Lovely War(102)

Hazel breathed slowly. Her head was still somewhere between drugged sleep and wakefulness.

“Never mind,” Colette said. “I can see the truth.”

“How long have I been here?” Hazel marveled at how scratchy her voice sounded.

Colette’s eyes filled with concern. “Three days,” she said. “We’ve been so afraid.”

“We?” Hazel gave up the struggle. “Can I have some water?”

Colette slid her arm under Hazel’s pillow and eased her upright. She caught the wince of pain and held a glass of water to her lips.

Hazel closed her eyes. Colette took her hand and entwined her fingers through hers.

“I can’t tell you how good it is to see you awake.”

Hazel smiled and opened her eyes. “It’s good to see you, too.” She took a measured breath. “Three days?”

“Lazybones.”

Hazel laughed for a second, until the pain told her not to.

“Colette,” she said, “what happened to me?”

Colette’s heart bled. Where to begin? “Do you remember the train ride?”

Hazel nodded once.

“Do you remember the explosion?”

Hazel frowned. “Do I?” She waited. Her mind was still a muddled swirl. “Maybe?”

“A shell hit our train,” Colette explained gently. “People died. Many more were hurt.”

Hazel studied Colette’s face. “You seem to be all right.”

Colette gulped. She doesn’t remember what she did. She opened her mouth to tell her, then paused. Something—it was me—warned her not to do so.

“You know me,” Colette said lightly, though it killed her. “Always the lucky one.”

“Figures.” Hazel grinned. “Well, what hit me?”

“Broken glass,” Colette said. “Like shrapnel. Your body was badly cut. You bled a great deal.” She pressed Hazel’s hand to her lips. “We thought we’d lost you.”

Hazel took inventory. She wiggled her fingers. They were there. She wiggled her toes. They were, too. She saw bumps on the bed jostling where feet should be.

“Did we lose any parts of me?”

Colette wanted to laugh but didn’t allow it. Apparently they hadn’t lost Hazel’s humor.

“They operated,” Colette said, “to remove the glass and stop your bleeding. The doctors said it’s a wonder you pulled through.”

Hazel tried to comprehend all this information. What had she known? What did she remember? Something about piano. Something about a concert hall. A presence, there beside her. Not frightening, but not altogether comfortable, either. Just there, watchful.

And while all this had happened, she’d nearly died. She’d been carved open on an operating table. Strangers had examined her insides. She shivered.

“Colette,” Hazel said, “do my parents know?”

Colette nodded. “It took time, tracking them down. We expect them in a few hours.”

Hazel gestured for more water, and once more her friend assisted her. She spooned a mouthful of stewed apples between her dry, chapped lips. The patient closed her eyes. These sensations of liquid and food were almost more than she could comprehend.

“Colette?”

“Yes, darling?”

“Why can’t I see out of my right eye?”

A laugh, or a sob, burst from Colette’s lips. “It’s all right,” she said. “It’s covered with a bandage. The eye itself is fine, though. That’s what the doctors say.”

“But it’s covered with a bandage. Why?”

Tears spilled down Colette’s cheeks. She remembered the terrible sight. Red, and white, and bones where her friend’s lovely face should be.

“Your cheek was badly cut, chèrie,” whispered Colette. “And your forehead.”

Hazel’s mind was blessedly dim just then. She couldn’t feel all that she might later feel about this.

“But your eye was unharmed,” Colette went on hurriedly. “The doctors say it was a miracle. As if someone had covered it for you.”

“Well.” Hazel took a ragged breath. “If I can ever figure out who it was, I’ll thank them. You can’t buy eyeballs at the store.”

A shadow fell from the doorway. Colette glanced up, and Hazel, though sluggish, caught on and looked up, too.

Private James Alderidge stood in the door.

“Hello, Miss Windicott,” he said. “I’ve been missing you.”





APHRODITE


     Scars—August 21–September 1, 1918





COLETTE AND JAMES never told Hazel that she had saved Colette’s life. Heroism is much too heavy a burden to carry. James knew it, and Colette agreed. With a little help from me.

Hazel didn’t need heroic deeds to reconcile herself to her new face. She was alive. She had everyone she loved close by. Ever since her brush with death, many things that seemed to matter once just didn’t anymore.

Only for James’s sake did the angry red scars carving up the right side of her face cause her any worry. When the bandages came off, James begged to be there, along with her parents and Colette. Hazel was reluctant to let him, but she agreed.