Marked Chapter Twenty-Seven (Patreon)

It doesn't happen. Whatever I thought I would be able to do here, I'm stopped at the desk. "I'm here with Father Salvador DiMaggio and Bishop Wellhausen," I repeat. "They're here to-"

"Look, girl, you just said yourself that you're not family of Mrs. McKinley, and you're not on the approved visitors list," the desk nurse tells me in the sort of voice that clearly states she's had it up to here with people who think they're the exception. "You can wait over there for the family to approve you, you can wait outside for the family to approve you, but you can't go in. Please don't make me call security."

What do I do here? I feel stupid; of course they won't let me in just because I ask. It's a hospital. There's probably some kind of privacy laws or something preventing that. I imagine a cape can bypass those somehow but I don't even have a costume, and I can only use my power a limited number of times before I have to recharge. It's gonna be awkward if they demand proof and then I have to disappear from here for ten minutes once I give it to them. "Can you just tell Father DiMaggio that-"

"Sit. Down."

Right. Sit down. Fantastic. There's not much else I can feasibly do right now so I follow instructions, folding my arms and crossing my legs at the knee. Despite myself, my dangling right foot begins bouncing almost immediately.

Where I'm seated I have direct line of sight to the nurse's station and the industrial, characterless round wall clock that would be familiar to virtually anyone who's been to a public space. To my left, in the stiff, blue upholstered frame chair that's identical to my own, a blond, middle aged man sits staring emptily at the pages of a paperback book, eyes unmoving as he watches something having nothing to do with where his gaze is directed. To my right, a woman sits with a bag of yarn, crocheting. Only the tight set of her lips betrays her anxiety.

The woman catches me looking at her, and gives me an attempt at a reassuring smile. "It'll be okay. Mercy General has the finest doctors in the city." She glances towards the double doors leading to the rest of the hospital.

"What are you here for?" I ask.

To my left, the man stirs and says, "My baby sister, she's in- oh." He stops, and grimaces. "I... Sorry. I thought you were talking to me."

"No, it's fine," I reply. "What's, ah, what's wrong?" Oh, yeah, real smooth, Taylor.

"She started feeling weak yesterday, complained of dizziness. Then she collapsed. Internal bleeding, a cyst. They're... the cyst is still bleeding, she needed emergency surgery-- they're operating. She..." He stops talking, looks back at his book. "I keep remembering when she was little. I used to carry her on my shoulders when we walked to school."

I have no words. The crocheting woman falters in her stitching, sets it down in her lap. "How old is she?"

"Thirty-five," he replies. He wavers a moment, before he curls forward, burying his face in his hands. His book slips from his lap, bending several pages as it lands open side down. Watching his shoulders shake, it's like a sand sculpture crumbling. "She's only, thir... dear God, please, don't take my baby sister away..."

The grief in his voice, it's raw, it wrenches at me. I remember those same sobs coming out of my mouth the day Mom died, I remember being hunched over like that. I can guess at what he isn't saying, and that he's given up hope; I hear it in his choked, wet gasps. I reach out to him, because I don't know what else to do, and I put an arm across his back as he shudders.

It's surreal to me that, as I look around helplessly, there's nobody who will meet my eyes. Not the crocheting woman, not the desk nurse, no passerby or hospital staff will look me in the eye. Or is it they won't look at the crying man, and by proxy, me, who is sitting next to him?

I could fix this. Can't I? Nax mentioned that most forms of even to the most basic healing magics stop bleeding. I could save her life with a touch. But then what about the woman that Father DiMaggio is here to visit? I can only heal one of them. Who do I choose? Do I even have the right to choose? What about the other people in the hospital?

This isn't the kind of dilemma I thought I'd ever have to deal with. How does Panacea manage it? The answer, of course, immediately presents itself: Panacea's power isn't limited the way mine is. She can just use it as she sees fit, until she's done. She doesn't have to pick and choose.

