Chapter 21 Face First
face first
Sariah
He’s not awake yet.
Surgery came and went. He’s in recovery, but he won’t wake up. Why won’t he wake up?
Ayla and I sit in the waiting room with her mom, Janie.
The woman carries herself with an air of authority and affluence but seems smaller than who she is.
I don’t know how to describe it. But her tailored expensive clothes are a bit too baggy.
Her pallor is a bit gray and the bags under her eyes aren’t well concealed.
She’s said nothing other than to kiss her daughter on the cheek when she arrived and then move several chairs away.
She didn’t say a thing to me, but nor did I to her. It’s been since college, and I don’t know that she even recognizes me.
The tension in here is thicker than frozen caramel, and I’m not wading in to thaw it out.
I brought my computer and am trying a new method of pen testing on the app. Ayla brought her own and is editing photos. She also brought a small pantry’s worth of coffee and snacks from her favorite coffee shop.
I’m glad for the variety and the distraction since the testing isn’t doing it.
I have no clue how long the three of us have been sitting in silence, all focusing on our devices when a man in scrubs walks out. “Ayla,” he greets before looking around. I’m at attention, and Janie stands, shifting her weight from foot to foot.
“Dr. Singh. How’s Cian?” She stands eye to eye with the young surgeon.
“He’s still in recovery. We were able to wake him, but he asked for pain killers and a nap, which we obliged.”
“And?”
“No change from before. The surgery was much more invasive than we’d hoped, but it was successful.
The swelling from the original injury actually protected the ocular nerve, so he shouldn’t have any vision issues and there’s no damage to the retina.
We were concerned about the need for an acrylic eye, but that shouldn’t be necessary.
For the amount of damage sustained, he was exceedingly lucky. ”
The gasped hiccup behind me is swiftly followed by retching. Janie Murphy isn’t hearing the positives.
They’re all I want to hear. No prosthetic. No blindness. Complete repair. I hate that it’s happening but will take the outcome since he already sustained the injury.
“How long before we can see him?” Ayla asks before I can.
“Let’s let him wake up on his own. I suspect another hour, maybe more. It took a bit of anesthesia to get him under.”
Ayla points to her hair. “That shouldn’t have surprised you.”
Dr. Singh smiles a small, tired smile. “It didn’t. It just takes longer to process out of the system. We’ll let you know as soon as you can go back.”
Ayla takes a seat and whips out her phone. From what I can tell, Janie seems to shuffle back to her own. The plastic releases its air as she sits and then her sniffles begin. That her daughter doesn’t comfort her isn’t lost on me.
“Li, he’s good. In recovery and went back to sleep.
No vision loss. No loss of the eye. One down.
One to go if the wires work.” She pauses before continuing, “Yeah, I’ll tell him.
And I’ll let you know when he’s awake.” Another pause.
“I’m guessing overnight. It sounded like it was more complex than they were expecting.
” She pauses one last time before adding, “Will do.”
She clicks off before lifting the phone to her face. “Hey, Honey, good news.” She’s wandered down the hallway and out of earshot when I hear a small voice behind me. “Oh God,” before a hiccupping sob.
I can’t take any more. I lock my laptop and set it aside before rounding the bank of chairs I’d claimed for the ones behind it. “Janie? Are you okay? Can I get you something?”
“Why do you look so familiar, dear? I know you must be one of Ayla’s friends, but I can’t place you.”
“I’m Sariah. Ci and I dated in college.”
She puzzles me out, trying to put two and two together, but seems to get minus one. She shrugs. “Nice to see you again. It’s been a while. I didn’t realize you and Ayla had caught up recently.”
Negative one isn’t far from the truth.
She’s either out of it or intentionally dense. Oh well. Still in all, her son has been through hell twice, face first. “Can I get you some water?”
She pats my hand. “No, I’m good. Thank you, though.”
I move back to my computer and log back in. I’d better keep my fingers and mind busy. If that were Renée in there, I’d be crazy. I’d want to burst knowing what she’d been through and the recovery yet to come.
“Seamus, he’s okay. The surgery went well. I wanted you to know.” No pauses. So no questions. Apparently, she got voicemail when she called her husband about her son.
Don’t go postal, Sariah. Don’t. Go. Postal.
In the past two and half weeks, Cian and I have talked at length. Via text anyway. Where we could, we talk-talked, but when he realized the recovery could be faster via text, we switched the bulk of our communication to messages.
He told me about what happened with his injuries. He spared me the violent details, but explained what happened, how Ayla played in, what his father expected her to do.
I can’t fathom any parent doing such a thing and I decided right then and there I didn’t want Seamus Murphy anywhere near Renée. Janie is skating thin ice with me by speaking his name. God forbid I see the man.
Though, at this juncture, I can’t believe Ayla would allow the man near her brother. She’ll have me as back-up if she needs it.
His son had major surgery from injuries sustained at what amounts to be his father’s hand, and not only is the man not here, he didn’t even answer his wife’s call. What a peach.
I learned early that parents are as equipped as they choose to be. My biological ones were not, nor did they choose to be. Randy and Rosie, on the other hand, found a way to get tools to be everything they could.
When I found out I was pregnant with Renée, I decided to be the Home Depot of parenting knowledge. I’m not perfect, but like hell will she ever be wanting because I’m unwilling to improve.
Therefore, I have no patience for the likes of Seamus Murphy and Janie is sliding her way down that teeter totter with every moment she leans his way.
I’m trying, but it’s not that complicated—choose selfishness last. That’s the whole deal. It’s hard as hell, but it’s doable. And her kids are adults, so it’s not like the balance is tipped.
