The outpouring of support for Marcy on social media and in the local news had remained constant throughout the six weeks she was at the Morriston Hospital in Swansea, and Claudia and Jasmine had read or listened to it all. It was a comfort in its way, the hundreds of posts and heartfelt responses, and they continued during the time of her transfer to the burns ward of Kesterly Royal Infirmary. So many people wanted to welcome her home and assure her that the whole town was wishing her well. It touched Claudia deeply that people who’d never heard of them before seemed to care so much and were calling them by their first names, even stopping her in the street to let her know how appalled they were by what had happened. Many even offered to help rebuild the coach house.
“My husband’s a plumber, call anytime.”
“I’ve got a flooring company, happy to sort you out for cost.”
“If you ever need to chat, our Bible group meets every Wednesday.”
“Have you heard about our burns charity? We help with rehabilitation. Please get in touch when your mother’s up to it.”
Marcy wasn’t going to be up to it anytime soon, Claudia was aware of that, and right now she wasn’t sure she’d want to take part anyway. She wasn’t the person she’d been before the fire. Everything about her had changed: her appearance, of course, drastically, but her sense of caring about her life, her family, her recovery seemed to have gone too, as had her upbeat morale and the musical timbre of her voice. Most of the time she preferred not to talk. She simply listened as others spoke to her, rarely looking at them or even showing that she’d heard, although Claudia knew that she had. Damaged though her left ear was, it was still functioning as well as the right one.
Coping with the devastation of her mother’s spirit was almost as hard as trying to help her deal with the pain. It was so bad at times that Marcy screamed and writhed as she fought the urge to rip and tear at the fiercely prickling skin. She was on strong medication—in the early weeks she’d been on morphine—but recently the care team had moved her onto still powerful but slightly milder analgesics. The sepsis she’d suffered while still at the Morriston had, mercifully, not so far recurred. Those had been terrifyingly dark days for Claudia, when she’d felt convinced they were going to lose her. However, she’d managed to pull through, and now Rohan Laghari, the lead consultant at Kesterly, was optimistic that the powerful cocktail of antibiotics she was still being fed intravenously would continue to prevent it happening again.
Sepsis was one of the biggest killers of burns patients, Claudia had learned, so she understood how fortunate they were that her mother had survived it.
Today another crucial stage in recovery was due to take place, and Claudia’s heart turned over with dread and anxiety simply to think of it. Putting all the surgeries and pain aside, she suspected this was going to be one of the most difficult tests for her mother so far, although Marcy hadn’t said as much, but then she said so little. For the past couple of weeks the medical team had been preparing her for mirror work, which spoke for itself, and it seemed everyone had a role to play, nurses, a clinical psychologist, a psychotherapist, and also the surgeons. With so many being involved, neither Claudia, her mother, nor Jasmine could be in any doubt of how seriously this vital next step was.
Claudia knew, because she’d asked, that every patient dealt with it in their own way. For some the disfigurement wasn’t as bad as they’d imagined, while for others it was so much worse that they ended up on suicide watch. This was why the psychologist had spent so much time with Marcy lately, to help avoid post-traumatic symptoms developing into full-scale PTSD, but it was hard to tell how much Marcy had taken in given her reluctance to speak, or even to show any emotion.
Now, as Claudia got ready to leave the stables at Ash Morley, which had been her and Jasmine’s home since the fire, her mind was filled with the shock she’d experienced the first time her mother’s dressings had been removed in front of her. The scars had been so visibly inflamed, like a live disease ravaging one side of her lovely face, that she could only feel thankful that Marcy’s eyes had been closed. She wouldn’t have seen the horror that whitened Claudia’s cheeks, but she must have heard Jasmine’s gasp and strangled cry as she’d tried to stifle the shock. Marcy had never mentioned it, probably because she wouldn’t have wanted to make Jasmine feel bad, but that terrible moment must have fueled her own dread as cruelly as it had her imagination.
Hearing a knock on the door, Claudia went to answer, and found Leanne outside in the drizzling rain.
“I wondered if you’d like me to drive you to the hospital today?” Leanne suggested as Claudia stood aside for her to come in.
“That’s kind of you,” Claudia replied, turning back into the cozy kitchen where she’d failed to cook or even eat very much since they’d gotten here, “but I’ll be OK. It’s going to be a bit of a performance so I’m not sure how long I’ll be there.”
Regarding her worriedly, Leanne said, “Are you sure you’re up to this? You look exhausted.”
“I couldn’t let her go through it on her own. Even if she doesn’t say anything, or look at me, I think it’ll matter to her that I’m nearby.” She took a breath. “Jasmine texted just now to wish us luck. I keep asking myself if I did the right thing, persuading her to go to the first night of the Proms with your mum and Abby. I don’t want her to feel shut out, but it’s going to be hard enough for my mother without worrying about Jasmine’s reaction.”
“Jasmine understands that,” Leanne assured her, “and she’ll be back tomorrow. She can go to see her then.”
