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Chapter or Story 
Chapter or Story
Alicin Wonderland
By Lizz
Part 12 River of Dreams
Centre Infirmary
En Route to ICU
Sydney thought that the summer heat in the railway coach was oppressive despite the fact that most of the windows were open. First the Belgian and then the French countryside swept past in an impressionist’s blur of colors. He was aware of the gentle motion of the train as it pulled him and Jacob closer to the Italian border and a summer vacation in the Alps. His parents were taken up in conversation, exchanging words, knowing glances and soft laughter. So he turned his attention to the sights outside. Before long, the easy motion of the coach claimed him in sleep. It was so very, very hot…
=====
Dr. Patrice watched helplessly as the EMT shuttled Sydney toward Trauma 2’s intensive care unit, then crossed the room to her desk and dropped into a chair. She was afraid for him. She remembered the horror of that instant when she thought he had killed Raines. There had been no mercy in his eyes when he pulled the trigger. His actions had been unencumbered by the thought process. Her first thought as she watched her esteemed colleague’s collapse had been of heart attack or stroke. But then she had noticed the fever. Oh, God, she thought, does this have anything to do with Alicin’s illness? What if it’s contagious? What if Alicin was a carrier? Or both? They could all be infected. Oh, God! And, given Sydney’s age, would his body have the resources to fight this off or would he have to suffer the full force of…of whatever this is? “Oh, dear God,” she prayed, “Protect us all and show us what we’re fighting against.” Then she lowered her head to the glass desktop…
=====
“Patrice? Patrice? Lunch is ready, sleepy head, wake up!” Patrice lifted her head as the words dawned on her. Looking around, she could not make sense of what she was seeing. She was seated at table in the kitchen of the family inn where her grandmother and her aunts had taught her to cook. The floor stones lay just as she remembered them, as did the brick and plaster walls and the wood-fired cook stove. Braids of garlic, onions and hot peppers hung from hooks on the wall, their fragrances blending into a heady mix that brought back memories of large family gatherings around the big table, feasting on home cooking, laughter and love. In front of her, just beyond where she had been… napping? … was a plate of fresh salad greens crowned with Greek olives, raisins, slices of apple and pear, and large crumbs of homemade mozzarella. At the far end of the table sat Isabella DellAntonio Patrice.
“Mama?” Patrice squeaked with a quizzical look on her face. “Mama, what are you doing here? You’re--”
“Never mind that now, darling. You need to finish that salad and freshen up before Sydney arrives this afternoon.”
“Sydney is coming here? To Moena?” Patrice was utterly confused, staring at the fork she hadn’t known she was holding.
Isabella laughed lightly, shaking her head and smiling as she did. “You look so surprised, my dear! We’ve all been looking forward to meeting him since your father agreed to the visit. But you should know that your grandmother and aunts are just a little put off that you didn’t tell them about your young man before this!” At the mention of their names, the women appeared in the chairs along each side of the table, laughing and waggling their index fingers at Patrice in mock rebuke.
“Sydney is not my young man.” Patrice protested weakly, wondering why she was having this conversation at all. Besides, she thought, my mother is --
Just at that moment, two men appeared at the kitchen door, and the women around the table took notice and smiled broadly. Amid a flurry of animated greetings from the ladies, Edgar Patrice stepped into the room, turned, and introduced the visitor behind him in his bold Chicago accent. “My lovely ladies, this is Sydney, who has come all the way from the other side of our mountain to call upon our dear Patrice.” Turning to the handsome young visitor, he said, “At the head of the table are Patrice’s grandparents. May I introduce Signore Sergio DellAntonio and his lovely wife Maria?” Sydney strode to the table to greet the couple. Signore DellAntonio grasped the hand offered and pumped it with gusto as the two men exchanged greetings. He leaned close and whispered something to Sydney that made the young visitor smile broadly and steal a glance at Patrice, who was visibly not amused. Sydney then bowed and spoke to Signora DellAntonio, who blushed at his compliment. Edgar continued, “To the right is her mother, my beloved Isabella. And of course you know our lovely Patrice.” He was beaming with love and pride when he spoke his daughter’s name. “And these fine ladies,” he gestured with a sweep of his hand,” are her aunts. You will get to know them quite well during your stay with us.” At this last comment, the family members burst into giggles and laughter. Everyone, that is, except Patrice.
