toward her lap and fumbled to close the book. Catherine sat in silence, the hurt welling within her, stinging her eyes. It seemed as if every gesture she made, every help she offered was rejected, and she was so tired. She must have made a sound because Vincent was very quiet for a moment, then his fingers went to her face and touched the tears which had spilled over. "You're crying."
"It's nothing." She wiped her sleeve across her eyes. "I'm just tired."
"I'm sorry. I have not made it easy for you," he spoke softly.
She faked a half-smile he could not see. "No, frankly you haven't."
He did not answer.
"It's just that no matter how hard I try...I don't know how to help you. I don't know what you want."
He whispered, "Perhaps I don't know what I want."
She put the book down and leaned forward. "Vincent, maybe if I understood better what you are feeling...if you told me what happened."
"No."
"But you haven't said a word...if you shared it with me...let me have some of the pain." She reached for him.
"Catherine, don't."
"Vincent, Isaac and I found chains..."
"Stop it!" His chest was heaving as he gulped for air. With effort, he lowered his voice, "Not...yet. Not while I'm in this bed...in this darkness... Can you understand?"
Catherine's chin quivered, and she touched his cheek. "I care for you so much."
He was silent.
"Hold me...please," she asked.
He hesitated a moment, then lifted his arm to encompass her. Being careful of his leg and ribs, she sat at his side and laid her head and shoulders against his. His arm came around her, and she could feel his warm breath in her hair.
Vincent's neck stung where her tears fell against his flesh. How could he make her understand what he did not himself understand? Those people...had taken something from him. He had lost something of himself. And until he could reclaim that loss, he had lost something of Catherine, too.