Claudia nodded, but her eyes were fixed on nothing as she experienced a fleeting connection with the world outside the bubble she and her mother were in. Thanks to everyone’s kindness and help, the coach house, mostly under Andee’s supervision, had already been cleared and cleaned and was now being rewired, replastered, and painted. She went herself, most days, helping out where she could, but her heart still wasn’t in making decisions about colors and designs.
She was thankful, of course, for everything they were doing, and for the way Dan had dealt with the insurance company, making sure that all costs were covered. She told her mother all about it during her visits, probably going into too much detail, or rambling off the subject at times without really knowing where she was going. She never mentioned anything about the arrests that had been made as a result of the documents in the attaché case being found. They would be of no more interest to her mother than they were to her. What mattered in their world was finding whoever had started the fire and getting him, or her, to provide the connection to Marcus. Making either of them pay wouldn’t undo what had been done, but they couldn’t be allowed to get away with it.
MARCY HAD BEEN aware of almost everything that had happened to her since the early days of being admitted to the Burns Intensive Care Unit in Swansea. Although the ventilator tube had prevented her from speaking at first, she’d listened as each surgery was explained, from the first to clean the burns—how simple that sounded, how crucial and invasive it was—right through to the fourth, fifth, and sixth procedures that had mostly involved intricate and life-saving skin grafts.
The early ones, she’d been told, were called cadaveric allografts, meaning they’d used skin from a donor to cover her injuries; apparently they were the best form of dressing. However, the skin had no life of its own, so it fell off within two or three weeks. By then, the surgical team was ready to begin the autografts, which meant using her own healthy skin to further the healing process.
In order to restore her left eyelid, they’d transplanted a microscopic sliver of flesh from the inside of her right arm and apparently it had taken well. She already had partial, cloudy vision in the eye, but she’d been told it was unlikely the lashes or brow would grow back, owing to the destruction of the necessary follicles. As for the muscles required to make her blink, this was an ongoing process.
The hair on her head was a better story, for in spite of most of it being burnt off during the fire and the rest shaved off on her admission to hospital, it was starting to come through again. She knew it was in patches, for she could feel it with her good hand, but apparently there was a chance it would grow back completely. As yet she had no idea of its color, but she was expecting it to be gray, or possibly white, and as for the texture . . . She’d have to wait and see.
Her left hand was still encased in an enormous dressing, and everything down that side of her body to her hip was a raging, stinging river of pain in spite of the drugs. It was so intense at times that she longed to tear herself apart with knives to try and alleviate the agony and itching.
Right now, she was raised up against pillows in her hospital bed, tilted slightly to the right to ease the pressure on her injured left side and still attached to the intravenous antibiotics. Usually at this time of day the physio came to inflict her own brand of torture, but there was another sort on the agenda today. She wasn’t ready for it, and knew she probably never would be, but she was unable to summon the words to argue against it. Easier to go along with what they wanted and not make a fuss.
She looked up as Ruth, the senior nurse, came around the privacy screen, her fair corkscrew curls pulled back into a band, and her smooth, round face radiating health and perfection. Marcy didn’t resent her for that, only envied her. After all, it wasn’t going to help her patients if she covered her looks with a mask or drew on a clownish expression to disguise them. Marcy suspected she would, if asked, for she’d come to believe that there wasn’t much this bossy mother of three wouldn’t do to help those in her care.
Of the many members of the burns team, Ruth was the one Marcy had developed the greatest attachment to, with the exception of her roguishly witty consultant, Rohan Laghari, whom she saw most days. He had no idea that she looked forward to his visits and held on to his every word, for she didn’t engage with him much more than she did with the others. She didn’t mean to be rude; she just couldn’t bring herself up from the depths where she languished into the full light of comings and goings around her. Not even the psychologist was having much luck in reaching her, and if the truth were told, Marcy wished he’d stop trying.
“Are you sure about this?” Ruth asked, holding the mirror against her chest with the back of it facing Marcy. “We always prefer to do it with the full team present . . .”
“Please, let’s get it over with,” Marcy whispered hoarsely. It’s only my face, she was telling herself, and however it looks I’ll find a way to cope with it. The fact it might make her want to kill herself when she saw what she’d become was something she’d have to decide on later.
“I think I’ll call Mr. Laghari,” Ruth stated. “Just him. We don’t have to tell the others.”
Marcy shook her head. She was as prepared for the shock as she’d ever be; now she needed to get on with it, but not with everyone watching. She’d already explained to Ruth that she wanted it to be as private a moment as she could make it and would have done it alone if she’d been able to fetch a mirror without assistance. She didn’t even want Claudia present—she especially didn’t want her there—for she didn’t want her daughter to see her reaction in case it was bad.
Taking a doubtful step closer Ruth put the mirror into Marcy’s right hand.
Marcy held it low for a moment, steeling herself, then turning the glass over, she lifted it up so that the frame was surrounding her face.