I feel a stab of irritation with myself for the spark of jealousy that knowledge provokes. Although now that I think of it, Panacea has what Father DiMaggio would call a gentle power, too. Which in turn begs the question, why is he so focused on me? Panacea has been around a lot longer than me. And, I realize with some shame, I'm doing the same thing everyone else in the room is doing: I'm trying to find something, anything, to distract me from the discomfort of the man breaking down next to me.

I force myself to look at him. It's harder than I'd have thought it would be. He's struggling to control it. "Hey... what's your name?"

He looks at me incredulously. "Wha?"

"Your name?" I repeat, patting his shoulder.

"James. James Redford," he says, clearing his throat.

A distraction. That's what he needs, right now-- I know I've needed one often enough the last couple years, especially in the months directly after Mom died. "So what do you do for work?"

"I'm a property manager for NEAR LLC, we specialize in, in shopping centers. Eleven lots in Brockton Bay alone."

"And your sister? What's her name?" I respond.

"Yanna. Short for Juliana," he answers. His voice wavers a little, but he smears a palm against his eyes, looking angry at himself.

"Juliana Redford," I comment. "Sounds like a TV star name."

"Juliana Greene," James corrects me. He tries to laugh, but it comes out as more of a shaky sigh. "Her married name. I used to joke that she picked her husband to mess with her sixth grade English teacher, cause the old bat was colorblind."

I don't know whether to laugh at that or not.

"Mister Redford?" Both he and I look up to the man who is walking towards us from the direction of the double doors. He's in hospital scrubs and has a surgical mask pulled down to his throat; his grey eyes are bloodshot and weary. "Doctor Eli. I know you weren't here when she went in. Could I have a minute?"

James-- I'm having difficulty mentally labeling him as Mr. Redford right now-- shrugs my arm off him and stands up. Then, realizing what he did, he aims an apologetic half smile at me. I understand he's worried, and try not to take it personally. This leaves me to sit here and wait while he goes over and talks to the doctor.

He's still talking with the doctor when, a few minutes later, Father DiMaggio and Bishop Wellhausen return, both with sober expressions. We haven't been here long, and while I don't know how long last rites are supposed to take, I'm pretty sure it's longer than this. Both of them seem surprised to see me; after my insistence that I remain in the car, I can understand. At the bishop's questioning look, I shrug helplessly, and walk over to where they're standing near the doors.

Father DiMaggio's voice is unsteady; I find myself worried that I'll have to distract him like I did James. "Is everything alright, Titania?"

I nod, feeling a little subdued. "Yeah. I... are you done already?"

"Hazel died about two minutes before we got here," he responds, grimacing and sighing. "I've known her for a number of years; she was a good hearted woman and I personally will miss her terribly." Now that he's closer, I can see the red in his eyes, along with a shine to them. Bishop Wellhausen looks grave and sympathetic, but Father DiMaggio looks to be on the verge of weeping.

"Titania, why are you here?" the bishop asks.

I shrug uncomfortably. "I... thought maybe I could try to heal Mrs. McKinley," I admit. "I don't... Stuff happening in the brain is small, and so far I can only heal small injuries-"

"I thought you said you can only do it once per day?" Bishop Wellhausen says sharply, cutting me off yet again. He does this a lot, and I'm starting to really dislike it.

"Well, yes, except-" how do I explain this honestly without saying something that'll set off religion based alarms? Telling them that I go to the place where it comes from for a few minutes here, one or both of them will probably think I'm getting my powers from hell or demons or sunshine. And spending an hour there that's only minutes here will imply... I can't even guess. But I'm really not eager to be exorcised or burned at the stake or whatever they come up with-- I hated Rosemary's Baby and The Exorcist, and I can't remember ever hearing about the Catholic Church protesting that they didn't do stuff like that.

Father DiMaggio is watching me while the bishop waits for my answer. Finally, I think of a way to phrase it that's technically true without telling them everything. "My powers are all usable a set number of times per day. Except I can recharge all of them in a few minutes by paying for it with an hour of my life."

