Love in an Undead Age, A.M. Geever [best contemporary novels txt] 📗

She woke to anxious faces and silence. Miranda could see the mouths of the people around her, but voices did not accompany the moving lips and worried expressions. An orange haze obscured her vision, as if translucent-colored tissue paper covered her eyes. Her skin felt clammy, hot and cold at once. Father Walter held her left hand and Connor—if that really was Connor—held her right. Someone thrust an ice pack in front of Connor, who started to put it against her head.

“Don’t,” she said as her hearing returned and her vision cleared. The babble of agitated, apprehensive voices was not soothing. She snatched her hand and then the ice pack away from Connor and gingerly explored her skull. She found a tender spot that would be a beauty of a lump in a few hours and eased the ice pack against it.

“Jesus, Miri, you scared me half to death!”

Miranda tried to focus her bleary eyes. “Nice to see you too, Connor. I’m glad you’re not dead.”

Connor opened his mouth, but Father Walter cut him off. “Just be quiet, the pair of you. Everyone back up and give her some room.”

Miranda closed her eyes but sensed people withdrawing. She peeked to find only Father Walter beside her, which felt a lot more manageable.

“Do you know what day it is, Miranda? Do you know where you are?”

Miranda knew what Walter was doing. He would be the first of many who would ask her the same two questions for the rest of the day.

“A shitty-passing-out day after yesterday’s shitty-almost-get-killed-by-zombies day, with a bunch of priests thrown in for shits and giggles,” she muttered. “How bad does that make the brain damage?”

Walter rolled his eyes and snorted. “Not any worse than it was already,” he replied. “Just stay still until Doc comes. I’m sure he’ll be along any minute.”

She turned her head toward Connor. “It’s really you.”

Taking her statement as permission to come closer, he knelt down beside her, a hesitant smile on his lips. His eyes were full of worry and something else. Something that looked very much like hunger.

“Yeah. It’s really me.”

She smiled and let go of a breath she had not known she was holding. She switched hands with the ice pack so she could reach out to touch him, even though lifting her arm made her wince. She traced her chilled fingers along the side of his warm face. He turned into her hand like a cat.

“I figured you were dead after so long,” she half whispered.

“Almost, a few times.”

“Me too.”

Miranda kept her hand on Connor’s jaw, thumb stroking his cheek. He was older, of course. His thick, dark hair was just long enough that it didn’t stick up too much. She remembered how he kept it longer in front when they were younger. It always looked as if an avalanche of hair was cascading across his face. His dark-brown eyes were full of warmth, his smile perfectly symmetrical.

And then she remembered. She blinked a few times, trying to reconcile the newly remembered knowledge with the jumble of feelings the sight of him stirred. She had been so angry with him the last time they spoke. Now here he was, risen like Lazarus, and she’d almost forgotten—had forgotten—if only for a moment. She pulled her hand away.

“I guess it’s Father Connor these days.”

He stiffened. For a split second his expression contracted and his smile became strained. If she hadn’t been looking directly at him, she would have missed it.

“It’s just Connor.”

“Oh.”

She opened her mouth, then closed it. She tried again, but Doc Owen bustled through the door, shooing everyone but Father Walter out of the way.

Her mind felt like it was spinning away from her body. First from seeing Connor, then from the meds and whacking her head. He wasn’t a priest? When had that happened? Thrown by Connor’s revelation, her usual smart-ass answers abandoned her and at first Doc thought she was seriously injured. He eventually settled on a mild concussion—and stoned—while muttering about having a death wish. He let her sit up and move to one of the foyer chairs, leaving only after issuing dire warnings of exactly what he’d do if she did not rest and avoid injury for at least twenty-four hours… Something about restraints and the psych ward.

“All right then, Miranda,” Father Walter said, “we’ll get you to one of the guest rooms.”

Movement made her head throb again. The weird, disconnected feeling between her body and brain intensified. Connor moved as if to help her up but stepped back after a preemptory glare from Walter. Miranda leaned on Father Walter’s arm and they set off down the hallway. She looked back to see Connor watching them. He looked as if he had just realized that nothing would play out as he had imagined.

The filmy light of twilight seeped in around the edges of the window when Miranda woke from her short, fitful nap. The blind blocked the afternoon sun, leaving the room deep in shadow. The guest room Miranda occupied was small but comfortable. The single bed pushed into the corner by the window accentuated the narrowness of the room. A crocheted afghan, the kind made from granny squares that old ladies produce in abundance, lay over her, and her head rested on a positively decadent pillow. A plain wool rug offered warm feet a respite from the chilly tile floor.

Her shoulder and back hurt again. So did her head. She ran her hand up her skull. The lump, while sizable, was not nearly as bad as she’d expected. She concentrated on the pain, breathing it in and out, so she would not have to think about Connor. She wasn’t ready for that. She couldn’t say how long she lay there, alone with her breath and discomfort. It might have been minutes or hours. A gentle knock on the door broke her reverie.

“Come in,” she croaked, her mouth feeling dry and sticky all at once.

The door opened, filling the room with the smell of melted butter. Father Walter held a plate of buttered toast in one hand and a cup of tea in the other. He pushed the door shut with his elbow—how he had opened it with full hands a mystery. No matter what the situation, no matter how desperate the crisis, Walter Brennan believed a cup of tea would make things seem a little better. The funny thing was that it usually did.

“How are you feeling?” Walter asked as he set down the plate.

He handed Miranda the teacup, which forced her to sit up so she could hold it properly. He raised the blind halfway and opened the window a few inches to let in the fresh air. It smelled of jasmine, heavy and cloying. He reached behind her to rearrange the pillow so she could lean against it. Then he pulled out the desk chair, turned it around so it faced her, and sat, waiting.

She looked at Walter for a moment. She knew he was here to talk about Connor, but she did not want to. Thinking about him would make her head hurt worse. “Do we have to talk about this now? I don’t think I’m up for it.”

“I only asked how you’re feeling, Miranda,” Walter chided gently.

“You never just ask how I’m feeling.”

She thought he would try again, but instead, he reached into his blazer pocket and pulled out two small brown bottles and set them on the nightstand.

“Ellen brought over your prescriptions. She said to take the antibiotic with food and to be careful with the painkillers since you have a concussion. You’re only to take them if you absolutely need to.”

Miranda reached for the bottles and took her pills. Now that she was out of her Zen trance, a painkiller fit the bill. She didn’t spare its effects on her concussed brain a thought. They sat in silence as she drank her tea and ate her toast. Walter had gone heavy on the butter, just how she liked it. She kept her eyes on her teacup, blowing on the hot beverage and watching the ripples play across the surface. She breathed in the steam with its scent of cream and honey.

“How long have you known he was alive?” she eventually asked, never taking her eyes from her cup.

“A few years,” Walter replied.

“And it never occurred to you that I’d want to know?”

“Of course I knew you’d want to know, but what purpose would it have served?” Walter asked, not unkindly.

She opened her mouth to protest, but he continued.

“He was thousands of miles away, Miranda, and could have been killed at any time. He shouldn’t be here; he was supposed to stay where he was. But even if I had known he was coming, I wouldn’t have told you in case he didn’t make it.”

“It’s not your job to protect me!”

She spat the words like they burned her mouth. Her eyes filled with tears and her mouth started to pucker. She looked away, trying not to cry. She hated crying in front of people, but sometimes that didn’t seem to make a difference.

Walter leaned forward and caught her chin with his hand, turning her face toward him. His calm hazel eyes looked into her angry blue ones.

“It is my job to protect you, Miranda, and I won’t apologize for that.” Walter released her chin and