Masquerade (11 page)

Crawling between the sheets, she curled into a fetal position and hugged Joe’s pillow to her face, drinking in the scent of English Leather. Though her mother had tried to strip the bed more than once, Celeste insisted the sheets remain unwashed. The last tug-of-war over this issue flashed into her mind.

She’d walked into the bedroom as Mother threw back the covers and eased the fitted sheet from the mattress. “What are you doing? I asked you not to change the sheets.”

Without flinching, Mother worked her way around the bed, tugging and pulling until the sheet lay in a ball in the center of the mattress. “It’s not healthy, Celeste. Think of all those invisible bugs, dead skin, and who knows what else.” She shivered, scratched her arm.

Her muscles tensed. “They’re
my
bugs,
my
skin,
my
bed, and I’ll thank you to keep your hands off.” She couldn’t believe she said that. But it was about time she stood up to Mother. Put her in her place.

Little difference it made. Ignoring her, Mother gathered  the  ball  up  and  started for the kitchen. At the

door, Celeste blocked her. “No, Mother. You’re not getting your way on this one. Not this time.” She jerked the sheets, and they fell between them.

She and Mother gaped at one another.

Celeste knelt and scooped them up, pressing them to her chest. “Thank you. I’ll take charge of these, if you don’t mind.”

“Have it your way. But don’t come crying to me if you get sick.” She spun on her heel and huffed out the door.  

Fine by Celeste. The bedding could stay as it was forever as far as she was concerned. So what? She was the only one sleeping in the bed anyway.

She burrowed into the pillow and slid a hand between her legs. Jeans. She’d forgotten to change into her nightgown. Flinging the covers aside, she dragged to the closet, then thought the better of it. She grabbed one of Joe’s tee shirts from his dresser. After she shrugged out of her jeans and sweater, she slipped into the cool tee. Joe popped his head in the door with a grin on his face. “Ah, Tater Tot.”

She pressed her palms to her eyes and hurried back to bed. She tossed and turned for an hour. Maybe a glass or two of wine. No. She’d not resort to her mother’s methods. She struggled out of the sheet, charged to the refrigerator, and jerked the door open. On the top shelf, a half empty wine bottle and two cans of beer mocked her.

She piled the containers into her arms and lunged toward the utility room door. In the small grassy area nestled between the back of the house and the garage, she

hurled the bottle against the wooden siding. It bounced, but didn’t break. Nostrils flaring, she tossed one can, then the other, as hard as she could. Each popped and fell to the ground. She sank to the grass, weeping, quivering against the brisk breeze. She lifted her fist toward the night sky. Clear with half moon and stars twinkling as if all was well. As if nothing had changed. 

Yet, the world she knew was over. Crawling on her hands and bare knees, she scooped up the containers, rose and tossed them into the garbage can by the garage door. A quick glance around—the neighbor’s house to the left dark, so was the house to the right. All quiet. Their dog must be inside.

Rubbing her arms, she traipsed back inside the house, washed her hands, and slipped under the covers, tucking them securely around her like a cocoon. She counted the ticks of the clock, listened to the tree branch scrape the window pane. Then she pictured Joe’s arms wrapped around her, his warm breath in her ear whispering, “I love you, Tater Tot. I always will.” Over and over, “I love you. I love you. I love you . . .”

Her feet kicked through the moist meadow, tall grass whipping her legs. Wildflowers, colorful, vast, stretched to kiss the rainbow’s end. Joe appeared on the horizon, waving, smiling. She picked up her pace, straining to reach him, but he faded from view. Tripping on a rock, she fell and rolled into the opening of a dark forest. Trees groaned and grabbed at her. Wind swept her onto a gurney, whirling her faster and faster through the woods. Her hands clutched the sides while silent screams

tore at her throat. One tree missed, then another and another. Or did she fly right through them?

