Chapter 24
XXIV
DAISY
The relationship between Daisy and Callan’s mother had always been somewhat strained.
It wasn’t that the woman was outright unkind; she simply had a blunt nature and a tendency to speak without much thought.
Her dismissive remarks and general lack of warmth made it clear she’d never pictured someone like Daisy for her son.
Callan had joked about it more than once, saying his mother was still holding on to the hope he’d one day marry his childhood friend, Sadie.
Sadie had been everything Daisy was not. Well-educated, from a respectable nuclear family with an optometrist for a father and a hospice nurse for a mother. And she was beautiful—tall, slender, with flawless porcelain skin seemingly incapable of blemish.
“She’ll come around,” Callan had assured her before he deployed. “Spend some time with her, and she’ll love you as much as I do.”
He’d always been an optimist, perhaps to a fault.
In his absence, she’d made the effort to narrow the distance between them, extending invitations for coffee on multiple occasions.
Once, Callan’s mother had failed to show up entirely.
The other three times, she’d cancelled at the last moment, each time promising to reschedule.
In time, Daisy had come to understand that his mother had never intended to follow through.
She might be her daughter-in-law by marriage but she would never be her friend.
By the time she arrived at the hospital, Callan’s mother was already there, impeccably dressed in one of her Ted Baker coats, her peppered hair neatly pinned back into a bun.
“You’re here,” she remarked, glancing at both her and the infant car seat. “I expected you’d at least call.”
Daisy bit her tongue, swallowing the words threatening to surface—something dripping in sarcasm about how terribly sorry she was for being slightly preoccupied with childbirth.
“How is he?”
“No change. The doctors are with him now.”
She took a seat across from her and waited. Moments later, a younger brunette appeared, her bright blue doe eyes striking against the sharp line of her blunt-cut fringe.
“I take it you are Mrs Thomas?”
Daisy nodded and rose to her feet.
“I’m Doctor Cartwright, one of the neurospecialists overseeing your husband’s care,” the woman said, extending a hand. Then, her gaze shifted to the car seat. “And who is this wee madam?”
A flush of embarrassment crept up her neck. Naming the baby had not been high on her priority list; she’d assumed it was something she and Callan would do together.
“I haven’t…I mean, we haven’t named her yet.”
“It took me a full two weeks to name my youngest,” Doctor Cartwright admitted with an easy smile. "It'll come."
The warmth was fleeting, however, as Callan’s mother had already risen, throwing a pointed look in her direction—one that silently but firmly asserted her place in the conversation.
“Come with me. Let’s have a chat,” the doctor continued.
“Both of us?”
Doctor Cartwright hesitated for a fraction of a second before pasting on a professional smile. “Just you, for now. You can relay the details when you feel comfortable.”
She followed the doctor down a short corridor, turning into a small consultation room painted a neutral shade of yellow that did little to soften its sterile atmosphere.
“Take a seat,” Doctor Cartwright instructed, filling two cups with water from a cooler before placing one in front of her. “I imagine the past few days have been overwhelming. If you need to pause at any point, just say the word.”
She settled into the chair opposite, watching as the doctor flicked through her notes.
In the silence that followed, it became painfully clear just how many times this woman had delivered similar news.
She carried herself with a practised composure, as though she’d rehearsed this conversation to a fine art.
“Right,” Doctor Cartwright began at last, exhaling softly. “As you know, Callan was involved in an IED explosion several days ago. He is stable and showing signs of progress, but the force of the blast caused significant trauma to his lower spine—specifically, the lumbar and sacral regions.”
She paused to take a sip of water before continuing.
“I won’t sugar-coat things; that doesn’t benefit anyone. Based on my experience, I’ll be honest with you, Mrs Thomas, the likelihood of him regaining any movement or sensation in his legs is pretty slim.”
Daisy swallowed hard, willing herself to remain composed.
“In addition,” the doctor pressed on, “he has suffered significant third-degree burns. The worst areas are his right arm, upper torso, and portions of his back. We’ve already made a start on some skin grafts, but the healing process will be long—months, perhaps years.”
She took another measured sip of water before glancing back at her notes.
“And that brings us to his neurological injuries. There’s a lot we don’t know yet, but what we do know is that he sustained a significant traumatic brain injury from the shockwave of the explosion.
The force of the blast has caused what we refer to as a diffuse axonal injury, and this often results in significant cognitive impairment, which we’re already seeing in Callan.
At present, we expect him to experience severe memory loss.
There will likely be a lifelong struggle with both short-term and long-term recall. ”
A vacant kind of dizziness washed over Daisy. If he had trouble with long-term memory, she couldn’t help but wonder if he’d remember her or the life they had shared. “Will he…remember me?”
Doctor Cartwright’s gaze softened. “In previous cases with similar injuries, there has been some recall. We are monitoring his progress closely, but as of now, it’s impossible to predict how much of his memory he will recover.”
The words seeped into her like poison, twisting and curling through her veins. “Is there anything I can do?”
“Be kind to yourself,” the doctor replied gently.
“Take things one day at a time. With rehabilitation, he will regain some function, though it is too early to determine how much.” She hesitated before continuing.
“Though his motor skills have been affected, I am optimistic that he will regain a level of independence, but…”
“But his memories,” she whispered.
“I know this is hard to hear. But as I said before, we won’t know the full picture until the swelling reduces and we have a clearer sense of the damage.”
Daisy stared at the floor, her mind caught in a free-for-all. Callan was alive; others hadn’t been so fortunate. And yet, despite this, the worst part wasn’t the prognosis or the uncertainty of what lay ahead; it was the knowing that she couldn’t bear to face him that day.
The news had fractured her, emotionally and physically. If she stepped into his room only to be met by a stranger, she feared that a part of her might shatter beyond repair. So, she left. Without a word, without a single glance at anyone.
She couldn’t recall the weather, or the time of day; all she knew was that by the time she reached her car, the sobs had begun to spill out of her in ragged, guttural bursts—primal, wounded. And then, as though the weight of it all had become too much for her body, she opened the door and vomited.
All while their daughter slept in the backseat, completely oblivious to the life that now lay before them.