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Isaac slides beneath the navy sheets on his bed, his expression still solemn. ‘If she calls, will you wake me up?’
‘Yes,’ I say firmly, although I’m not sure I will. He needs his sleep.
He nods and turns on his side, tucking his knees up to his chest, one arm wrapped around them. A well-loved, one-eared elephant lies next to him. I rest my hand ever so lightly on his back; I can feel the knobs of his spine beneath my fingers, just as I once did when he was a baby.
‘Goodnight, Isaac,’ I say softly. He doesn’t answer, but he hunches his shoulders a little, and that is response enough.
I leave the room, closing the door quietly behind me. The apartment stretches endlessly around me, oppressively silent. I can’t hear the traffic or neighbors or anything. I’m used to people, to the creaks and murmurs of my family, the background of TV or music or even just the whirr of the washing machine. Not this incredible stillness.
I decide to pour myself a glass of wine from the open bottle in the fridge, even though it feels a little presumptuous and I don’t normally drink. It’s cold and crisp and somehow soothing. I sit on the sofa as I sip it slowly, and stare out at the darkening night. I wait for Grace to call, but she never does.
Twenty-Five
GRACE
The world fades in and out, a hazy blur of color and sound. I wake and try to speak, but my lips are chapped, my tongue dry and thick, feeling too big for my mouth. I sleep again. Someone comes. I feel cool fingers on my hand. I wake.
I don’t how long the cycle goes on, only that eventually the cobwebs start to clear from my mind, at least a little bit. It’s dark out; I can see the lights of the city from my window. I try to raise my hand to check the bandages I feel on my chest, but I can’t manage it. My hand twitches uselessly at my side.
A nurse comes in, after five minutes or an hour, I don’t know. ‘You’re awake,’ she says cheerfully, and I blink at her. I open my mouth to speak, but my tongue is still too dry.
‘Would you like a sip of water?’ she asks, and I nod, or try to. She leaves and comes back a few minutes later with a plastic cup of ice water. With one hand behind my head she helps me to sip from the straw, and those first few gulps are like a little bit of heaven. I close my eyes in relief.
‘Easy, now,’ the nurse advises. ‘Your stomach will still be a little unsettled from the anesthetic.’
There are a thousand questions I want to ask, but I can’t verbalize them yet and in any case I doubt this woman knows the answers. Beyond the questions, the need to know, there is a pulsing point to everything: Isaac. I need to call Isaac. I need to tell him I’m okay. But I can’t; I can’t even manage the words to say to the nurse, and so I subside back onto the pillows and eventually I drift back to sleep.
I wake in the night to sudden, lancing pain through my phantom breasts. My chest throbs. I grope for the call button in the dark, my fingers feeling thick and clumsy. Eventually, after what feels like an age, I find it, and another age later a nurse, a different one, returns.
‘Please,’ I croak. ‘My son. Isaac…’
Sympathy flashes across her face. ‘It’s the middle of the night. You can call him in the morning.’
I hate the thought of him waiting for me to call, but I know I have no choice. ‘Pain…’ I gasp out. ‘Could I have something for the pain?’
‘Let me check.’ She consults the clipboard at the end of the bed, and a frown creases her face. ‘I’ll be right back,’ she says, and she returns a short while later with two little red pills. I swallow them without asking what they are. More relief.
I doze on
and off; people come in and out. Eventually morning dawns, and with the sunlight streaming through the window I start to feel a little better. A little more alive.
I manage, with a lot of effort, to scoot up in bed. I look down at myself, and see the heavy gauze bandages wrapped around my chest. My breasts are gone, although I can’t actually tell from this vantage point. I have no idea if Dr. Stein completed the reconstruction. There are far too many bandages to see.
Another nurse, and then breakfast; I manage to get up and use the bathroom, brush my teeth; both feel like huge victories. I want to call Heather, speak to Isaac, but now that I’m more awake and cognizant something in me hesitates. I want to know more before I make that call. Before Heather, and more importantly, Isaac, ask me questions I need to be ready to answer.
I doze, take pain medication, and then in the late morning Dr. Stein arrives. She looks serious, less cheerful than usual, and a tremor of fear goes through me.
‘Hi, Grace. How are you feeling?’ Cue the sympathetic smile.
‘Well, I’ve felt better.’ I still sound a little croaky.
‘I’m sure you have.’ She pauses, and I wait, trying to suppress another tremor of fear. Why isn’t she chirping about how well it’s all gone?
‘I’ve scheduled you for an MRI this afternoon,’ she says. ‘The surgery flagged a few things for me, and I’d like to check them out.’
I stare at her, my mind spinning. I feel sick and terrified, and yet also weirdly unsurprised. ‘Things…?’
‘I’ll be able to tell you more after the MRI, probably by tomorrow morning. There’s no point getting worried before we know all the facts.’ She tries for a reassuring smile but it doesn’t reach her eyes. Terror seizes me by the throat.