“It is an honor to meet you all,” Sydney said with a slight bow. “And I am most grateful for your hospitality.” Polite conversation broke out around the table as Sydney began to distribute gifts, first to Signora DellAntonio and Sergio, then to Isabella and the aunts, speaking pleasantries to each in lightly accented but otherwise flawless Italian as he navigated the kitchen table. The women tittered at the handsome young man’s good manners and easy smile while opening the gaily-wrapped mementos and arguing over which of them would be first to chaperone the young couple during Sydney’s visit.
At last, Sydney turned his attention to Patrice, who was now totally mystified and uncomfortably conscious of the jumble of salad in front of her which seemed to have tripled in volume since she had awakened and was now threatening to bury the plate. From the air above his left shoulder, Sydney produced a beautifully wrapped box, larger than those he had given the aunts, but not quite as large as the one he had presented to the DellAntonios. It was wrapped in ivory moiré silk and tied with a satin ribbon that matched the color of Patrice’s blushing cheeks. The aunts began to titter anew. Shifting uneasily in her chair, Patrice accepted the box, feeling just a twinge of hesitation. Something was not quite right here and, for the life of her, she could not put her finger on it, let alone figure out what she was doing in Italy at this time of year. Her annual vacation was still months away and besides, her mother was…
=====
“Dr. Patrice? Wake up! Please?” a soft male voice requested.
Very slowly, the doctor lifted her head and met the gaze of the young man who had awakened her. “Angelo?” She blinked at him and looked at her watch; she had been asleep for all of two minutes. “How long have you been standing there? Have a seat,” she said, gesturing to the chairs in front of her desk.
“Just now,” Angelo answered. He sat and then nearly flew out of the chair recently occupied by Mr. Raines. “Afraid! Mr. Raines afraid to die! Afraid of Sydney!” The usually quiet man was hugging himself and gasping for breath, not unlike the previous occupant of the chair. He paced and dropped to his knees on the floor in the same spot were Raines had landed when he fell from his seat. Then, painfully, the empath pulled himself back to reality. Jumping up from the floor he leaned forward with his hands on the two dark spots on the knees of his blue jeans. He walked around a bit and listened to the squishing noise his feet made with each step. “The floor is wet,” he said with a furrowed brow. “All over.”
“What?” Patrice asked with surprise. She walked to where Angelo stood. The carpet was soggy. Whatever was in the carpet was welling up around their shoes. Patrice tentatively pressed her fingers into the pile and took a cautious sniff. When her eyes fell on the bullet hole left by Sydney, she heaved sigh of defeat. “Damn! He shot a hole in the hot water line that heats this room!” She leaned across her desk to pick up the phone for the call to maintenance.
“Sydney shot the rug.” Angelo was amused. He dropped into Sydney’s chair and immediately gripped the armrests with great force as a cry of pain escaped his lips. “Very sick! All my bones hurt. Everything hurts!” he wailed. He pulled at his collar, unable to slow the momentum of the unpleasant incident. “So hot here, so hot. Why so hot?” Suddenly his voice became low and menacing, with just the hint of some European accent. “Why is he here? What do you really want from her?” Then he balled his hand into a fist and shook it in front of himself. “You should not be here! Stay away from her. You hurt her. Your soldiers hurt her. I should kill you just for that. I will kill you! I’ll kill you!” Then Angelo was pacing again, wringing his hands, and ending up back at the spot where Raines had fallen, with a pointed finger aligned with the hole in the waterlogged carpet. His chest was heaving with each breath he took as Dr. Patrice looked on with equal parts of upset and awe, her phone call forgotten.
“Angelo,” she said, rushing to his side. She turned him to face her and placed a hand firmly on each of his shoulders. Shaking him gently, she called his name softly until his eyes met hers. “Angelo, dear,” she said at last, “It’s alright. You’re okay. Really. Let’s go sit by the fireplace. It’s quieter there. Come on, now.” She led him to the sitting area and pulled him down beside her on one of the small sofas.
