You Can Stay by Elle Connell

Author:Elle Connell [Connell, Elle]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Headline Publishing Group
Published: 2022-02-17T13:55:41+00:00

5

Julie has fallen asleep in front of the TV. That’s what happens when she gets a sudden rush of fentanyl after a drought.

Tenderly, Eilidh pushes her head forward and places a cushion behind her. She strokes the hair out of Julie’s eyes. She had thought to cut Julie’s hair once or twice, but it didn’t seem right. It suits her anyway now, the bedraggled look. It is ethereal and wise. It reminds Eilidh of why she is here, in the mountains with her, instead of where she found her, vomiting behind a glass recycling bin by a nightclub back door.

She puts a blanket on top of Julie and heads back to the kitchen.

The lentil stew has been simmering for about twenty minutes now. The sauce has thickened. She dips a spoon in and tries it; the lentils are still too hard.

Connor still seems antsy, despite his opiate aperitif. He has been worrying away at the same spot on the table since she came back from the living room, drumming his fingers against the wood, darting his eyes around. She wishes he would relax. He is setting her teeth on edge.

‘Connor, do you need a drink or something? You look ill at ease, and it’s starting to make me uncomfortable.’

He stares at the table. In his eyes, she can see a flicker. He is mulling something, but not sharing. She turns back to the stew, feeling a sudden rush of tenderness towards Connor. He is so vulnerable, his shoulders hunched under that blanket. How privileged she is to be able to see him like this.

That was always the best part about being a physio. Being able to see people so physically proficient, so majestic, come to her with the parts of their bodies that no longer worked. On the military base, she saw a lot of training injuries. If they had come back from Afghanistan or Iraq with a sprain or a torn ligament, there would have been a certain pride to that. But she dealt with the men who went over the wrong way on their ankle crossing a stream, or who did themselves a mischief while negotiating a barbed wire fence. They would be the ones who were frustrated, angry. Their careers were in the balance before they had even begun.

She would have them haul themselves onto her blue leather bench, on top of the whispering paper towel. Sometimes, she would help them up. Other times, she would feign absorption in her clipboard notes and tap her pencil impatiently while they struggled and grunted themselves onto the bench. She was supposed to offer them paper to cover themselves, but often she forgot. She kept a box of latex gloves on her desk, but she never wore them. A grind of a joint here, a yelp there. There was something about their zapped strength, their brutality made toothless, the trust in their eyes as she bent, and pulled and cracked their legs around, popped their kneecaps and twisted their toes with her firm grip.

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