Page 38 of Unraveled

“Love you, too. And thanks. For everything. I wouldn’t have gotten through this last month without you.” I meant that sincerely.

He shook his head. “You definitely would have, but I’m glad I was here for you.”

Once the front door shut, I could breathe. I was free to cry and let go of all the bottled emotions. The depression I’d kept tamped down in the hospital came pouring out in the form of tears. Although I knew feeling sorry for myself wouldn’t get me through the fight ahead of me, I needed some time for a pity party. Without anyone watching, without anyone judging, and without anyone trying to say something to make it better.

My surgeon had insisted I see my chest before I left the hospital. I hadn’t wanted to. But my nurses had asserted it was for my own good. Nobody wanted to be cruel; they just wanted to ensure I didn’t freak out when I first saw my loss of breasts. I suppose I should have been grateful for the nipple-saving surgery. That meant the implants I’d eventually get would have my own nipples. But all I’d seen were the incisions, my flat chest, and drains protruding from my swollen and bruised body. I felt I was staring at an alien version of myself. I think I’d been in shock. I’d registered what the nurse had said about home care, but had simply nodded and diverted my gaze from the scarred mess.

Could I imagine Kellan seeing something like that? Nope. Not at all.

Now, wanting nothing more than to take a shower, I went into my bedroom and took out my plastic “shower shirt.” This ingenious invention for mastectomy patients allowed me to tuck in my drains and protect the surgical site while I washed my hair. Hopefully, doing that would make me feel human again. But the problem was I needed to wait for my nurse, so she could reapply my bandages afterward. I lay in my bed, snoozing until the doorbell rang.

As I opened the door, I wasn’t sure what to expect, but this wasn’t it. I saw a woman in her fifties or sixties with short, spiky silver hair, wearing skull-and-cross-bones scrubs and huge bangle earrings.

“Hi, I’m Patricia, but you can call me Patty. You must be Layla.”

“Yes. I am.” I stood there, too doped up on pain killers to realize I was being rude.

“You ready to let me in, honey?”

“Sorry. Of course.” I led the way inside, watching as she entered with her bag.

She wore a sincere expression. “I bet you’re anxious to take a shower with it being your first day home. You get the shower shirt? If not, I always bring extra.”

Clearly, this was a woman who dealt with the after-care of a lot of mastectomy patients. “I have one. But I suppose I could use some help getting into it.” I absolutely loathed having to ask.

“That’s what I’m here for. And I’ll re-dress your bandages after. If you need help washing your hair, I’m happy to do that, too. Sometimes it’s difficult to raise your arms directly after surgery.”

I hadn’t thought about that. It did hurt to move my arms. “You deal with a lot of double mastectomy patients?”

On the dresser, she unpacked some supplies from her bag. “I have. And I was one myself. Of course, that was fourteen years ago, before shower shirts or the surgery options they have now. Took me eight years before I had reconstructive surgery.”

Here I was lamenting having to wait months. “Why so long?”

“Back then, they used to remove the cancer without setting up the skin or incisions for reconstructive surgery later. But fortunately, I found a surgeon who could take old scars and insert expanders, and she gave me these nice C cups. It was a process, but I have to tell you it was quite the day when I felt confident enough to wear a swimsuit again.”

We walked into my bathroom. While I unbuttoned my blouse, I thought about how progressive treatments were today versus fourteen years ago. “I bet.” I gave the older woman a tentative smile and decided to share. “I’m having a case of the ‘poor-me’s today.”

Her face softened with a knowing expression. “Ah, honey, you’re entitled. And I’m not about to tell you not to because I had plenty when I went through it. But I will share that it gets better. Gorgeous girl like you have a boyfriend or husband?”

“No. I mean there’s a guy, but—”

“But what?”

“We met last week, and he just found out I have cancer.”

She took over once I had removed my button-up shirt. As she unwrapped the dressing, she met my eyes with her somber, hazel ones. “He couldn’t deal with it?”

“Jury is still out. I think he believes he can handle it. He came the day of my surgery, but I haven’t seen him since because I told him I needed some time. We text. He seems anxious to see me.” Kellan wasn’t pressuring me, but he did keep reminding me that he was free to come by anytime.

She undid my bandages like a pro, both efficient and gentle, before putting on my shower shirt. “Sounds like a keeper.”

As if on cue, the phone I had placed on the bathroom vanity buzzed with an incoming text.

Patty inquired, “That him texting you?”

It was. When I swiped my phone, I saw he’d added a photo to his text of the menu from my favorite sushi place. He wrote, “Can I bring you dinner tonight?”

“How do I say no to that?” I whispered to myself, hating that I’d been reduced to such insecurity in a matter of days. I’d gone from walking into a room and owning it with sexy confidence to swimming in newfound self-doubt.