Merry Christmas, Babies. Tara Quinn Taylor
the urge to run his fingers over her face, through her hair, to kiss away the tears glistening in her lashes. To take her into his lap and rock her.
“How badly?”
“Forty percent.”
Of her body? Trying to imagine the reality made him sick to his stomach. The pain would have been excruciating. Enough to send an adult over the edge, let alone an eleven-year-old child.
“Hair ignites quickly,” she said now, her voice more that of a young girl than the indomitable woman he’d known. “It’s highly flammable.”
Joe had nothing to say. His eyes stung. He took her hand.
“Mine was long.”
ELISE HAD NO IDEA HOW much time had passed. Caught in a warp between past and present, long-ago pain and current fear, she pushed words past the constriction in her throat as best she could. Spoke, for the first time to a nonmedical person, about the night a large part of her died, leaving behind the intelligent automaton who assessed life, made wise decisions, lived up to societal expectations, was kind to others—and had no sense of personal identity whatsoever.
Holding Joe’s hand—another first—she answered his questions as best as she could, telling him about the years of reconstructive surgeries.
“Dr. Fuller was an angel sent from God,” she told him. “I met him at the burn unit when I was first brought in, although I don’t remember that.” She smiled, despite the tears in her eyes. “From what I’ve been told, he took one look at me, heard that my family had all died in the fire, and declared himself my provider and protector. He worked with Social Services and I was placed in the home of his parents’ dearest friends—when I wasn’t in the hospital. I was the culmination of his life’s work, and he performed operations that normally cost exorbitant amounts, at the fee covered by my insurance.”
Elise, withstanding Joe’s perusal with difficulty, could feel her skin tightening where she still had surface sensation. Even after all those years in and out of hospitals, she’d never gotten used to the stares—and the accompanying horror on the faces of the strangers who’d seen her.
“It’s amazing there aren’t any scars.”
“There are.” She closed her eyes, reached with her free hand to trace her hair line. “Here—” her finger moved down the outside of her jawbone to beneath her chin “—to here.”
There were other scars he couldn’t see. That no one saw. Both inside and out. But she was lucky. Thanks to Thomas Fuller, the only external signs left from that hateful night were skillfully hidden, mere thin, silky lines.
“And the people who kept you, they were kind?”
“Very.” If she tried really hard, she could still smell Mary’s peach cobbler baking in the oven. “The Bournes were a childless couple in their seventies. My parents were both estranged from their families because they’d married outside their religions—one was Jewish, one Catholic. So I never knew either set of my grandparents. The time I spent with the Bournes was a gift. Mostly I remember their kindness. They carted me back and forth to appointments, therapies and surgeries, visiting me whenever I was in the hospital.”
“Where are they now?”
“Wally died of a heart attack the year before I started college. Mary followed about six months later. They were both eighty-one.”
“I knew you then.”
“Barely.”
“You never let on you were grieving…”
Joe shook his head. It must be late. He couldn’t let go of Elise’s hand—as though his touch made a difference to her aloneness.
“I’m so incredibly sorry,” he said, hating how trite the words sounded. He’d asked what she’d meant by therapy, and she’d told him about the years of painful treatments she’d endured to regain full use of her injured muscles and limbs. About the nerves that couldn’t be fixed, the parts of her face that would never experience sensation again.
“Thanks.” She didn’t seem to notice that her fingers were still clasped in his. “You’re the first person I’ve ever told about this—apart from counselors.”
He frowned, wishing he’d taken more time to get to know her over the years. He had an idea he’d missed out on much. “Why is that?”
“Look at how you’re looking at me.”
He blinked, pulled away. Let go of her hand. “What?”
“You feel sorry for me.”
“Of course I do! You suffered such a tragedy.”
“I know. And I appreciate the sympathy, don’t get me wrong. But after everything I’d been through, I just wanted to live a normal life. It wasn’t ever going to happen if I took my past with me.”
“Your past is a part of you.”
She was busy trying to leave it behind. “Maybe.”
“It made you strong.”
She didn’t feel strong.
“I’ve dated two wonderful men in the past five years, and both times I could never get enough sense of who I was to be able to give my heart to someone. There’s always this part of me that’s detached.”
She figured that there was no point in holding back now. Joe already knew the worst. And he was safe. A friend and no more.
“I feel fake inside,” she admitted to him. “Just like my face is fake.”
She drew back when he reached to touch her, but he ran his fingers down the side of her cheek anyway. “You don’t feel fake.”
She didn’t feel his fingers, either.
And then, as his hand continued over her face, away from the grafted skin, she did.
“I lost everything, Joe. Mementos, photos, tokens. The memories fade and there’s no one left who shared them to remind me. I look in the mirror and I’m not me. There is nothing there that speaks of my heritage.”
He started to speak but she held up a hand. She had to finish what she’d started.
“Don’t get me wrong. I’m not feeling sorry for myself here,” she continued. “Yes, horrible things happened, but I was also incredibly lucky—in many ways—and I’m very grateful for that. Truthfully, I think more about the good than the bad.”
He nodded, sipped his watered-down drink, then held the glass in both hands in his lap.
“I’m a survivor, Joe. I’m only telling you about all this so that you can understand.”
And because, as of today, there was no way her choice wasn’t going to affect his life, as well, at least peripherally.
“I’m thirty-two years old. I’ve got my body back, my career and financial security are set, but my sense of self, of being grounded, which I lost in that fire, is still missing. I have no significant other. I’ve been finding my solutions on my own for a long time.”
“And so you decided to have a baby, start a new family, on your own.”
The knot between her shoulder blades loosened and Elise almost smiled. “Yes.” He got it.
“Okay.” He drained his drink, sat forward. “You have my full support.”
Elise was tempted to stand, to leave it at that and let him leave, but knew she couldn’t. She’d opened the door to truth between them. She was no longer hiding.
“There’s more, Joe.”
Lips pursed, he nodded. “I kind of thought so.”
“I had an ultrasound today.”
He peered at her through