“I understand, and I can appreciate your point. But I think you need to know.”
Kealey took a deep breath. “Okay.”
“Nearly all the damage is superficial. She was extremely fortunate in that respect. The knife missed the cervical branch of the facial nerve, but the wound to the cheek was very deep. There was no damage to the parotid gland, but there was some damage to the zygomatic muscles, both major and minor, as well as the buccal branch of the—”
“I don’t know what any of that means,” Kealey said, trying to push down his rising fear. “How bad is it? Just tell me that.”
The head nurse blew out a short breath. “All of the muscle damage has been repaired. Her recovery should be in the ninetieth percentile, maybe higher. She’s already made amazing progress. The buccal branch of the facial nerve — that controls movement of the mouth and nose
— was partially severed, but the sutures held, and the prognosis is good… extremely good, in fact. The nerve damage is almost certainly temporary, but her speech is still a little off, so be prepared for that.” Everett broke off, gathering her next words. “Most of all, it’s just a very…
traumatic injury. The way it happened, I mean. She’s been having nightmares, insomnia, loss of appetite, things of that nature. And of course, the injury is to the face, so…”
“So what?”
“Well, she was a beautiful woman,” Everett said uneasily, as if that explained everything.
“She still is.”
Everett nodded slowly; Kealey’s tone was tight and insistent, and she knew better than to argue.
“I probably shouldn’t be telling you this, but I have the feeling she’s very nervous about seeing you. Or rather, nervous about you seeing her. I hope you can handle it.”
He stared at her until she looked away.
“Sorry,” she started. “I—”
“It’s okay. Can I go in now?”
She nodded. “The door’s open, but she needs to rest. You can have thirty minutes, but that’s it.
You can see her again tomorrow if she’s up to it.”
Everett turned and walked back down the hall. A second later he heard her feet on the stairs.
Kealey put a hand on the door and took another deep breath. He thought about knocking, then realized that she might not want to raise her voice or even talk at all. In the end, he just tapped lightly and pushed inside.
The room was half in shadow, the curtains pulled back. Kealey could see snow drifting past the large windows overlooking the pond. The walls were the color of clotted cream, the furnishings simple enough: a large bed with a thick lavender comforter, an armchair and a couch against one wall, antique bookshelves against the other. There was also a small TV and a number of end tables scattered over the rough oak floor. Every spare surface was covered with floral arrangements in all manner of vases.
She was standing at one of the windows, facing away from him. Her clothing was basic and warm: a brown velour hoodie over a navy T-shirt, flannel pajama bottoms, and thick woolen socks. She didn’t move when he closed the door behind him, but he saw her shoulders tense and knew at once that she was trying to summon the courage to turn around. This realization filled him with a bitterness he had never known; it felt as though nothing was right with the world, that she should be afraid to face him.
“Naomi?”
She finally turned, her eyes downcast. The entire right side of her face was covered in a clean white bandage. The wound itself wasn’t visible, but even so, she looked incredibly different. Her face was gaunt, dark shadows under her pained eyes. It was immediately clear that she’d been suffering from much more than the physical injury, and Kealey knew why: the death of Samantha Crane — and to a lesser extent, Matt Foster — must have been weighing her down for weeks.
“Hi.” She gestured at the vases that filled the room and tried to smile. “Thanks for the flowers.
You might not have brought so many, though. It’s starting to look like a funeral parlor in here, and that’s an association I could do without.”
He nodded slowly, aware she was joking, but unable to laugh. He took note of her speech. It wasn’t as bad as Everett had led him to believe. In fact, he could hardly notice the difference at all. Suddenly, he was at a loss for words. What was he supposed to say in this situation? What kind of comfort could he possibly offer?
He started to walk over, but she seemed to retreat, putting her back to the window. He stopped, unsure of her reaction. “Naomi, I want to be here,” he began slowly, “but if you need more time, I can—”
“What do you mean?” she asked. She was trying to keep her voice bright, but it wasn’t working.
“I’m fine. I would have seen you sooner, but I didn’t want to scare you off with the swelling. For a while there, it kind of looked like I had two heads.” She tried to laugh, but it didn’t sound right at all. “How’s your arm? Looks better, anyway.”
He shook his head. “Forget the arm. Listen, you don’t have to—”
“Ryan, I’m okay, I swear.” But her smile was starting to slip. “I saw you walking outside,” she said quickly, desperately. “Is it really cold? I heard on the news it’s supposed to snow all night.”
“Don’t do this,” he said softly, shaking his head. “Please don’t do this. Talk to me.”
“I am talking. I just…”
She tried to hold on, but it couldn’t last, and she had pushed it down for too long already. Even from across the room, he could see her lower lip was starting to tremble, one hand tightly gripping the other. Then the façade gave way completely. She started to cry softly, and he closed the space between them quickly, putting his arms around her, pulling her close. Before long she was sobbing hard, hiccupping when she ran out of air, her hot tears dripping onto his sweater, soaking through to his skin. He felt a lump in his throat rising, but he pushed down his own emotions. He knew he had to be strong for her. He had already failed her twice: once with Crane and again with Vanderveen. He hated himself for it, but there was nothing he could do about that now. He only knew one thing for sure: that he would do whatever he could to make it up to her.
After about ten minutes, she pulled away and sat on the bed, her shoulders slumping. He joined her and took hold of her left hand, just waiting, letting her get control. When she finally spoke, her voice was exhausted and barely audible.
“I haven’t slept in days,” she mumbled. The emotional outburst had left her utterly drained.
“He’s there every time I close my eyes. And if it’s not him, it’s Crane. In some ways, she’s worse. She doesn’t say anything, but she doesn’t have to. I know how much she hates me, Ryan.
I took away everything she had, her whole life, and now I just—”
“Stop,” he said quietly. “Don’t do this to yourself.” He pulled her close as the tears started up again, rubbing her back gently with his good arm. He knew she needed to get it out, but it was hard to listen to her talk as if these people were still alive in some kind of abstract reality, just waiting for her to fall asleep so they could continue tormenting her. He couldn’t help but wonder if she would ever really recover from what had happened. The thought that she might have to live this way forever filled him with a sense of numbing despair, but at the same time, he knew he would never give up on her. He would do everything in his power to help her through it.
But only if she wanted him to. Once again, he wondered how much she blamed him for what had happened, and while it felt selfish to ask, he had to know. If being there caused her more pain than she was already feeling, he didn’t want to stay.