The young man slumped against the cushions as if the weight of the world were pressing in on him. The doctor was right, he noticed. This furniture was much quieter than the chairs by the desk. In a move that surprised Dr. Patrice, Angelo relaxed against her shoulder and sighed, “Sydney’s sick. Like Alicin.”
Without moving, Dr. Patrice softly asked, “What did you just say?”
Angelo repeated his words and added, “Like Alicin, and Eddie, and the others. Now Sydney, too.”
“Angelo, tell me what you know about this.”
He sighed again. When the doctor looked at him, his eyes were shining with tears. “Alicin is so scared. Afraid because she knows about the fevers. Alicin’s afraid for people.”
“What people?”
“Out there,” he said quietly, looking toward the outer wall of the office and struggling to find the right words. “In the world. Mr. Raines hurts lots of people. Alicin won’t help anymore. Won’t help! Makes up data. Doesn’t eat. In trouble all the time! One day they hurt her.”
“Who hurt her, Angelo?” the doctor asked with a hushed voice.
“Sweeper. No, sweepers. Doesn’t like it when anybody touches her now.” Angelo’s eyes grew wide with the dawning of a new horror. “They hurt her. He hit her.”
“Who hit her, Angelo? And who are they? What are their names?”
“Bad men hurt Alicin,” was all he could say.
“How do you know these things, dear?” Patrice asked as she smoothed the hair away from his brow.
“Alicin has dreams,” came the soft reply. The young man’s teary, blue eyes focused on the doctor’s. “Alicin cries. Angelo holds her when she cries.” He chewed lightly on his bottom lip and Patrice gently slipped her arm around his shoulders and drew him close as his silent tears began to fall. She took one of Angelo’s hands in hers and studied it as she turned over in her mind the possible implications of what he had just said. Could he be the key to finding Alicin’s attackers?
The answer to that question would have to wait. Angelo had fallen asleep in her arms. Rather than wake him, she settled his head onto her lap. In return, he drew his legs onto the cushions. Patrice propped her feet on the ottoman and within seconds of leaning her head back on the small sofa, she was asleep again. This time, however, she did not dream.
=====
End Part 12
TBC
Pleeeeeease send feedback to
lizzkirsch@hotmail.com
By Lizz
Part 12 River of Dreams
Centre Infirmary
En Route to ICU
Sydney thought that the summer heat in the railway coach was oppressive despite the fact that most of the windows were open. First the Belgian and then the French countryside swept past in an impressionist’s blur of colors. He was aware of the gentle motion of the train as it pulled him and Jacob closer to the Italian border and a summer vacation in the Alps. His parents were taken up in conversation, exchanging words, knowing glances and soft laughter. So he turned his attention to the sights outside. Before long, the easy motion of the coach claimed him in sleep. It was so very, very hot…
=====
Dr. Patrice watched helplessly as the EMT shuttled Sydney toward Trauma 2’s intensive care unit, then crossed the room to her desk and dropped into a chair. She was afraid for him. She remembered the horror of that instant when she thought he had killed Raines. There had been no mercy in his eyes when he pulled the trigger. His actions had been unencumbered by the thought process. Her first thought as she watched her esteemed colleague’s collapse had been of heart attack or stroke. But then she had noticed the fever. Oh, God, she thought, does this have anything to do with Alicin’s illness? What if it’s contagious? What if Alicin was a carrier? Or both? They could all be infected. Oh, God! And, given Sydney’s age, would his body have the resources to fight this off or would he have to suffer the full force of…of whatever this is? “Oh, dear God,” she prayed, “Protect us all and show us what we’re fighting against.” Then she lowered her head to the glass desktop…
=====
“Patrice? Patrice? Lunch is ready, sleepy head, wake up!” Patrice lifted her head as the words dawned on her. Looking around, she could not make sense of what she was seeing. She was seated at table in the kitchen of the family inn where her grandmother and her aunts had taught her to cook. The floor stones lay just as she remembered them, as did the brick and plaster walls and the wood-fired cook stove. Braids of garlic, onions and hot peppers hung from hooks on the wall, their fragrances blending into a heady mix that brought back memories of large family gatherings around the big table, feasting on home cooking, laughter and love. In front of her, just beyond where she had been… napping? … was a plate of fresh salad greens crowned with Greek olives, raisins, slices of apple and pear, and large crumbs of homemade mozzarella. At the far end of the table sat Isabella DellAntonio Patrice.
