I thought Story would wait in the reception area, it was the only reason I agreed she could come because her in the operating room is nothing less than a distraction. But after we both get dry, the nurse offers her a scrub gown and she takes it.
“If you’re going to stay, make yourself useful. In the drawer behind you are cotton swabs, razors, and antiseptic lotion. I’ll cut the wires, and you can shave around the wound and clean it so I can see what needs stitching.”
She nods. “Okay.”
We get to work. I focus on Churchill. I cut, and she cleans. And we do it all in silence. Too silently.
Distractinglysilent.
Story’s close enough that every so often her hair flops back from behind her ear and falls into my face. Blood, mud, and metal mingle with a faint floral perfume. My eyes find hers too often and look away too quickly.
Her mouth is inches from mine, and I concentrate on counting the barbs in the wire instead.
“You’re not an inconvenience to me, Story,” I say at some point while dropping another couple of inches of wire into the trash. It clatters against the metal.
Her hand stills and it’s the only way I know she’s heard me.
“This wound looks deep,” she observes a couple of minutes later.
I peer over. “Get a fresh swab and leave it on. I’ll stitch it.”
She does as I ask and continues with her role. Everyso often, she whispers something to Churchill and strokes his face, just like she did in the trench.
“What are you saying to him?” I ask, after the fourth or fifth time.
“That he’s in the best hands, and you’re going to fix everything.”
The room suddenly feels too hot.
“Did you speak to Mrs. Winston?”
“No, she wasn’t answering. I’ll keep trying.”
In total, I estimate I removed three meters of barbed wire from around Churchill’s hind quarters, though I don’t know how he managed to get himself so tangled up. I only needed to stitch seven of the wounds, as the rest were only big scratches. And we do fix everything, the two of us.
Afterward, we wheel him through to the recovery room, leaving him in one of the crates usually reserved for the really large dogs.
“I’m glad I called you,” Story says, standing up after dropping a final kiss on Churchill’s head.
“Technically, you called the practice.”
Her lips roll together, teeth catching the bottom one. “I don’t have your number.”
“Still the same one. It hasn’t changed.”
She looks away and shrugs, which says it all. A knife pushed further into my chest. Confirmation that she completely erased me from her life.
“Funny. I still know yours by heart.” It’s not funny at all.
Her shoulders drop, eyes still glued to a spot on the floor. She looks as defeated as she did at the committeemeeting, a point in time that feels so much longer ago than a few days. I’m thoroughly exhausted, enough that I don’t immediately hear her.
“What?”
“I’msorry.”
I blink. “Sorry? What for?”
When she looks at me, it’s not rain pouring down her face. “For everything. For leaving. For coming back.Everything.”
