Valerie wonders when she will feel such simple, sign-waving joy again when she hears Charlie softly call her. She quickly glances away from the TV to find him smiling at her. She smiles back at him as she stands and walks the few steps over to his bed. She lowers the side rail on his bed, sits on the edge of his mattress, and strokes his hair. “Good morning, sweetie.”
He licks his lips, the way he does when he’s excited or about to tell her something good. “I had a dream about whales,” he says, kicking off his covers and tucking his knees up toward his chin. His voice is sleepy and a little hoarse, but he no longer sounds drugged. “I was swimming with them.”
“Tell me more,” Valerie says, wishing her own dreams had been as peaceful.
Charlie licks his lips again, and Valerie notices that the bottom one is chapped. She leans over to retrieve a tube of Chap Stick in the drawer next to his bed as he says, “There were two of them . . . They were huge. The water looked freezing cold like the pictures in my whale book. You know the one?”
Valerie nods, reaching over to apply the pale pink stick to his lips. He briefly puckers for her and then continues, “But in my dream, the water was really warm. Like a bathtub. And I even got to ride one of them . . . I was sitting right up on his back.”
“That sounds wonderful, sweetie,” Valerie says, basking in the feeling of normalcy even as they sit in the hospital together.
But one beat later, Charlie’s expression becomes faintly troubled. “I’m thirsty,” he says.
Valerie feels relieved that his complaint involves thirst rather than pain, and quickly grabs a juice box from the refrigerator in the corner of the room. Gripping the waxy container, she angles the straw toward his lips.
“I can do it,” Charlie says with a frown, as Valerie remembers Dr. Russo’s advice the day before, to try to let him do things for himself, even when it’s difficult.
She releases her hold, watching his expression become gloomy as he awkwardly grips the box with his left hand. His right hand remains still, in a medicated splint, elevated on a pillow.
Valerie feels herself hovering, but is unable to stop herself. “Can I get you anything else?” she says, an anxious knot growing in her chest. “Are you hungry?”
“No,” Charlie says. “But my hand itches so bad”
“We’ll change the dressing in a minute,” she says, “And put on your lotion. That will help.”
Charlie says, “Why does it itch so much?”
Valerie carefully explains what he’s been told several times already—that the glands that produce oil to lubricate his skin were damaged.
He glances down at his hand, frowning again. “It looks terrible, Mommy.”
“I know, honey,” she says. “But it is getting better all the time. The skin just needs a while to heal.”
She considers telling Charlie about his next skin graft—his first for his face—which is scheduled for Monday morning, when he asks a question that breaks her heart. “Was it my fault, Mommy?” he whispers.
Valerie’s mind races as she tries to recall specific articles about the psychology of burn victims, as well as warnings from Charlie’s psychiatrists—There will be fear, confusion, even guilt. She pushes all of the words and advice aside, realizing that she doesn’t need anything other than her own maternal instincts.
“Oh, honey. Of course it wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t anyone’s fault,” she says, thinking about Romy and Daniel and how much she actually blames them for what happened, a feeling she hopes she will never reveal to Charlie. “It was just an accident.”
“But why?” he asks, his big eyes wide and unblinking. “Why did I have to have an accident?”
“I don’t know,” she says, studying every curve and angle of his perfect, heart-shaped face. His broad forehead, round cheeks, and little, pointed chin. Sadness wells up inside her, but she does not flinch or falter. “Sometimes bad things just happen—even to the best people.”
Realizing that this concept does not satisfy him any more than it does her, she clears her throat and says, “But you know what?”
She knows she is speaking with the voice of false cheer, the one she uses to, say, make a promise of ice cream in exchange for good behavior. She wishes she had something to offer him now, something—anything—to make up for his suffering.
“What?” Charlie asks, looking hopeful.
“We will get through this together,” she says. “We’re a great, unstoppable team—and don’t forget it.”
As she swallows back tears, Charlie takes another sip of juice, gives her a brave smile, and says, “I won’t forget it, Mommy.”
***
The next day, after a painful round of occupational therapy for his hand, Charlie is on the verge of frustrated tears when he hears Dr. Russo’s trademark hard double knock on the door. Valerie watches her son’s face clear and feels her own spirits lift, too; it is a close call as to who looks forward to his visits more.