Beautiful Graves(110)

I didn’t want to face reality, so I didn’t open my eyes, even when I could.

Until the very last minute.

Until Tucker walked into my hospital room and slipped a letter between my limp fingers resting on the sheet.

“Sorry,” he croaked. It was the first time I’d heard him frazzled, insecure. “I can’t do this anymore, and I don’t know when you’ll wake up. It’s not fair to me. I’m too young for . . .” He trailed off, and his chair scraped the floor as he shot up to his feet. “I’m just sorry, okay?”

I wanted to tell him to stop.

To confess I was awake.

Alive.

Well.

Sort of.

That I was buying time, because I didn’t want to deal with the new me.

In the end I kept my eyes closed and heard him leave.

Minutes after the door clicked shut, I opened my eyes and let myself cry.



The day after Tucker broke up with me in a letter, I decided to face the music.

A nurse skulked into my room like a mouse, her movements hurried and efficient. She eyed me with a mixture of wariness and curiosity, like I was a monster shackled to the bedrails. By the promptness in which she appeared, I gathered they’d been waiting for me to open my eyes.

“Good mornin’, Grace. We’ve been waitin’ for you. Sleep well?”

I tried to nod, regretting the ambitious movement immediately. My head swam. It felt swollen and feverish. My face was fully wrapped and bandaged, something I’d noticed the first time I came to. There were tiny gaps in the bandages for my nostrils, eyes, and mouth. I probably looked like a mummy.

“Why, I’ll take that little nod as a yes! Are you hungry by any chance? We’d love to take the tube out and feed you. I can send someone over to get you some real food. I believe we’re servin’ beef patties with rice and banana cake. Would you like that, hon?”

Determined to rise from my own ashes, I mustered all the physical and mental strength I possessed to answer, “That’d be real nice, ma’am.”

“It’ll be here right quick. And I’ve got more good news for ya. Today is the day. Doctor Sheffield is finally gonna take them bandages off!” She tried to inject false enthusiasm into her words.

I flipped the ring on my thumb absentmindedly. I wasn’t anywhere near ready to see the new me. Nonetheless, it was time. I was conscious, lucid, and had to face the music.

The nurse filled out her chart and dashed out. An hour later, Dr. Sheffield and Grams came in. Grams looked like hell. Gaunt, wrinkled, and sleep-deprived, even in her Sunday dress. I knew she’d been living in a hotel since the fire and was in a full-blown war with our insurance company. I hated that she’d been going through this alone. Normally, I was the one doing the talking whenever we needed to get things done.

Grams took my hand in hers and pressed it to her chest. Her heart was beating wildly against her ribcage.

“Whatever happens”—she wiped her tears with leathery, shaky fingers—“I’m here for you. You hear that, Gracie-Mae?”

Her fingers froze on my ring.

“You put it back.” Her mouth fell open.

I nodded. I was afraid if I opened my mouth, I’d start crying.

“Why?”

“Rebirth,” I answered simply. I hadn’t died like Momma, but I did need to rise from my own ashes.

Dr. Sheffield cleared his throat, standing between us.

“Ready?” He flashed me an apologetic smile.

I gave him a thumbs-up.

Here’s to the beginning of the rest of my life . . .

He removed the bandages slowly. Methodically. His breath fanned across my face, smelling of coffee and bacon and mint and that clinical, hospital scent of plastic gloves and sanitizers. His expression did not betray his feelings, though I doubted he had any. To him, I was just another patient.

He didn’t offer me any words of encouragement as I watched the long, cream ribbon twirling before my eyes, becoming longer. Dr. Sheffield removed my hopes and dreams along with the fabric. I felt my breath fading with each twist of his hand.

I tried to swallow down the lump of tears in my throat, my eyes drifting to Grandmomma, searching for comfort. She was by my side, holding my hand with her back ramrod straight, her chin up.

I searched for clues in her expression.

As the bandages curled into a pile on the floor, her face warped in horror, pain, and pity. By the time parts of my face were exposed, she looked like she wanted to shrivel into herself and vanish. I wanted to do the same. Tears prickled my eyes. I fought them out of instinct, telling myself it didn’t matter. Beauty was a seasonal friend; it always walked away from you eventually—and never returned when you truly needed it.

“Say somethin’.” My voice was thick, low, unbearably raw. “Please, Grandmomma. Tell me.”

I’d enjoyed the perks of my looks since I was born. Sheridan High was all about Grace Shaw. Modeling scouts stopped Grams and me when we visited Austin. I was the most prominent actress in school plays and a member of the cheer team. It had been obvious, if not expected, that the splendor of my looks would pave a path for me. With hair rich and gold as the Tuscan sun, a pert nose, and luscious lips, I knew my looks were my one-way ticket out of this town.

“Her mother wasn’t worth spit, but luckily Grace inherited her beauty,” I once heard Mrs. Phillips telling Mrs. Contreras at the grocery store. “Let’s just hope she fares better than the little hussy.”