An arrow aimed at a target, the stretcher crashed through a window into a hospital room and skidded to a stop. Breathless, Celeste squinted against the bright light which spilled through the door and crawled over the floor, but did not reach her. At the door, Joe, wind rustling his dark hair, held a baby’s hand. A baby with no face. Grinning, they waved and floated from the room. She wanted to leap off the gurney, run after them, but her body was strapped down. “I need to get to Joe . . . Joe . . . Joe . . .”

She woke with a start, head throbbing, and reached for the nightstand lamp. Wind whistled around the corner of the house. An eerie, ghostly sound. The oak tree outside the bedroom window bent under the strain. Wet leaves clung to the screen. She clutched the covers, afraid to move. Three a.m. by the clock. Trembling, tee shirt damp, she mustered her courage and traipsed to the kitchen for a cup of hot tea.

Before long, the kettle whistled along with the wind. She poured the water into a mug, plopped in a teabag, and trudged to the bathroom for acetaminophen.

Back in bed, she hunkered down and sipped her tea. She needed a connection to Joe. Something that would help her make sense of his needless death. Someone who could . . .

Randall Longely. No. She scrubbed her forehead with the palm of her hand. Randall . . . Randall . . . Laverty. That was it. She’d go see him. Talk to him.

If anybody understood what Joe had suffered, Randall did.

###

Outside Randall’s room at St. John Regional Burn Center, a nurse helped Celeste into a gown and gloves. “These will help protect the patient from bacteria. Burn victims are very susceptible to infections.” She shoved her hands into her uniform pockets. “You understand the severity of Mr. Laverty’s burns, don’t you?”

“I think so. Yes.” A revolting stench took her breath away.

“I ask because many first-time visitors to an acute burn unit aren’t prepared for what they’re about to see.”

Someone screamed from a 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 . . . skin grafts. Gauze treatments soaked in saline solution . . . antibiotics . . . anesthetics. Disgusting protein shakes, even in the middle of the night. The fever, the chills.” He withered against the pillow.

So, that explained the unusual warmth in the room. “I’m sorry.” Was that all she could think to say? She squared her shoulders and cleared her throat. “I can’t imagine how hard this is for you, Randall, but with time, you’ll heal. You’re alive.”

“Yeah, alive. I’ve seen my face, if you could call it a face. I’m disfigured, and no amount of healing is gonna change that.”

“Surely, the doctors—”

“They’re killing me in here. Savages, the lot of ‘em, ripping and tearing at my skin.”

“I’m sure they’re just trying to help.”

“Help me right into the grave . . . and the sooner, the better, I say.”

“Hold onto  hope, Mr. Laverty.”  Laughable words.

Who was she to dispense hope when she could barely muster it for herself?

“Even if I did have a wife, she wouldn’t want me in this condition.” His gaze bore into her.

What did he want from her? She had nothing to offer this man.

She shouldn’t have come. Throat constricting, she struggled to breathe. She needed air. She needed to leave. Now. Time to escape the suffocating heat in this room.

Perhaps Laverty was right. If he were Joe, would she have stayed?

She started to inhale a deep breath, but caught herself. The stench of rotting flesh and medicine sickened her. She rubbed the back of her latex hand. Had Joe lived and endured Laverty’s fate, it would have changed his entire life and hers as well.

Who was she kidding? Her life
was
changed.

“I’m sor . . . I mean, I really need to be going. You look like you could use some rest.” She stood and offered a sympathetic smile.

“Thanks for stopping by.” His gaze never left her face.

She frowned and nodded. Reaching to pat his arm, she halted. Not a good idea. “Bye then.” She turned and headed to the door.

“Tater Tot.” The whispered words passed by her ear when she tugged at the door.

Joe? She glanced over her shoulder. No phantom image this time. Just those familiar words, hovering in the air.   The words she loved best, besides “I love you.”   She

shook herself. Would she hear them in her imagination for the rest of her life? She flung the door open and hurried down the hall.