Ayla returns, sliding her phone into her pocket and grabs her computer. Her eyes look over the screen toward her mom before refocusing on her editing.
I shoot a message her way.
Me: Your mom thinks I’m here to support you in your time of crisis.
Ayla: What the fuck?
Me: Roll with it. Not worth the energy to fight it.
Ayla: It sure is.
Me: Not for me. And Ci doesn’t need any more drama or any more reason to be mad at your mom.
Ayla: Fine. But I’m only being an adult because you’re making me.
I fight to hold back a laugh and switch from looking at places to break our system, to digging into folks in South Dakota.
One day I’ll take them all down. Sometime after fifty-seven and a half weeks from now when it’s safe to pop my head up. I’m not risking playing Whack-a-Mole with my daughter.
But once the risk is passed, it’s game on.
Cian
My hunchback days are far from over, but I’m moving on. The rubber boxing helmet thing that squeezes the fuck out of my face has me thinking Phantom of the Opera, but I can’t sing. And my weird hand gesture seems to be lost on everyone.
At least I’m in a room.
When the door pushes open, my sister is followed by an angel.
I can feel the lopsided grin that squeezes my face in my helmet contraption. One cheek squishes against it as I try to sing. But nothing comes out.
“You good, big brother?”
I smile. “Yeah.” She’s tall. Like really tall, and I have to look way, way up to see her.
The angel behind her looks happy and that makes me happy too.
And horny.
I cover my crotch when I look at her. But I can’t stop the goofy grin.
“Oh God,” Ayla says and spins. “I’ll… be back. Later.”
“She ran away,” I say. Or I think I say that. “You’re so bootiful. Bootiful. Beeootiful. Pretty.” I enunciate the last word.
“How are you, Ci?” The angel smiles really wide, and her eyes dance. One is a different color on the outside, and I want to stare at it.
“Bootiful. I’m pretty.”
“You’re definitely handsome. I like the scruff.” She rubs a finger over my jaw on my non-puffy side.
It tickles, and my cock gets warm and bouncy.
“Happy dick.”
When the angel bursts out laughing, I lift my singing Phantom hand and squeeze her boob. “Honk.”
She leans down and kisses my lips with light pressure. “Love you, Ci.”
The angel loves me. She has boobs and she makes my dick springy. “Yay.”
I wake in the hospital with pressure in my temple and cheek. Did they put my face in a fucking vise? My jaw feels loose, but it finally doesn’t hurt. Actually, nothing hurts. For the first time in more than two weeks, nothing hurts.
The dreams I’ve been having are wild. I get why people would want the good stuff and why it’s so sought after. I could’ve slept for a week and I wouldn’t have cared. And the dreams were ragers.
Mom sits in the chair at my feet. Her eyes roam my face and search my eyes as if they hold the mysteries of the universe.
I lift a hand and offer a low wave, not speaking. I’m afraid I could overdo it with as little pain as I feel. The pressure is insane, but the pain is muted.
“Cian. I’m—” She starts crying. “I wanted to be here when you woke up. I asked Ayla and her friend to wait just so I could see you. You look good, son. Your dad—”
I lift my hand and then wag one finger.
“He wanted me to tell you—”
“No,” I grit as loudly as I can.
“But—”
“Nothing. Or you—” I point as I grit out. “Are dead to me too.”
Her face drains of all color. And there wasn’t much to begin with. She nods her head in an exaggerated gesture, like the neighing of a horse. “Okay. Okay. What do you need? What can I do for you?”
I shake my head hoping she understands I want nothing from her. Nothing from either of them. I mime writing.
She reaches into her purse and grabs pen and paper.
Nothing. Thank you.
Will you get Sariah?
Her face shows confusion, but she does that horse nod. “Of course, Ci. I’ll be right outside.”
She leaves, and I exhale. I don’t know what she expects. I don’t know what I expect either but acting like nothing happened and we’re ‘one big happy family’ sure as fuck ain’t it.
Sariah pokes her head in moments later, humor and worry warring in her face. She’s damn near tiptoeing in.
I extend a palm and motion for her to come closer before patting the mattress next to me. Machines and chords, huge armrests and devices make the space clunky.
She leans a hip in the gap near mine before extending a hand to trail a finger down my jaw and toward my Adam’s apple. “How are you feeling?”
“My head feels like a grape.”
I take her hand in mine. It’s soft and small but fits perfectly where it belongs.
“Seriously, how high did they dose your meds? This can’t be good.”
I scrunch my face but decided against that quickly. “Enough. Unless it explodes.”
“The grape?”
I point at my face with the hand she’s not holding. “My face.”
“Your grape face could explode?”
What is she missing? I swear she was normal when we spoke last night. I mime a grape being squeezed until it explodes.
“Yeah, that sounds terrible.”
Terrible doesn’t begin to cover it. My face exploding off my neck like in an 80’s movie would suck for me.
“Did you rest well?”
“Weird dreams.”
“Want some good news?” she asks.
I nod.
“Your surgery was successful. It was more intense and more complex than they anticipated, but they put you back together.”
“Humpty Dumpty.”
“Seriously, they need to dial back the meds.”
I shake my head. I’m coherent. Not in pain, but I’m thinking straight. That’s the balance I’m looking for—can think and communicate without pain. Why would she want me to hurt?
“Want me to get Ayla for you?”
I shake my head again and tug her hand, pulling her down to my side. When she slides an arm over my chest, I exhale. This is where she belongs. At my side.
And I’m never letting go.