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The smell of burning flesh had alarmed her slightly. No pain, but there was a slight pressure pressing down on her skull before the laser had done its work on her eyes. For a moment, she wonders what would happen if the anesthetic hadn’t been strong enough to numb the pain of flesh burning and skin cutting.
A shiver goes down Agnes’ spine as she holds on to the soft puppy plushie they gave to her before the surgery. A form of moral support. Perhaps even emotional, considering she had gone alone, which the doctors strongly advised her to bring someone along since once the surgery was done, she would be walking along the corridors with eyes that would water and blur so much, it would be easier to close them.
To their dismay, she didn’t.
The worst part of it all was how they had poured water over her open eyes to rinse them. It was like being waterboarded without a towel over her face. A part of her had cursed herself for ever getting the surgery.
Once the surgery had been done, Agnes thought the pain would soon subside, and she could freely walk out of the room with no repercussions. Except, there had been, and immediately after they helped her up and out, they gave her sunglasses to subdue the pain of the bright lights of the hospital and the growing pain in her head.
Even with the sunglasses on, everything quickly turned into a blur for the next few minutes that she sat in a chair in the hallway. A nurse, from what she could tell, had given her a cup of water and ibuprofen as a painkiller. It slightly helped. The plushie of the puppy had stayed on her lap, and she aggressively held on to it.
“Ms. Rossellini, your husband.” As if the bright lights reaching her eyes with sunglasses that didn’t help her weren’t already enough ache, the nonsensical statement of her having a husband gave her head an even greater ache. Not that the hospital knew she had worked at the Vatican, or knew what her social status was. They never asked, and Agnes wasn’t a particularly chatty person.
With a sigh, she was about to explain that it had been an impostor when a hand reached for hers, and the man spoke. “Thank you,” he said to the nurse before she could feel his gaze on her. “How are you feeling?” She could have recognized that accent and the richness in his baritone anywhere.
The Secretary of State had given her a visit.
“What are you doing here, Thomas?” she asked in a small panic. A fear that anyone could easily recognize them as members of the clergy, and rumors would fly about in the air and reach the news faster than they could drop the act. “And why are you my husband?” The hand that held her arm tightens slightly, and a thumb rubs her skin. An attempt to tell her not to worry, she thinks.
“Do you not want me to be your husband?” he jokes at first, judging by the sound of footsteps passing by, he knew the risks himself, which makes her question him even more. “I wasn’t quite sure if the hospital would have allowed me to see you if I wasn’t blood related or… romantically involved with you. I said I’m your husband; that I took your last name instead.”
“You couldn’t have said you were my brother?” The thumb comes to a stop on her skin. He did not think of that.
“Don’t tell me we could pass as brother and sister. Just from how we talk, anybody could tell we are anything but. ” At that moment, she wanted to ask what that ‘anything’ was. Agnes decides against it and lets out an exasperated sigh. The ache in her head was still present, and finding out about the other details about how he came to be at the hospital would be saved for later.
“Mr. Rossellini, I presume?” A doctor, she thinks, she still can’t tell, approached them.
“Yes.”
“All right. These are the antibiotic drops that should be given to her. We gave her just a few minutes ago before you arrived, but she’ll need at least 3 more drops today. For the next 5 days, it should be 3 times a day.” The doctor says simply, and from the way Thomas shifted beside her, he must have gotten the antibiotic for her. “For about a week, she’s also not allowed to touch or scratch her eye, and wash her hair or face. I highly advise that she continues to wear her shades indoors and decrease any form of screen time and reading. Although I wouldn’t be too strict on the last part. And for a month, she is not allowed to swim.” Agnes nearly snorts at the last sentence. It wasn’t like she had any plans to, anyway.
“Thank you, doctor,” Thomas says as he reaches over a hand to shake his.
“Recover well, Ms. Rossellini.” He says to her, and she mutters a thank you to him before he leaves them alone.
“I brought… uhm… my old cassette player for you to listen to.”
“You’re old school,” she teases, feeling how his hand had let go of her arm to reach over to his other side and hand her the player and headphones. His hands carefully placed it in hers, enclosing his around hers for a moment before letting go again. “We have MP3 players, you know. Also phones.”
“Oh, come on. I rather like the cassette players.”
