“How are you feeling, Brigid? Are you famished? I’ll bet you are. Did you have trouble finding us?”
The apartment was extraordinary. The high ceilings were made of beamed antique wood. The floors were made of terra cotta tiles, and the enormous windows let in brilliant light.
I stared at the fruit-colored upholstered furniture and the kitchen that was made for cooking as though I had never been inside a home before.
“What can I get you, Brigid, my dear friend?”
“A hot shower?”
“Done,” said Tori. “And if you don’t mind, I want to take a look at you.”
We were inside a shining, white-tiled bathroom. Tori turned on the shower, and as I undressed, she took away my clothes, clucking her tongue as I gave her a bit of a guided tour.
“One bullet went in here,” I said, pointing to the scar in my belly. “It went through my spleen and left lung and exited in my back.”
“It was the splenic trauma you had to worry about,” said my friend the doctor.
“Yeah. It’s good, though. They got to me quick in the O.R.”
“And the lung?”
“Collapsed. My friend decompressed it in the chopper. I lost a lobe, but no big deal. I lost blood flow to my brain for a while. But I’m good now.”
“You had neurological workups, right?” Tori asked me.
I nodded. “Yep.”
“How many fingers am I holding up?”
“What are fingers?” I asked.
Tori burst out laughing, and I had a laugh, too; it felt like the first time in my life. I showed off the scars over the plates in my right arm, which had been shattered in three places, and then I said, “That’s all I’ve got.”
“That’s plenty,” said Tori.
I hadn’t seen a mirror in a long time, and now I stared at myself in the prettily etched mirror over the sink. My red hair looked like a dead shrub. My skin was brown, and my cheekbones were sharp. My eyes had lost their innocence. I wouldn’t be getting that back.
Tori put a fluffy white bath sheet on the toilet seat and said, “I’m going to help you in.”
She gave me her arm to grasp as I stepped over the side of the tub and into the hot spray.
“Good?” she asked.
“Good” couldn’t begin to describe it. “Blissful.”
“Try this lavender shampoo, Brigid. It’s my favorite. And use the conditioner. I’m going to sit here, okay?”
She was making sure that I wouldn’t slip on the porcelain and reinjure myself. Her tenderness made tears well up. I couldn’t take it.
“You know what, Tori?” I said as the hot water streamed down my body.
“What, Brigid? What do you need?”
“I would love a very milky coffee with sugar.”
“Sit down in the tub. Here.”
She unhooked the showerhead on its long, snaky cord and put it in my good hand. “Sit down. That’s right. I’ll be back to help you out of there. Coffee’s coming right up.”
Chapter 27
TORI AND Marty Hewitt were more of a family to me than my own.
Still, I felt alone.
I stayed in their apartment for a full week without going outside. I craved the quiet and the solitude and the security of the large, old rooms. Some days went by as if I were gently riffling through the pages of a book. But the nights were bad. I had violent dreams, physical pain, and regret that I had lost my way.
Tori and Marty worked long days at the Rome American Hospital, and while they worked, I made notes in a journal. I brushed up on my Italian, cleaned up around the house, and read. Falling asleep on a velvet-covered sofa with a peach in my hand and an open book across my chest was a delight beyond anything I could have imagined a few months ago.
On this particular day, I was having a nap on the sofa before dinner when I woke up to footsteps on the stairs and the sound of masculine laughter.
The front door opened, and Marty Hewitt came in carrying a case of wine. He was followed by a tall, dark-haired man, also in his twenties. I wasn’t so burned out that I didn’t notice how good looking he was.
Marty said, “Brigid, get over here and meet my friend Zachary Graham. Zach, this is Brigid Fitzgerald. I told him already that we’re all outta Johns Hopkins. Have a seat, you guys. Let’s sample this wine.”
I walked over to the big farm table and shook Zach’s hand. Glasses appeared, a bottle was opened, and wine was poured. Following Marty’s lead, we made an outrageous fuss over the vino da tavola, and when we were all comfortable, Zachary Graham said, “I was telling Marty about this story I’m writing for the Times.”