Valerie thanks him again, as Nick cautions her that she won’t be able to tell much right now, that the graft still needs time to heal, the new vessels time to grow. “In other words, it might not look pretty to you—but it does to me.”
“Well, that’s what matters,” she says, recalling the before and after images on the computer that she pored over this weekend, all the worst-case scenarios she read about, all against Nick’s admonition to stay off the Internet. “Can I . . . see him?”
“Of course. He’s still asleep, but should be waking up soon,” Nick says, glancing curiously at the basket that the women left behind. “Is that yours?”
“No,” Valerie says, stepping purposefully over it, as she follows Nick’s eyes to the large white envelope clearly addressed to “Valerie and Charlie.”
She awkwardly plucks the card out of the basket, drops it into her bag, and stammers, “I mean, yes . . . it’s mine. But I think I’ll just leave it here. For other families . . . to enjoy. I’m not really in the mood for wine these days . . .”
Nick shoots her a look, as if suspecting more to the story, but says nothing as he leads her out of the room to Charlie. Along the way, he is all business, talking more quickly and excitedly than usual, giving her details about the procedure, telling her how well everything went. When they arrive outside the recovery room, he motions for her to go in first. Valerie braces herself, but not enough for her first glimpse of Charlie in bed, looking smaller than ever. His body is covered with blankets, his scalp and face with dressings, only his nose, eyes, and lips showing. As Valerie watches an unfamiliar nurse take his vitals, she has the sudden urge to go to him, touch the pink of his neck, but she hangs back, frightened that she will somehow infect him.
“How’s he doing?” Nick asks the woman, who responds in a raspy voice, giving him numbers that mean nothing to Valerie.
Nick nods his approval as she makes notations on his chart and slips out the door.
“Come here,” Nick says, motioning her over to the bed.
As Charlie’s lids flutter and open, she feels ashamed for her hesitancy, for not being stronger in this moment. He is the one who has just endured four hours of surgery. He is the one with a mask over his face, an IV dripping into his body. All she had to do was wait.
“Hi, honey,” she says, forcing a smile, feigning courage.
“Mamma,” he says, the first name he ever gave her, when he was just a baby, abandoning it as he learned to talk and walk.
She feels overcome with relief to hear his voice, see the blue of his eyes.
“You did great,” she says, tears welling as she sits on the bed next to him. She rubs his legs through several layers of blankets, watching him struggle to keep his eyes open. After several seconds, his lids grow heavy and close again.
“Here. Let me show you,” Nick whispers, turning to put on a pair of latex gloves. He then goes to Charlie and, with the steadiest hand, removes the mask and peels back one corner of the dressing to reveal his work.
An uncontrollable gasp escapes Valerie’s lips as she looks down at her son’s face. Sheets of pale, translucent skin cover his cheek, all dotted with tiny holes draining blood and fluid. A ghostlike mask beneath his mask. A scene from a horror movie—the kind Valerie never lets herself glimpse, always hiding her face in her hands. She feels herself start to shake, but keeps the tears at bay.
“You okay?” Nick says.
She nods, gulping air, willing herself to exhale, get it together.
“Remember. It needs time to heal,” Nick says as he replaces the dressing and mask.
She knows she should say something, but can’t get any words out.
“It will look nothing like this in a few days. You’ll be amazed.”
She nods again, feeling dizzy, weak. She tells herself she cannot faint. That she will never forgive herself for fainting upon seeing her son’s face.
“It will turn back to a normal flesh color as it regains vascularity. And it will move like normal, too, after the skin heals and adheres to the underlying facial tissue and muscle.”
Say something, she tells herself as she sits on the edge of Charlie’s bed.
“That’s why we’ll need that face mask, which should be here today or tomorrow. To keep constant pressure—to keep things in place as he starts to eat solid foods, talk, that sort of thing. It will also help control his pain—”
Valerie looks up at him, alarmed into finally speaking. “He’s going to be in pain? I thought you said there were plenty of pain meds?”
Nick points to the IV and says, “There are. But there will still be some discomfort—and the pressure helps with that.”
“Okay,” she says, the dizziness and terror clearing as she gathers facts she will need to help her son. “So he can drink now?”
Nick nods. “Yes. He can sip liquids, and we’ll go to soft foods in the next day or so. And other than that, he just needs rest. Lots of rest.
“Right, big guy?” Nick says as Charlie opens his eyes again.
He blinks, still too drowsy to speak.