There's a moment of silence as they process this; Bishop Wellhausen looks angry as he turns his head to Father DiMaggio and says, "And there's your answer."

I go over my words a moment, and wince. "Okay, bad phrasing-"

Even Father DiMaggio sounds disappointed. "Titania, regardless of what surface good may be done with a power, a bargain with evil can only bring misery."

"No, it's not like that!" I say a little loudly. As the nurse at the desk glances towards us, I continue on more quietly, "There's no bargain. I just... it costs me an hour. That's it. I don't have to talk to someone or sign a contract or any of that stuff you're thinking." These church hangups are starting to get old. "It's just like spending time normally except it's an hour for me and a few minutes for everyone else. Like eight and a half. And I'm pretty sure I'm not aging slower because if I have my phone with me it's an hour on the phone too. So it's literally just costing me an hour of my life."

The two of them watch me closely. I don't want to go into any more detail than I've already done but I know I'm going to have to, probably to show them my mansion and everything. Finally, Father DiMaggio says, "I want to know more about this process before I can condone you doing it, Titania."

Yep. Figured as much. "I can... show you how it works later on." After I figure out a way to not screw up everything nor trod on religious sensibilities. "... But I already recharged it earlier. So I can still heal her."

"She's already passed, Titania," Bishop Wellhausen responds. "Unless you're telling us that you can restore the dead to living."

"No! I don't... I don't THINK I can do that. No, I meant..." I trail off, wondering. CAN I do that? Will I be able to? That strikes me as a bit beyond what I'm comfortable with.

I shake off the intrusive thoughts, and glance over at James Redford, where he's still talking with the doctor. "Him, James. I mean, his sister! His sister. She's been hospitalized with internal bleeding. Just out of surgery, but I'm guessing it didn't go as well as it should have." I look back at them. "My healing power isn't... strong, yet, but it stops bleeding. I KNOW it can help here!"

"You talked to him, then? He told you this?" I nod in response to Father DiMaggio's question. He sighs, and continues, "That may have been unwise."

I look between both of them. The misgivings on both of their faces is pretty clear. "What, because of some secret identity?" I hiss. "What's more important? Me staying anonymous or his sister staying alive?"

The two of them look at each other, the bishop looking disconcerted, and Father DiMaggio looking almost smug. Bishop Wellhausen grimaces, and nods. "Very well. Let's speak to him."

It would be too much to ask for anonymity at this point. Most of the waiting room is staring at us. We weren't speaking loud enough to be heard, but the presence of a pair of Catholic clergy speaking softly but animatedly to a skinny teenaged girl with blue highlights in her hair is apparently unusual enough to warrant attention. The three of us approach James. It's Father DiMaggio who speaks. "May we have a moment, Mr...?"

James stares at us for a few seconds, especially me, before wiping at his eyes with the heel of his hand. "James Redfield. Yeah, I uh... Sorry. I'm not Catholic. I don't-"

"That's not why we're here," Father DiMaggio says as he glances at the doctor. "If we may have a moment, doctor?"

The doctor nods and heads towards the nurses' station. Meanwhile, Father DiMaggio and Bishop Wellhausen then both look at me expectantly. Why are they- Okay then. I guess I take it from here. "Uh, Mr. Redfield?" I start quietly. I almost called him James. "I'm... I'm a cape." Father DiMaggio frowns slightly at this, but I ignore the expression and forge onwards. "I have a small healing power. It's not huge, it's not very strong, but it's good for stopping bleeding. And..."

He almost looks hopeful, and I feel a small surge of anxiety as I consider the possibility that this might not work. "You think you can heal-"

"I don't- I don't know. But I know I can stop bleeding, and... isn't that why she's here?"

"They, uh, they found the bleeding. They're not... the surgeon isn't confident that the stitches will hold, if-" He wipes at his eyes again, pushing through the tears. "Please. Save my baby sister."