“Mama?” Patrice squeaked with a quizzical look on her face. “Mama, what are you doing here? You’re--”
“Never mind that now, darling. You need to finish that salad and freshen up before Sydney arrives this afternoon.”
“Sydney is coming here? To Moena?” Patrice was utterly confused, staring at the fork she hadn’t known she was holding.
Isabella laughed lightly, shaking her head and smiling as she did. “You look so surprised, my dear! We’ve all been looking forward to meeting him since your father agreed to the visit. But you should know that your grandmother and aunts are just a little put off that you didn’t tell them about your young man before this!” At the mention of their names, the women appeared in the chairs along each side of the table, laughing and waggling their index fingers at Patrice in mock rebuke.
“Sydney is not my young man.” Patrice protested weakly, wondering why she was having this conversation at all. Besides, she thought, my mother is --
Just at that moment, two men appeared at the kitchen door, and the women around the table took notice and smiled broadly. Amid a flurry of animated greetings from the ladies, Edgar Patrice stepped into the room, turned, and introduced the visitor behind him in his bold Chicago accent. “My lovely ladies, this is Sydney, who has come all the way from the other side of our mountain to call upon our dear Patrice.” Turning to the handsome young visitor, he said, “At the head of the table are Patrice’s grandparents. May I introduce Signore Sergio DellAntonio and his lovely wife Maria?” Sydney strode to the table to greet the couple. Signore DellAntonio grasped the hand offered and pumped it with gusto as the two men exchanged greetings. He leaned close and whispered something to Sydney that made the young visitor smile broadly and steal a glance at Patrice, who was visibly not amused. Sydney then bowed and spoke to Signora DellAntonio, who blushed at his compliment. Edgar continued, “To the right is her mother, my beloved Isabella. And of course you know our lovely Patrice.” He was beaming with love and pride when he spoke his daughter’s name. “And these fine ladies,” he gestured with a sweep of his hand,” are her aunts. You will get to know them quite well during your stay with us.” At this last comment, the family members burst into giggles and laughter. Everyone, that is, except Patrice.
“It is an honor to meet you all,” Sydney said with a slight bow. “And I am most grateful for your hospitality.” Polite conversation broke out around the table as Sydney began to distribute gifts, first to Signora DellAntonio and Sergio, then to Isabella and the aunts, speaking pleasantries to each in lightly accented but otherwise flawless Italian as he navigated the kitchen table. The women tittered at the handsome young man’s good manners and easy smile while opening the gaily-wrapped mementos and arguing over which of them would be first to chaperone the young couple during Sydney’s visit.
At last, Sydney turned his attention to Patrice, who was now totally mystified and uncomfortably conscious of the jumble of salad in front of her which seemed to have tripled in volume since she had awakened and was now threatening to bury the plate. From the air above his left shoulder, Sydney produced a beautifully wrapped box, larger than those he had given the aunts, but not quite as large as the one he had presented to the DellAntonios. It was wrapped in ivory moiré silk and tied with a satin ribbon that matched the color of Patrice’s blushing cheeks. The aunts began to titter anew. Shifting uneasily in her chair, Patrice accepted the box, feeling just a twinge of hesitation. Something was not quite right here and, for the life of her, she could not put her finger on it, let alone figure out what she was doing in Italy at this time of year. Her annual vacation was still months away and besides, her mother was…
=====
“Dr. Patrice? Wake up! Please?” a soft male voice requested.
Very slowly, the doctor lifted her head and met the gaze of the young man who had awakened her. “Angelo?” She blinked at him and looked at her watch; she had been asleep for all of two minutes. “How long have you been standing there? Have a seat,” she said, gesturing to the chairs in front of her desk.
“Just now,” Angelo answered. He sat and then nearly flew out of the chair recently occupied by Mr. Raines. “Afraid! Mr. Raines afraid to die! Afraid of Sydney!” The usually quiet man was hugging himself and gasping for breath, not unlike the previous occupant of the chair. He paced and dropped to his knees on the floor in the same spot were Raines had landed when he fell from his seat. Then, painfully, the empath pulled himself back to reality. Jumping up from the floor he leaned forward with his hands on the two dark spots on the knees of his blue jeans. He walked around a bit and listened to the squishing noise his feet made with each step. “The floor is wet,” he said with a furrowed brow. “All over.”