“You’re just terrible at technology.” She couldn’t help the chuckle that she let out, which resulted in more ache to her head than she would have liked.
Thomas sighs. “Let’s get you home, shall we?” A rhetorical question. Before she could tease him again, she felt him reach for the headphones in her hand and put them on her. With a click of a button, the cassette starts playing.
The intro to Super Trouper by ABBA started playing.
It took all her will to stop herself from laughing as she was guided up to her feet and an arm around her as they started walking. “No comments or questions,” he tells her as he gently navigates her out of the hospital.
As much as Agnes wanted to understand where they were going, the lights still felt too bright, and no matter how many times she closed her eyes, she could not somehow lower the brightness of her surroundings. Judging by the way the cool breeze of air that swept over her face, they were out and within the next minute it turned warm from the back of a taxi, she assumes, Thomas’ presence still beside her, and his arm still around her.
Forcing her eyes shut, she leans into him. After all, Agnes thinks, he was supposed to be her husband. He had a duty to take care of her, partially a joke. The realization of the gravity of the situation had come quicker to her than she would have liked, and she faced the other way instead.
By tomorrow, or later, he would be Cardinal Lawrence again.
The reluctance in her body movements didn’t go unnoticed by him.
Thomas reaches his other hand to her arm again, rubbing her there again in an attempt to help ease the pain. It does little to subdue it, but she appreciates the gesture nonetheless.
Agnes, much like anyone else, had a fear of the unknown. By unknown, it was not knowing where the steps were that led to the second floor of her apartment. She was feeling nauseous, and all she could do was grasp the rails tightly as she climbed up.
“I’m here, Agnes.” He reminds her when he squeezes her other hand tightly, reassuring her that if she took a misstep, he would be there to catch her.
You are terrible at playing catch. She had wanted to say that at that moment.
Our Last Summer playing in the background didn’t help her either.
By the time Thomas finally managed to slot the right key into the door, she could feel his hesitation when entering her apartment. Nearly afraid he would see anything in there, not that he would, and not that she minded.
It wasn’t his first time visiting her home.
Agnes squeezes his hand in return to help her through the small apartment and into her bedroom. Her other hand reached for the walls of her home, entrusting her other sense to guide her through the place if Thomas had forgotten where his bedroom was. Slowly, they eventually made it.
The brightness doesn’t subdue, and the pain still doesn’t subside even when she’s lying down on her bed with sunglasses and the curtains completely blacked out. The throbbing pain in her temples had lasted longer than it should have, but she’s had worse migraines, surprisingly. She could feel the way Thomas paced around her room.
“Thomas,” she tries to call him. His footsteps were still pacing. “Thomas,” she tries again, and still no response. “Thomas, dear.” He finally stops and turns to her, approaching her on the bed and moving one side of the headphones so she could hear him over the music that was slowly coming to an end.
“Yes? What is it?”
“What are you worrying about?”
“I… I’m not sure.”
“Shouldn’t you return to the Vatican?” The church had always needed him. Even when he was just an archbishop, she could see that much how important he was to the curia.
“I took the day off.”
This surprises her. He rarely took a day off. “Why?”
A beat. “Just a day off.”
“Don’t lie to your fellow clergyman, Thomas.” He laughs at that. Not sure if he laughed at the joke or that she had reminded him of their positions in the church.
“Admittedly, when I looked for you this morning, your prioress had told me how you were getting LASIK surgery. When I had asked if you had any companions, she said there weren’t any that she knew of.” Sister Madge, her supposed second-in-command at the Sisters of Charity, had always been a nosy one, she observed. She was a close confidant despite her habit of sticking her nose in the business of others.
“The pain will subside.” Agnes tries to reassure him, assuming that that was what he was worrying about. There wasn’t much he could have done anyway to further help with the pain. “The tape’s finished, by the way.” She hands him the finished tape, and he takes it before replacing it with a new one. It makes her wonder if he has a collection with him.
“If you don’t like this one, just tell me.” He says before closing the cassette player and letting her decide when she would start playing it. The curious remark makes her wonder what he had on the tape. “Have you eaten?” She shakes her head no. “I’ll make you something.”
Somehow, that excites her. Having known him for a while, he was an excellent cook, to her surprise. “Thank you.”
