nearby room, and she cringed. A chill snaked down her spine.
“Or hear.” The nurse’s eyes darkened. A rueful smile twitched her lips and disappeared.
Celeste chewed the inside of her cheek. “Is that person all right?”
“A common reaction, especially during and after a debreeding.”
“Debreeding?” She hated to ask, but needed to know.
“Removing dead skin and infection. Necessary for new skin to grow back properly and minimize scarring.”
A man and woman, faces haggard, walked the hallway with their child, a boy who appeared to be around twelve years old. Legs completely bandaged, he
crept along like an old man.
“Mr. Laverty will not look like himself. He’s endured two surgeries with skin grafts. His head is swollen nearly three times its normal size.” The nurse extended her hand. “I don’t mean to alarm you, but you need to know the reality and prepare yourself.”
How did one prepare for that? Mouth like cotton, she swallowed hard.
“His face and hands took the brunt of the damage, so they’re bandaged. He’s not able to speak clearly, either. Just so you know.”
“Have there been any other visitors?”
“His boss came by a couple times. Laverty keeps asking about his wife, but his boss says he doesn’t have one. Poor guy.” She shook her head. “Very sad. Well, I’ll let you visit. But if you need anything, buzz me. The button’s on the cord by the bed.” She turned and walked down the hall, rubber soles producing a squeegee sound on the linoleum.
Celeste took a deep breath and pushed on the door handle. She peered inside. “Hello?”
The television droned against the silence of the room. Propped in bed, Randall carefully lifted his wrapped hand and waved her in.
What in the world do I say?
Inching closer, she studied the mummy-like creature. Her gaze fell on the blood-stained sheet.
Randall rested his hand on top of the stain. Did he detect her shock? Heat crept up her neck and burned her cheeks.
“Please, sit,” he said, his voice husky, barely audible.
After she angled his tray table away from the bed, she slid a chair closer to his side and sat. “I’m Celeste Tatem, Joe’s wife.”
Blood-shot eyes stared at her. The pupils, ebony orbs, lacked luster. If eyes truly were the windows to the soul, this man’s insides hurt, and badly.
He arched, winced. “I’m sorry.”
“Me, too.”
An awkward silence passed between them.
“Can I get you anything?” She glanced about the room. Since flowers weren’t allowed in the burn unit, no arrangements or plants graced the window ledge. Not even a single card. A piercing pain shot through her heart. Why hadn’t she thought to buy this pitiful man a card? This could be Joe after all.
“An ice chip.” His gaze flickered to the tray table.
She scrambled to her feet. “Yes, of course.” Styrofoam cup in hand, she scooped a chip onto a plastic spoon and leaned toward Randall.
When he parted his lips, all cracked and scabby, Celeste slid the ice onto his tongue.
Drool dribbled out, and he reached to dab the corner of his mouth. He cried out when he shifted his position on the mattress. “Sorry. Three-hundred staples holding the skin together in my hands.”
Grimacing, she set the cup and spoon on the table and lowered into the chair. “I didn’t realize.” And more she didn’t want to know.
“You can be glad your husband didn’t survive.”
“Why would you say such a thing?” Her gloved hands rested on top of her lap, palms up, fingers bent.
“I wouldn’t wish this nightmare on anybody. Excruciating, throbbing pain . . . the sleeplessness . . . the morphine. Debreeding and bandage changes . . . multiple times a day with bleeding. Always the bleeding.” He spoke with great effort, gasping between phrases, seemingly weary from the outpouring, yet needing to vent more. She wished he would spare his voice and his energy. “Silver nitrate dressings to fight infection . . . surgeries . . .
“Or hear.” The nurse’s eyes darkened. A rueful smile twitched her lips and disappeared.
Celeste chewed the inside of her cheek. “Is that person all right?”
“A common reaction, especially during and after a debreeding.”
“Debreeding?” She hated to ask, but needed to know.
“Removing dead skin and infection. Necessary for new skin to grow back properly and minimize scarring.”
A man and woman, faces haggard, walked the hallway with their child, a boy who appeared to be around twelve years old. Legs completely bandaged, he
crept along like an old man.
“Mr. Laverty will not look like himself. He’s endured two surgeries with skin grafts. His head is swollen nearly three times its normal size.” The nurse extended her hand. “I don’t mean to alarm you, but you need to know the reality and prepare yourself.”
How did one prepare for that? Mouth like cotton, she swallowed hard.
“His face and hands took the brunt of the damage, so they’re bandaged. He’s not able to speak clearly, either. Just so you know.”
“Have there been any other visitors?”
“His boss came by a couple times. Laverty keeps asking about his wife, but his boss says he doesn’t have one. Poor guy.” She shook her head. “Very sad. Well, I’ll let you visit. But if you need anything, buzz me. The button’s on the cord by the bed.” She turned and walked down the hall, rubber soles producing a squeegee sound on the linoleum.
Celeste took a deep breath and pushed on the door handle. She peered inside. “Hello?”
The television droned against the silence of the room. Propped in bed, Randall carefully lifted his wrapped hand and waved her in.
What in the world do I say?
Inching closer, she studied the mummy-like creature. Her gaze fell on the blood-stained sheet.
Randall rested his hand on top of the stain. Did he detect her shock? Heat crept up her neck and burned her cheeks.
“Please, sit,” he said, his voice husky, barely audible.
After she angled his tray table away from the bed, she slid a chair closer to his side and sat. “I’m Celeste Tatem, Joe’s wife.”
Blood-shot eyes stared at her. The pupils, ebony orbs, lacked luster. If eyes truly were the windows to the soul, this man’s insides hurt, and badly.
He arched, winced. “I’m sorry.”
“Me, too.”
An awkward silence passed between them.
“Can I get you anything?” She glanced about the room. Since flowers weren’t allowed in the burn unit, no arrangements or plants graced the window ledge. Not even a single card. A piercing pain shot through her heart. Why hadn’t she thought to buy this pitiful man a card? This could be Joe after all.
“An ice chip.” His gaze flickered to the tray table.
She scrambled to her feet. “Yes, of course.” Styrofoam cup in hand, she scooped a chip onto a plastic spoon and leaned toward Randall.
When he parted his lips, all cracked and scabby, Celeste slid the ice onto his tongue.
Drool dribbled out, and he reached to dab the corner of his mouth. He cried out when he shifted his position on the mattress. “Sorry. Three-hundred staples holding the skin together in my hands.”
Grimacing, she set the cup and spoon on the table and lowered into the chair. “I didn’t realize.” And more she didn’t want to know.
“You can be glad your husband didn’t survive.”
“Why would you say such a thing?” Her gloved hands rested on top of her lap, palms up, fingers bent.
“I wouldn’t wish this nightmare on anybody. Excruciating, throbbing pain . . . the sleeplessness . . . the morphine. Debreeding and bandage changes . . . multiple times a day with bleeding. Always the bleeding.” He spoke with great effort, gasping between phrases, seemingly weary from the outpouring, yet needing to vent more. She wished he would spare his voice and his energy. “Silver nitrate dressings to fight infection . . . surgeries . . .
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