Even now, Galadriel looked beautiful. Not beautiful and seductive, as she had yesterday. Beautiful and tragic, Bron decided, like a victim of the Holocaust.
Marie was talking ... "move her up to the psych ward" ... but her voice came from far away.
The suction cups suddenly manifested at the ends of Bron's fingers. He was eager to get this over, and somehow the sight of Galadriel looking so helpless called to him.
The nurse was so busy, she didn't even notice, just left the room in a hurry. Marie Mercer was distracted, talking to Olivia. Down the hall, an old woman cried out in pain, while a nurse's call bell dinged.
Bron looked into Olivia's eyes. She'd noticed his sizraels. Olivia shook her head, just the tiniest movement, warning him to take control of himself.
She spoke to Marie Mercer, "Sweetie, why don't you go home and rest. You look positively worn out." She reached up as if to smooth a stray strand of Marie's long blond hair, and suddenly her sizraels popped out like claws. Olivia touched Marie's temple, and Marie said, "Oh, my gosh, I forgot to feed the horses this morning, and they didn't get fed last night at all. I have to go!"
With that, she grabbed her purse and pleaded, "Can you stay with Galadriel—just until I get back?"
"Of course," Olivia offered.
When she was gone, Bron accused, "You made her forget feeding the horses, didn't you?"
"Yes."
"Is it always that quick?" he asked.
"Pulling a simple memory? Yes, it can be done easily. She was just holding the memory short term. But training someone can take a long time, especially when you have to lay down a whole new skill. For those who can do it at all, it takes hours." She came around Bron and closed the door to the room, for greater privacy, then turned off the lights. "Go ahead," Olivia urged, "do it."
Bron winced at the unfortunate choice of words, yet he yearned to see if he really did have this power. The suction cups on his fingertips hardened into little ridges. He cautiously laid the white rose on Galadriel's med tray, and he reached out to take her face in his hands.
Her skin looked smooth and as luminous as porcelain. He pulled her head so that she was staring up into his eyes, but Bron could see no change in her expression, no sign of recognition. Her pupils were pinpricks, gazing off into eternity, as if she could see beyond him, beyond the room, beyond the atmosphere into space where galaxies whirled like pinwheels and universes grew ancient.
Instinct took over. Bron fumbled for an instant, trying to figure out where to place his fingers, but then he reached under her eyebrows with each thumb, careful not to touch her eyeballs. His fingers fanned out around her skull, moistened by the thin glaze of Galadriel's sweat, until his pinkie touched just below her ear.
Galadriel let out a low moan, as if in pain.
Then Bron just stood, holding her cranium in his hands as if he might crush it, or perhaps carry it away for safe keeping. He studied the helpless girl and didn't know what to do.
"Is something supposed to happen?" Bron asked.
"Give her your gift," Olivia said. She studied his face. He didn't understand. She shook her head impatiently. "You have to will it into her."
"I don't feel anything," Bron admitted. "I don't think that it's working."
Olivia came and stood beside him, observing. "What are you thinking about right now?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing?" Olivia peered into his eyes. "Nothing at all?"
"Not really. I guess I'm just curious to see what happens."
"Nothingjust happens," Olivia explained. "You have to make it happen."
Bron glanced up to the clock on the wall. It read 5:23. He'd been standing there for two minutes.
"What are you feeling right now?" Olivia asked.
Bron shook his head, moistened his lips with his tongue. "Empty," he admitted.
"Don't you feel anything for her?" Olivia asked. "Warmth? Compassion? Lust? Even the tiniest bit? This isn't just a body that you're holding—it's a life. You're holding her life in your hands...."
Bron considered. "I feel... relieved," he admitted. "If she was aware and knew what was happening, she'd be screaming. Right now, it's like she's asleep."
"That's the opiates keeping her dazed," Olivia whispered. "Don't you want her to get better?"
"To tell the truth," he said solemnly, "I'm not sure."
At that instant, he saw a purple flash beneath his hands, and the heart monitor began to beep violently. Galadriel's back arched off the bed and she opened her mouth in a wordless scream.
Olivia launched herself across the table and shoved Bron backward, so that he fell against the door to the room's restroom. She shouted, "Stop it!"
"What?" Bron asked defensively.
"You were killing her!" Olivia whispered vehemently. "You can't do that: you can't put your fingers to someone's head and wish them harm, not unless you really want to do them harm!"
Bron stared in disbelief, shocked at the accusation. He felt confused, afraid that he'd fail. He felt guilty.
He hadn't meant to harm Galadriel. He'd just thought, I wish she had died.
Now that the damage was done, he didn't know how to undo it.
Everyone was always pushing him around. In the past few days, he'd been pulled a dozen directions at once. He snapped.
"I give up," he said. "I'm out of here!" He headed out the door, and Olivia was left standing in shock.
She rushed into the hall, grabbed his arm, and spun him around.
"What's going on?" she asked.
"I... can't do it," Bron said. "You want me to heal her, to wish her well, and I can't do that. It's a lie."
"We can't leave," Olivia said. "I promised her mother."
"That's right," Bron said,"you promised her mother!"
He turned to walk away. He wasn't sure where he would go. Certainly he wouldn't return to Olivia's house. He imagined walking to the freeway, standing on the on-ramp, and sticking out a thumb.
"Bron," she begged, "this is important!"
He knew that he couldn't do it. He'd never had a close relationship with anyone. He loved no one, least of all Galadriel.
He stood with his head tilted, jaw set, unwilling to move.
"Please," Olivia said. "When you look at Galadriel, you see a stupid teenager. When her mother looks at her, she's her only child. You want to play the guitar, have people think that you're great. But if you miss this chance, nothing else that you do in life will ever matter. You'll never. Be. Great."
He thought for a long minute. He was afraid of failing. He was afraid of Galadriel.
Deep in his heart, though, he realized that what worried him most was that Olivia might be right about him. What if he had been bred to be cold and cruel? What if his emptiness, his lack of compassion, was like... having an amputated leg, a missing limb?
Shouldn't I fight against it? he wondered. If someone tried to make me into a merciless killer, shouldn't I prove them wrong?
That bothered him more than anything.
He returned to Galadriel's bedside.
"Let me help," Olivia suggested.
Olivia stood at his back. Galadriel kept gasping, and now she trembled over the length of her body. At any moment, Bron expected a handful of doctors to rush in with a crash cart. He worried that Galadriel was having a heart attack, but when he looked up at the monitor, Galadriel's heart seemed to be beating evenly.
"Try it again," Olivia said. She tried to hide some of the disappointment in her voice, and even some of the fear. "Try it again, but think only warm feelings for her. You have to love her, wish her well, with your whole soul. It's like, it's like you have this fire in your chest, a burning ember, and you have to will it out of you, will it into her, so that she can feel its warmth. Do you think you can do that?"