“What?” Patrice asked with surprise. She walked to where Angelo stood. The carpet was soggy. Whatever was in the carpet was welling up around their shoes. Patrice tentatively pressed her fingers into the pile and took a cautious sniff. When her eyes fell on the bullet hole left by Sydney, she heaved sigh of defeat. “Damn! He shot a hole in the hot water line that heats this room!” She leaned across her desk to pick up the phone for the call to maintenance.
“Sydney shot the rug.” Angelo was amused. He dropped into Sydney’s chair and immediately gripped the armrests with great force as a cry of pain escaped his lips. “Very sick! All my bones hurt. Everything hurts!” he wailed. He pulled at his collar, unable to slow the momentum of the unpleasant incident. “So hot here, so hot. Why so hot?” Suddenly his voice became low and menacing, with just the hint of some European accent. “Why is he here? What do you really want from her?” Then he balled his hand into a fist and shook it in front of himself. “You should not be here! Stay away from her. You hurt her. Your soldiers hurt her. I should kill you just for that. I will kill you! I’ll kill you!” Then Angelo was pacing again, wringing his hands, and ending up back at the spot where Raines had fallen, with a pointed finger aligned with the hole in the waterlogged carpet. His chest was heaving with each breath he took as Dr. Patrice looked on with equal parts of upset and awe, her phone call forgotten.
“Angelo,” she said, rushing to his side. She turned him to face her and placed a hand firmly on each of his shoulders. Shaking him gently, she called his name softly until his eyes met hers. “Angelo, dear,” she said at last, “It’s alright. You’re okay. Really. Let’s go sit by the fireplace. It’s quieter there. Come on, now.” She led him to the sitting area and pulled him down beside her on one of the small sofas.
The young man slumped against the cushions as if the weight of the world were pressing in on him. The doctor was right, he noticed. This furniture was much quieter than the chairs by the desk. In a move that surprised Dr. Patrice, Angelo relaxed against her shoulder and sighed, “Sydney’s sick. Like Alicin.”
Without moving, Dr. Patrice softly asked, “What did you just say?”
Angelo repeated his words and added, “Like Alicin, and Eddie, and the others. Now Sydney, too.”
“Angelo, tell me what you know about this.”
He sighed again. When the doctor looked at him, his eyes were shining with tears. “Alicin is so scared. Afraid because she knows about the fevers. Alicin’s afraid for people.”
“What people?”
“Out there,” he said quietly, looking toward the outer wall of the office and struggling to find the right words. “In the world. Mr. Raines hurts lots of people. Alicin won’t help anymore. Won’t help! Makes up data. Doesn’t eat. In trouble all the time! One day they hurt her.”
“Who hurt her, Angelo?” the doctor asked with a hushed voice.
“Sweeper. No, sweepers. Doesn’t like it when anybody touches her now.” Angelo’s eyes grew wide with the dawning of a new horror. “They hurt her. He hit her.”
“Who hit her, Angelo? And who are they? What are their names?”
“Bad men hurt Alicin,” was all he could say.
“How do you know these things, dear?” Patrice asked as she smoothed the hair away from his brow.
“Alicin has dreams,” came the soft reply. The young man’s teary, blue eyes focused on the doctor’s. “Alicin cries. Angelo holds her when she cries.” He chewed lightly on his bottom lip and Patrice gently slipped her arm around his shoulders and drew him close as his silent tears began to fall. She took one of Angelo’s hands in hers and studied it as she turned over in her mind the possible implications of what he had just said. Could he be the key to finding Alicin’s attackers?
The answer to that question would have to wait. Angelo had fallen asleep in her arms. Rather than wake him, she settled his head onto her lap. In return, he drew his legs onto the cushions. Patrice propped her feet on the ottoman and within seconds of leaning her head back on the small sofa, she was asleep again. This time, however, she did not dream.
=====
End Part 12
TBC
Pleeeeeease send feedback to
lizzkirsch@hotmail.com