“Here’s your… stuffed toy dog that you were holding earlier.” Agnes smiles at that, finding that he thought to bring it with him as they had gone out. It looks a bit like you, she wanted to comment, even if she had never properly taken a look at it. Was she allowed to take the dog home? Then again, it was Thomas who had brought it with him.
His footsteps fade out the door, and she plays the tape. Instantly, she recognizes his voice again.
It was a recording of him reading T.S. Eliot, as he says in the beginning.
Agnes had never admitted it, and would never admit to taking a liking to his voice, but with the lack of call for him to replace the tape and having prepared one in advance, she would not know how he found out.
The Waste Land. He begins.
The Burial of the Dead.
April is the cruelest month,
breeding Lilacs out of the dead land,
mixing Memory and desire,
stirring Dull roots with spring rain.
Some time ago, she had heard the buzz in the Vatican and how he had grown to be known for the baritone in his voice, for his intonation, and precise modulation of his voice. The way he read the words in the Gospels was as if they were words of poetry and literature, which, subjectively, they could be. If it hadn’t been for his voice, half of those who heard mass from him would have fallen asleep. Except, Agnes was a firm believer that they wouldn’t have even if that were the case.
The current Secretary of State had a way with his words when he gave his homily. Fondly, she would sit out in the courtyard or listen to a recording of his masses and listen intently to him. Half because his voice soothed her, half because she had liked his words.
It was a truth she didn’t want to admit, but a truth that somehow got to him.
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter,
the cricket no relief,
The recording soothed her.
There was an attempt to pay attention more to his voice instead of the ache behind her eyelids, but it was futile. The plush she held was a victim of being a stress ball. She had wanted to enjoy the listening experience.
With a huff, she sits up against the headboard, and a hand reaches hers again. Startled, she hit her head against the wall.
“I’m sorry, sorry. I’m sorry.” Thomas frantically apologizes as his other hand reaches for the back of her head, trying to rub out the pain.
“It’s all right.”
“Sorry. I have to give you your eye drops.”
“I can do it myself.”
“Do your eyes and head still hurt?”
“I can still do it.”
“I thought I was supposed to be your husband?”
“You are, in fact, the Secretary of State of the Vatican.” It was supposed to come out as a joke, a tease, but a part of it came out as a sigh instead. “Give me the eyedrops.”
“Even so, I have a duty to care for my clergymen.” Agnes stared at him, at least tried to, behind the sunglasses, but there was a determination on his face that she could see behind the dark lenses. Why he was so determined, she wouldn’t know.
“Okay.” She relents to him. Lying back down again, she sighs, preparing herself to remove the shades.
“Just relax.” She hears him say, feeling how he leans over her, a part of her bed dipping as his knee rests on it.
“Easy for you to say.” Thomas doesn’t respond to that as his hand reaches for her face. A ghost of his fingers trailed over her cheek and her nose. For a second, she almost felt the way his thumb lightly pressed against her lips.
Gently, he lifts the sunglasses from her face, the light blinding her for a moment before her eyes attempt to adjust and keep them open for him. His forefinger and thumb pull the skin near her eye apart, just slightly, enough for him to lightly press on the eye drop, and the cool droplet meets her eye.
The closeness doesn’t register to her yet as he moves to the other eye. It was only now did she realized how warm he had felt. “One more.” And another one drops into her eye, and she blinks rapidly to cool it off. Thomas puts her shades back on and tucks some of her hair back.
“Thank you,” she says.
“Anything,” is what he responds before pulling back from her, the warmth of his body near hers suddenly lost as he goes back to the eye drops on the table. “I made something quick, I hope you don’t mind. I promise to make something better for dinner.” Dinner? Agnes had lost count of how many questions she wanted to ask him, but she decided against it again.
“It’s all right,” she manages to breathe out. “Can we eat in the bathroom?” The silliness of the question catches him off guard, and she can hear him laugh before realizing she’s serious.
“Oh, you’re serious.”
“There are no windows in there.” It would have been pitch black, and easier for her to rest. The issue about how she would see what she was eating was another thing that she didn’t take into consideration.
“Uh…” She could feel him trying to figure it out, too. “Okay.” The recording of his reading stops, and she sets it down on the bed. She would save the rest of it for when she slept.
