After an injection of anesthetic, the doctor sutures the wound, then asks me to move my hand in various positions, hold a pen, flex my fingers this way and that. He bandages my hand again with gauze and tape and writes up a prescription for pain medication.
Dean talks with the doctor for a few minutes, but by now I’m so drained I don’t bother to listen. If it’s good news, I’ll know soon enough. If it’s bad news, I don’t want to know yet.
George has brought my satchel to the hospital, and he and Charlotte are in the waiting room when we finally emerge. Dean gives them the update, assuring them I’ll be fine, and thanks them for accompanying us.
“Did someone turn off my stove?” I ask George. It seems like an important question to ask.
“I did,” he says. “We got your station cleaned and sanitized, too. Everyone will be glad to know you’re okay.”
Finally Dean and I head home. In blessed silence. I stare out the dark window, seeing both our reflections in the glass.
He has to help me undress since I can’t use my left hand. I feel sort of silly just standing there while he pulls off my apron, still caked with dried blood, and unfastens my skirt and blouse. His movements are gentle but impersonal, and once I’m in my nightgown I sink onto the sofa with a sigh of exhaustion.
Dean rests his hands on his hips, his eyebrows drawn together. “Need anything?”
“No.”
“Do you want a cup of tea?”
“No.” My eyes are getting heavy. “But thanks.”
I don’t remember anything after that. I wake when a gray, wet light filters through the curtains. Rain splashes against the windowsills, patters onto the roof.
Sometime during the night, Dean put my quilt over me. I burrow back under its familiar warmth and watch raindrops race each other down the window.
“How do you feel?” Dean’s voice is soft.
I look to where he’s sitting in the overstuffed chair next to the sofa. He’s still wearing his trousers and shirt from last night, only now both are abominably wrinkled. I push myself onto one elbow, then wince as pain spirals up my arm.
“I don’t know,” I say. “Okay, I guess.”
“Do you want a pain pill?” he asks.
“Yes, please.”
Dean brings me a glass of water and the medication, then crouches beside the sofa. He reaches out to push my hair away from my face, tucking it behind my ears. I look at him, the angles of his face that I know so well, the shape of his mouth and thick-lashed eyes.
“Did you sit there all night?” I ask.
“Yeah. Why?”
“You smell really bad.”
He grins and pushes up to standing. “You’ll be okay if I take a shower?”
“Please do.”
While he’s gone, I head into the guest bathroom to pee. I manage to wash my good hand and splash water on my face. I look wretched, pale and gaunt with bruised circles ringing my eyes and my hair a tangled mess.
Good thing I don’t plan to go anywhere or see anyone for days. Maybe ever again.
Feeling incredibly sorry for myself, I head back to the living room, pausing once to breathe through a wave of dizziness. When Dean emerges from the shower—freshly shaved, dressed in worn jeans and a clean white T-shirt—I’m curled back up on the sofa.
“What did the doctor say?” I finally ask. “About permanent damage?”
“Your mobility is good, but because of the depth of the cut, you might have some numbness in your fingers for a while. They’ll be able to tell more when the wound heals.” He pauses. “Do you remember what happened?”
“Not really. The knife just slipped, I guess. I still have trouble remembering how to hold the damn things properly.”
I flex the fingers of my right hand. Dean returns to the chair beside the sofa. He’s close enough that I can smell the soap-and-shampoo scent of him. I could use a shower too, but I don’t want to move.
We’re quiet for a few minutes before he says, “It’s my fault.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“I shouldn’t have barged into your class like that.” He drags a hand through his hair, self-directed anger flashing in his eyes. “It upset you, threw off your concentration.”
That’s true, but I don’t bother acknowledging it. We’ve punished each other enough.
I reach out and put my good hand on his knee. “Forget it, Dean. We both made mistakes.”
“Did I scare him, do you think?”
I manage a hoarse laugh. “Yes. You definitely did.”
“Good.” He puts his large hand over mine, his fingers tightening. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry too.”
Silence falls. I turn my palm upward so we can lock our fingers together. As I watch the rain spilling down the window, I realize nothing between me and Dean will ever be the same again.
A strange calm settles in my heart. Maybe Dean needs to see me as more than his ever-faithful wife and the girl he needs to protect. And maybe I need to see him as more than my unwavering husband and the man who effortlessly takes care of everything.
Maybe this was meant to happen, this discovery of cracks where now a different, new light can shine through.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Dean