Chapter 16 #2
And that means facing reality.
Luckily, the severe, intense pain of the burns has gone down quite a bit. My knees down to the tips of my toes are covered in that gooey gel shit, which actually does help with the sensation of my skin being too dry.
But I can already tell it’s going to be a hellish recovery, and it’s been messing with my head. Literally. I’ve been dealing with bouts of intense aphasia all afternoon to the point I didn’t speak to the PT tech for the first half of the session while my brain settled down.
She’s been shooting me glances that are probably meant to be sympathy, but all I feel is pity, and it’s ugly. I’m ready to get the hell out of here and go back to my quiet life.
With North.
Because apparently, that’s a thing now.
“Ow, fuck!” I was too lost in thought and ran into a doorframe, feetfirst. The pain shoots up my spine and, weirdly, pools in my crotch, which is new and fun. Gasping for air, I roll back and look over at the PT tech, who’s offering me a look of actual pity, which I probably deserve.
“I guess there goes my A+.”
She laughs and gives my arm a pat. “I’m not deducting points. It’s your first day, and this is pretty much your only real lesson on how to do this. You’re a great student.”
The pain starts to ease, and it’s replaced by a sudden, almost violent itch. I breathe through it as I turn the chair the way she’d shown me and make my way back toward my room.
“Were you always a perfectionist?” she asks as we turn the corner.
“I’m not a—” I stop. She’s right. I always have been.
It was obvious in the quiet way I tried and failed to get my parents’ attention as a kid.
And being told how good I was doing by teachers and staff always soothed the ache of being ignored at home.
That desperation for attention crept into my marriage too, and it was very likely why I stuck with Liam for so long, even after realizing I was unhappy.
“I guess I always have been. It didn’t usually work out the way I wanted though.”
“It never does,” she says in a tone that tells me she knows from personal experience.
I turn my head and take a glance at her badge for the first time. I wasn’t bothering with names before this. I’ve changed nurses and techs so many times my head is spinning. But she’s worth remembering.
Shani, it reads. I say it in my head a few times and worry I’m getting it wrong. And there’s a good chance my brain will misfire, and I’ll forget both her name and her face.
But I won’t forget this.
“It doesn’t get easier either,” I add.
She laughs as we turn the corner into my room, and I wince at the smell. Someone’s changed the sheets, and there’s nothing I hate more than the smell of freshly laundered hospital sheets. It’s all bleaches and starches, the scent stinging the inside of my sinuses.
It gives me almost violent flashbacks of lying in a bed, unable to move most of my body, my soul screaming with a grief I couldn’t quite process.
“Let me lower the bed,” Shani says, walking over to push the button. “I know they told you this already, but it’s really important you don’t try to bear any weight.”
I nod. I wouldn’t try, even if they asked me to. The blisters are kind of incredible-looking—at least the ones I can see. They’re all in odd shapes like alien continents, cascading from my knees to the arches of my feet.
The scars will be interesting.
With a heavy grunt, I brace myself on the bed railing, then twist from the chair to the mattress the way Shani had showed me earlier today. My calves knock against the side, and I bite back a cry as she lifts my legs and hooks my knees over the little wedge pillow that keeps them elevated.
It’s not a perfect system, but it’s something.
“Comfy?” she asks.
“Yes,” I lie with a small smile.
She laughs and pats my arm again. “If it helps, I’ve seen a lot worse heal really well. And you’re getting through this like a champ.”
It doesn’t help, but I understand what she’s trying to do. “Thanks. You’re a great teacher.”
“Don’t tell my mom that. She hates that I took this job.” With a wink, she takes the chair and leaves me to my thoughts, which are a jumbled mess of both exhaustion and the gentle painkillers keeping the worst of it at bay.
My eyes start to drift closed, and I’m not sure how long I hover on the edge of sleep when something jolts me awake. The smell of food. Good food. Definitely not what the hospital has been preparing the last couple of days.
I peel one eye open and realize my brother’s pulling my rolling tray closer to the bed. The little pink pitcher on the tray has condensation from fresh ice water, and there’s a plate beside it that did not come from here.
“I come bearing comfort food,” Easton says. He situates the tray just over my waist, then waits for me to hit the button so I can sit up without disturbing my lower half.
I stare at the food, and my eyes widen.
Chicken and dumplings. I think I might cry.
“Uh…”
“From North,” he says like I don’t already know.
My hand trembles a little as I pick up the plastic spork and stab it into one of the dumplings. It’s very fresh—not as hot as I usually like it, but the familiar taste soothes me immediately from the inside out.
Easton laughs. “If you could marry food, would I be tux shopping right now?”
I flip him off with my free hand as I shovel more bites into my mouth. My appetite has been shit the last two days. I assumed it was the medication and the pain, but maybe it was just missing this.
With a sigh, Easton scoots his chair closer and leans his arm on the railing of the bed. “How was your day?”
I swallow my bite down with a swig of the water and shrug. “Fine. I just had PT.”
He sits up straight. “PT? You’re not supposed to be walking! I’m gonna fucking sue the life out of this place—”
“Calm down. It was wheelchair PT,” I clarify. “They do know what they’re doing here.”
He looks sheepish as he settles back into the chair. “Sorry. I think I’m processing my trauma kind of weirdly.”