THE CLATTERING OF CARTS AND TRAYS OUT IN THE HALLWAY AWAKENED Latisha. Because of her still-aching tooth, they’d given her something to help with the pain, and it had put her out like a light. For the first time, she’d slept without dreaming—without hearing the fading thumping of Amelia’s fists pounding on the inside walls of the freezer.
The night nurse had warned Latisha that she was a falling risk and wasn’t to attempt walking to the restroom on her own, so she pressed the Call button. She was still hooked up to an IV, and the nurse—her name was Barbara—had to escort both Latisha and the IV into the bathroom. When Barbara helped her out of bed, she stood for a moment and looked down at her feet. The gnarled toenails were gone. Her feet no longer looked like disfigured claws, and overnight the weight of the single sheet hadn’t hurt. She suspected that was the other reason she’d slept so well.
After pointing out the grab bars Latisha could use if needed and directing her to press the Call button when she was done, Barbara left her there alone. Latisha stood transfixed in front of the mirror, staring at her own face. Without her hair it might have been her mother’s face looking back at her, or even her grandmother’s.
But seeing the face reminded Latisha that her mother was coming today—her mother and Lyle both. They had called and left a message while she’d been in the OR the previous afternoon. Their plane was due in Phoenix at midnight. They would overnight there and be in Bisbee by eleven that morning. And then, Latisha realized, she would need to find a way to talk to them about what had happened.
Would she be able to tell the whole story? Would they want to hear it? Would they be able to forgive her for the way she’d behaved toward them, the things she’d done? And if they couldn’t forgive her, what would happen to her then? Regardless, when they got there, Latisha wanted to look her best. Marianne had stopped by the previous evening and dropped off a scarf—a bright blue scarf that she said was a shade called “Bisbee blue.” By the time her parents showed up, Latisha hoped to be wearing it.
Before she left, Barbara had placed a little makeup kit on the counter next to the sink. Inside Latisha found a toothbrush—a brand-new toothbrush—and a tiny tube of toothpaste. She brushed her teeth, carefully avoiding the broken tooth. Her gums bled. Dr. Lee had told her that was to be expected. He had also told her that the dentist would be coming today to deal with her tooth. And a psychologist. She would be coming, too.
Dr. Lee had told Latisha that she might be suffering from something called PTSD. Latisha had heard about that before. She thought it was something that only happened to soldiers, but Dr. Lee had said she was a prime candidate. And he also said that talking with a stranger and telling her story might help her move beyond the hours and months of torture in the Boss’s basement. And maybe he was right. She’d told the story twice now—first to Garth and later to Marianne—and already those dark days seemed to be receding, as though the terrible things that had happened to her back there had happened to someone else.
Latisha pressed the button, and Barbara reappeared almost immediately. “Are you ready to get back into bed?”
“Is Garth still here?”
“Deputy Raymond? Yes, why?”
“Can I go see him?”
“Let me get you a wheelchair.”
“If you’ll help me, and if it isn’t too far,” Latisha said, “I think I can walk.”
Garth was sitting up in bed, eating breakfast. His grandmother was there, too. Latisha had already met Juanita Raymond. She had come by yesterday afternoon to say that her grandson was out of the operating room, in the recovery room, and that he was going to be fine. She had also delivered two more meat-loaf sandwiches, which Latisha had eaten slowly, over the course of the afternoon and evening.
“Good morning,” he said, smiling at her. “I’m glad to see you’re up and around. They won’t let me out of bed yet.”
“I came to say thank you,” Latisha said. “Thank you for saving my life.”
“No problem,” Garth Raymond told her with a grin. “On that score I believe we’re even steven.”
Barbara helped Latisha back to her room and into bed. She brought in a breakfast tray with scrambled eggs and ham and hash browns and toast and orange juice. It was a feast—more than Latisha could eat—and when she’d eaten her fill, she pushed the tray away and slept some more.