Her heart stopped in shock. What she saw was so much worse than she’d feared. She was grotesque, a monster; how could anyone bear to look at her? How terrible it must be for Claudia and Jasmine. She couldn’t even understand how the medical team was able to bear it. She felt so sick inside, so appalled and afraid that she wanted her life to end right that minute.
CLAUDIA SAT QUIETLY at the side of her mother’s bed and covered her good hand with her own. She knew what had happened with the mirror, Ruth had told her as soon as she’d arrived; apparently Marcy had said nothing then, or since.
Claudia could feel her heart breaking as she looked down at her mother, face turned away to mask the devastation that she’d now seen for herself. Her right eye was open, staring at nothing, and she didn’t in any way acknowledge that she knew Claudia was there.
“Why didn’t you wait for me?” Claudia asked softly.
Marcy gave no answer, didn’t even move. It was as if she hadn’t heard, or had somehow transported herself to a place no one could reach her.
“It won’t always be like that,” Claudia said, trying to comfort her. “It’s still early days . . .”
“Please talk about something else,” Marcy croaked.
Claudia fell silent, unable to think of anything else. Perhaps it had been too soon for the mirror—was there ever a right time?—but her mother had seemed to want it, or she hadn’t objected when her consultant, Rohan, had suggested they start preparing for it.
Now Claudia wished that they could turn back the clock, but not to before the mirror, that would solve nothing, to before the fire.
Useless wishes; wrenching grief; fear of the future; silent rage, with a consuming need to make those responsible pay.
Should she tell Marcy that the police still hadn’t caught anyone, that a connection to Marcus hadn’t been proved? She pictured him in his prison cell, satisfied with what he’d made happen to her and her mother, although no doubt furious and fearful about the arrests. Maybe he was already plotting what else he could do to punish her for that. He knew where she was now and that frightened her, but she wasn’t going to run away again. She couldn’t while her mother was still in hospital, and when it finally came time for her to go home she would need to be quiet, to take whatever time was necessary to heal in both mind and body. That was going to be easier among the friends they’d come to know and trust.
Deciding her mother wouldn’t want to hear about Marcus, or the fact that the police still seemed no closer to catching whoever had started the fire, she began talking instead about the coach house. She asked if Marcy thought she should try to re-create what had been there before—the same or similar patchwork sofas, the refectory table and colorful mismatched chairs—but she received no answer.
She changed the subject to Henry and how much he wanted to see her. At that her mother’s uninjured eye closed, and Claudia realized it had been the wrong thing to say. She hadn’t allowed any of their friends to see her since being admitted to hospital; there seemed to be a part of her that wanted to forget she even knew anyone else.
A while later Ruth came to check on them and Claudia gave a small shake of her head, letting the nurse know that she hadn’t been able to persuade her mother to respond to her.
After Ruth had gone, Marcy said, in a voice that was barely audible, “Did Jasmine go to the Proms?”
Relief rushed to Claudia’s eyes; her mother had spoken without prompting. “Yes,” she replied. “They’re staying the night, coming back tomorrow.”
Marcy whispered, “That’s nice.”
She spoke quietly, Claudia knew, because she didn’t want to emphasize the difficulty she had pushing words past the injured tissue inside her throat and mouth. The muscles there were still unable to work as they once had, so sometimes it was hard to understand her. It would improve, Rohan had assured them, but like the skin grafts and new eyelid it was going to take time for her body to accustom itself to the changes.
Claudia wondered if she should mention her mother’s hair and how much better it was starting to look. Although it was still patchy, there was no longer any baldness, and maybe soon they could cut the longer strands to the same length as the shorter ones.
No, she couldn’t go there, it was too connected to the way she looked.
In the end Claudia said, “I’m sorry, Mum, I know this is my fault. I just wish I knew how to make it up to you.”
Marcy’s eyes closed again and as she pulled her hand free, she said, “Have you seen Dan?”
Claudia’s heart contracted. Her mother regularly asked this question, and though she had seen Dan it wasn’t in the way Marcy meant. Others were always around, which she was thankful for in one way, but not in another, for she still hadn’t apologized for the way she’d turned on him when he’d told her he knew the truth about her. So much time had passed since that awful scene, and while she wouldn’t deny to herself that she wished she found it easier to talk to him, she wasn’t going to admit it to anyone else.
“You should see him,” Marcy told her. “You know he’s a good man.”
“You’re my only concern.”
Marcy didn’t argue, she rarely did, but Claudia didn’t doubt that she’d bring the subject up again tomorrow or the next day. It was a way of distracting herself from the awful reality that was her life now.
They fell silent for a while after that, until eventually Claudia got up to press a gentle kiss to her mother’s unspoiled cheek. Her eyes were closed, so maybe she was sleeping.
Marcy said, “It’s the fault of the person who did it, not yours.”
Claudia didn’t argue. “And I promise,” she said, “we’ll find him . . .”
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”
Claudia looked at her and felt so overwhelmed by her own helplessness, her need to do something that might in some way help her mother to return to who she really was, that she had to leave quickly before she broke into a sobbing rage of frustration and despair.