Chapter 15: Terms of Repair

I shut the door of my flat behind us and did not turn on the light.

"Sit," I said.

Winslow sat on the kitchen chair.

"I have terms."

"Tell me."

"Tomorrow we take the file to the DA's investigator together. You say all of it, in your own voice, and you don't let your lawyer say it for you."

"Yes."

"Monday you go to a burn clinic. A real one, with a doctor, and you let him look at your back."

"Georgina."

"You have been dressing it alone in a truck for thirty-five days. It is not a question."

He shut his mouth.

"You tell your mother yourself, and I'm not in the room when you do. I won't be the one who takes her son's side away from her."

"Yes."

"And you never again pay for something of mine, or hide something of mine, or fix something of mine, and let me find out afterward."

"Yes."

"If you're afraid, you say so out loud. I don't want to find it in a paper bag."

His eyes were wet, and he did not look away.

"Those are the terms," I said.

"Those are the easiest terms I have ever agreed to."

"They are not easy."

"No." He rubbed his face with one scarred hand. "They aren't."

I fetched the dressings from the bag he had dropped.

I turned him around on the chair so his back faced me, and I pulled his shirt up.

The old gauze was stuck at the edges, and I wet it with warm water and took it off one inch at a time.

He did not make a sound, but the muscles under my hands jumped.

The burn ran from his left shoulder blade in a wide shining ridge, pink and raw at the borders.

I cleaned it as gently as I knew how.

I put cream on every inch, and fresh gauze, and tape.

Then I put my mouth against the skin beside the tape.

"Georgina."

"Be quiet. I'm thanking you, and I'm still angry, and I'm doing both."

He shook.

I kissed the ridge from his shoulder down to his spine, slowly, and I heard him pull in air through his teeth.

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