Page 18 of How to Walk Away

Was my diagnosis “grim”? Something told me not to ask.

My mom turned around and fixed her gaze on the blanket at my feet. “You’re going to bounce back from this and show them all,” she said, going just the tiniest bit Scarlett O’Hara. “We’ll find the best cosmetic surgeons in the world. We’ll scour the earth. We will not rest. If Daddy and I have to spend every cent we’ve ever saved—Cash in our life insurance! Sell the house!—we’ll do it.”

I should have just let it go. I should have let us lapse back into silence. But something in me needed to convince her. “Chip is not going anywhere,” I tried again. “He loves me.”

“The old you, maybe,” she said. “But now?” She frowned. “But we’re not going to let that happen. I’ve been online every night, researching people who’ve faced this type of thing and overcome it, and I know that more than anything, it takes determination. One girl I read about dove into a too-shallow swimming pool at her bachelorette party and broke her neck. She should havedied—but she fought her way back and now she teaches water ballet. Another woman? Crushed by a truck! Broke every bone in her body and then some. Now she’s an aerobics instructor in San Bernardino. Another girl was just crossing the street when a drunk driver mowed her down. Now she’s an underwear model.”

“I get it, Mom.”

But there was no stopping her. “What do all these people have in common? Gumption. Grit. Strength. And you’ve got all that in spades—you always have. And you’ve literally got extra, too, because you’ve got me.”

It wasn’t uninspiring. It was good to know she had my back. Plus, she wasn’t wrong—the woman was strong as an ox. But somehow the sensations it was leaving in me—hazy as they were to identify—seemed equal parts worry, inspiration, and panic. As was always true with my mother, you never could get exactly what you wanted. I wanted the strength without the fear-mongering. I wanted the determination without the control. I wanted the pep talk without the underwear model.

Mostly, right now, I just wanted to close my eyes.

Lucky for me, my dad walked in next with a tray of coffees. He knew in an instant just from the vibe what kind of conversation we were having. “Look at this room,” he said, attempting to redirect. “Linda, you’ve worked your magic.”

But Linda wasn’t having it. “The doctor came in. He says there’s no guarantee that her face will recover.”

“I believe he said there should be minimal scarring,” I volunteered.

“You know what?” my dad said, reading us perfectly, “I think our girlneeds some rest.” He’d been with my mom for thirty years. He was an expert on damage control.

“What about the coffee?” she protested.

“We’ll take it in the car.”

He came to me, looked me right in my burned face, and crinkled his eyes into a smile while he squeezed my hand. “Get some rest, sweetheart.”

“Dad?” I asked.

“Yeah?”

“WhereisChip?” Now she kind of had me worried.

My dad just chuckled. “I’m sure he’s just sleeping it off, sweetheart. We could all use some rest. This’ll be your first quiet night’s sleep in ages.” Then he noticed me frowning and patted my hand. He knew what I was asking. “Sometimes, when you really need your man to be big and strong for you the most—that’s when we go to pieces.”

“I’ve never seen you go to pieces,” I said to him.

He gave my mother a sideways glance. “I’m saving it all up for later.”

Okay,I thought, after they left.Okay. A good night’s sleep. I can make that happen. That was something to look forward to, at least, if nothing else. Rest. Recuperation. A restful sleep in a quiet, dark room.

***

EASIER FANTASIZED THANdone. Nurses were still in and out quite a bit, checking monitors, emptying catheter bags, and turning me over. I was not wearing a brace—surgeon’s orders—so I was extra laborious to turn. I had just fallen asleep when I got a visit from the surgeon, checking in, and had just dozed off again when a hospital social worker woke me to see how I was feeling.

“Fine. Good,” I said.

“Any depression?”

“Depression?” I wasn’t fully awake.

“Depression’s pretty common for situations like yours. It’s nothing to be afraid of. And there’s medication, if you need it.”

“Oh. No.”

“Suicidal thoughts?”

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