The bathroom was small but tidy. When they entered the doorway, there was the shower at the end of the small room, 5 or 6 steps away from the door, a sink to the right, and a toilet beside it. Thomas led her to sit behind the door. A space where he could slightly leave the door ajar without it affecting her sight. And it didn’t, Agnes concluded. The floor was cool, and it was as dark as she needed it to be.
She sighs in relief, leaning her head back. If it had been up to her, she would have slept there instead.
Agnes felt the way a bowl was gently placed in her hands, his fingers guiding her to the utensil and to hold the bowl firmly so it won’t spill.
“Thank you,” she says again. Not enough thanks, she thinks, would possibly be enough for how patient he was.
“There’s no need for it.”
“There is.”
“I’m just doing… what any friend would.” It almost makes her laugh, suddenly becoming hyperaware of how close he sat beside her on the floor. Thomas could have sat outside instead, or left. Leaving would have been easier. “Love your neighbor as yourself… or so the commandment says.”
“Ah, so Secretary of State Thomas Cardinal Lawrence loves anyone and everyone, even me.” Thomas chuckles. Her fingers rub the side of the bowl. Suddenly nervous at how her words came out, and what they were supposed to express.
Agnes sat on the fence between a joke and something much more serious.
“For the record…” A beat passes as she listens intently, waiting intently for his words. “You aren’t really just anyone.”
“Close confidant, I’ll take it then.” Silence meets her as she tries to gauge his reaction through the darkness of the bathroom. Nothing. She could see nothing, not sure what she was expecting.
He was still there. His presence greatly felt against her own; he was just thinking in the silence. And all Agnes had wanted to do was lift whatever burden had been torturing his mind the moment the second conclave he experienced had ended.
“Thomas?” she calls out to him.
“Yes?” She didn’t know what to ask, and frankly, if she did, she was afraid to. There wasn’t much that was up for discussion, anyway. It was something they refused to discuss, even back then.
Instead, she leans against his shoulder, feeling the way he tenses against the action and eases after a few seconds. “You aren’t going to eat?”
“I already ate before I left work,” he says. Work. Normally, he would have said the Vatican. She dismisses the thought, reading too much into his words. “You should eat, then you could rest on your bed.”
Agnes hums at that. The position made it difficult for her to eat, but she didn’t want to move.
“I brought flowers, by the way.”
“What kind?” she asks between spoons.
“Gerberas.”
“Oh? Why?”
“..The florist suggested it.”
“How many?”
“That’s a curious question.” She knew as much that flowers had meanings, most did, and sometimes the number had significance to it. It was her first time receiving those kinds, so she wouldn’t have known. “Six.”
“Did the florist tell you the meaning?”
“There’s a meaning?”
“I wouldn’t know.” They take humor in the conversation. Thomas had pretended he didn’t know; she knew him, and he knew the meaning of it. Most florists who gave recommendations would almost always give the meaning behind the flowers.
“Something to research on later, I suppose.”
Silence fills the air again as the sound of the spoon scraping the bowl fills it instead. Agnes would move away from his shoulder, giving him the sign that she was done eating. He takes the bowl from her first, setting it down on the counter before he helps her up. She doesn’t let go of his hands even when she’s standing up. Firmly, she holds his hands against her.
They stood in the darkness of the bathroom, feeling his breath catch against the crown of her head. His hands were warm against hers, and a sudden fear that if she let go, he would disappear. When his thumb makes a move to draw small circles on the back of her hand, she feels relief wash over her.
She leans her head against his chest, merely. Her face in the crook of his neck. Perhaps this is one of those moments when she would ask God for forgiveness, for the sin she is about to commit. The mantra played in her head like the practiced prayer she always had when she was a novice nun.
May God forgive her for her selfish desires; she prays to him first. “Please stay,” she breathes into him, her mouth almost pressed against the skin of his neck. If he had moved a little more, it would have met her lips. She can feel him nod, his hands holding her tight again.
“Okay.”
Thomas opted to stay, but had chosen to sleep on the couch just outside the bedroom. A protest almost forced its way out of her throat, but she had already been given more than what she just asked for. There was comfort, anyway, in knowing he was just outside.
When morning came around, she would later find out he had taken the rest of the week off.