Next day, Nick was awake early, so his parents and I took turns sitting with him. Later that morning, Harald and Louise were gonna go to the Val d’Anniviers with Nick’s car keys to pick up his Focus, which the Police Cantonale had found where he and Augustin had left it before their fatal climb. As soon as it became clear when Nick could be flown to the AMC, they’d drive the car back to Holland.
Nick’s cloudy eyes drifted eerily between the strips of bandage. Still morphine-muddled but less out of it than yesterday, me babbling a mile a minute to distract him from the obvious. Flash: Fazila and Rob were on trial separation, text from Faz, nothing new under the sun. Flash: Ramses versus Chef, one ear got frazzled, has gone outdoors only in backyard since. Flash: Weleda introduced a new Skin Food Facial for dry skin, which is absorbed more easily than . . . Oh, fuck. Caught myself avoiding his masked face. In the mirror on the opposite wall (the nurses had rehung it where Nick couldn’t see it), I saw my reflection look away from the bed, again and again, a never-ending reality loop, till Nick took hold of my hand, shutting me up instantly.
I’m a monster
he wrote on his pad.
Flash: Ohio mother eats baby and she was trending. #onlyinohio.
I won’t blame you if you leave me.
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
Those eyes. I couldn’t force myself to look at them.
“No one’s leaving, got that? We got this, together.”
I sincerely hoped so, but we both knew reality would catch up with us sooner or later. We’d been inseparable for three years. Nick was why I didn’t go back to New York. Our dream was to go there together, eventually. I taught him how to dance and he taught me how to love. But this reality loop wasn’t about me; I knew that. If I were to look into Nick’s eyes, I’d see the ocean that lay between our old life and our new one, and I had no idea how we were supposed to bridge the gap.
Louise and Harald came in with coffee. Whew. Beat-around-the-bush conversation. Suited me fine. When they left for Wallis, half an hour later, I leaned toward Nick and whispered, “Whaddya mean it wasn’t an accident?”
Looked like he wasn’t gonna answer, but then he slowly shook his head.
“You don’t remember what happened?”
He looked away. A small red spot, like a tear, appeared in the bandages on his cheek.
“Not unusual.”
He was leaking.
“I mean . . . memory loss. After a coma.”
Nick picked up his pad, and as he wrote, I looked at his broad, bronzed shoulders, where I’d so often rested my cheek. The hollows under his collarbones that I liked hooking my fingers in. The stubbly chin, my perfect idea of sexy. The gauze, hiding something horrific instead.
I don’t know. Afraid to think about it. Help me, Sam. Scared I’m going crazy. Don’t trust my own mind. You’d run away screaming if you
His pen hovered over the pad for a long time before he added a few words, tore out the sheet and gave it to me.
Maybe it’s for the best.
I wish he hadn’t done that. What his unfinished sentence suggested was bad enough, but this was worse. It was my decision, not his, whether I could deal with sticking by him or should split because of something as trivial as a mutilated face. I hated myself for thinking it, but if he’d take that away, the last thing that was mine, I might as well throw all my organs in a steaming heap and donate them. You could tick a box not to include your heart, but why bother?
His eyes were open, he was alive, but inside, Nick was frozen in the moment he’d looked up and seen those rocks coming at him. Part of me didn’t want to doubt Nick’s state of mind—I’d be letting him down. But I couldn’t ignore Dr. Genet’s diagnosis. How could I convince him that the cold wind blowing in his head was no more than the echo of a torn face, the struggle of a traumatized mind? He wasn’t delusional; he was tripping.
PTSS/morphine—a potent cocktail.
And there I was: staring at what he wrote.
At a loss for words.
Those shoulders. That Amenhotep-style head. They unerringly laid bare my inability to deal with the situation and to whisper to him the words he needed to hear. New thing for me, being the strong one. I didn’t cut it, not by a long shot, because I needed his shoulders for support. His face to hold in my hands. His lips to whisper to me that everything would be all right.
Break the dynamics between two people and you’re both left alone, staring wide-eyed out into your own darkness.
Walking away from that bed was the hardest thing I ever did. On the move, I confettied the note and stuffed the shreds into my back pocket. I said Get some sleep, said I’ll be back soon, who knows what else I said, and then I was at the door. Last thing I saw as it closed behind me was that shattered body on the hospital bed, his dull eyes and, worst of all, his lonesome understanding.
In the corridor, life hit me like a tsunami, so hard I had to brace up. Didn’t budge for a long time, fighting my panic and, despite everything, relieved that I was out and scot-free. But there was nothing I could do, and anyway it was almost eleven. I had a date.
6
“I saw his wounds,” Cécile Métrailler said. “I’ve treated rockfall victims before and I can assure you, Nick is not a rockfall case.”
The summer was hot-pressing Lausanne as I got out of the Métro in Ouchy. Little boats crisscrossing the water, windsurfer silhouettes glittering on the coastline. The mountains in the distance a mirage, ignis fatuus; reach for them and they’re gone. Maybe the blazing sun blunted the sharp edges off the peaks, but that did nothing to soothe me.
“If a rock hits your face, it’ll break your nose or a cheekbone. I mean, the bones that jut out. Nick got hit in the most protected area.” She opened her mouth and hollowed her cheeks.
Cécile didn’t use the word rockfall, by the way; she said éboulement. Everything sounds softer in French.
Admit it, even équarrissage sounds appealing.
“He broke his jaw,” I put forward.
“Yes, but it split only because two teeth were so forcefully knocked out of it. One with root and all. What you’d actually expect is random damage over the whole bone; open, bleeding wounds; and contusions under the skin. But he’s got . . .” Cécile put her hands to her mouth. ’Course, she realized I hadn’t seen it yet. “Sorry, you probably don’t want to hear all this en détail . . .”
“Is it that bad? Tell me the truth.”
She could see I was struggling, and she answered as tactfully as possible under the circumstances. “It will get better. But brace yourself. His face will never be the same.”
I stirred my iced mochaccino and shoved the glass aside. I mean, me, passing up a mochaccino? Armageddon. Big boys don’t cry, but good thing I had my shades on.
“Will it . . . affect his work?” Cécile asked gingerly.
I knew damn well what she was implying. I shrugged. “He’s a web editor for Tripadvisor and does freelance writing for Lonely Planet. You don’t need a face to travel. Or write.”
I thought, But I need a face.
“But if it wasn’t rockfall,” I finally said, “what was it? His note. Nick said it wasn’t an accident. I thought he was delirious.”
“Want to know what I really think?”
Nope. Also didn’t want to imagine any sidewalk double takes due to the walking freak show next to me. But this was my life now, so I said yeah. For now.