I pull the Velcro on the gloves with my teeth, take them off, and briefly nod my thanks—it’s all I can manage right now because I’m still seething.But I get the feeling it’s under control.
“Want a turn?”I ask, once I’ve eaten and drunk something, gesturing at the gloves.
Kit shakes his head.“I’m all right today, thanks.”His tone is light, but his expression is serious.
“But you have other days?”
He shrugs.“The days that are total shite?Aye.”
“Want to talk about it?”I ask.It’s always better to offer than to open up yourself.And most people are only too happy to fall for that trick.
“Just my old man, who’s always on my case.He and Mum live in Ebrington.In the spring, he got drunk and hospitalized me.”
“Fuck, I’m sorry, man,” I say.
Kit just grunts.“It’s been better since I’ve boarded at school.But I spend a lot of time in here, pounding the punchbag.”
“To be ready for next time?”
Kit’s jaw muscles tense.“Violence doesn’t solve anything,” he says after a moment, and I nod lamely.“How about you?”he asks, looking back at me.“Just raging?”
“Just raging,” I confirm, silently thanking him for accepting that.
“You’re into her,” Kit says out of nowhere.
“No way, man,” I reply at once, but he just grins.
“Interesting that you instantly knew who we’re talking about.”He puts the boxing equipment away, gets his things together, and throws his bag over his shoulder.
For a moment, I’m tempted to hate him, but I just give the lousy floor mats a good kick before following him out.
Olive
“That’s looking pretty good,” says Dad, and I nod, with gritted teeth.Not because having the bandages changed is all that painful, but because I can see myself in the process.In the mirror over the sink.I’m sitting on the treatment couch in the sick bay, and the scars on my right shoulder are plain to see.Gnarly skin alongside the fine grid pattern of the skin graft.I sometimes think I look inhuman these days, and although it feels weak, I’m incredibly glad that in the daytime, I can hide the memories of the fire under high-necked blouses, T-shirts, and jumpers.Even though the way people stare at me so blatantly since I’ve been back at Dunbridge sometimes makes me scared that they can see through the protective cloak of my clothes.
“If it carries on healing so well, we’ll be able to leave the bandages off from next week,” he continues.He smiles at me, but I can see how hard it is for him to do so.He’s not my dad while he cares for my burns.He’s Dr.Henderson, doing his job.Friendly and caring, but nothing more.And I die inside a wee bit every time I force myself to smile and, at all costs, not to cry.
“Fab,” I manage, turning my face away as he puts a fresh dressing on.It’s only a light gauze, totally different from the sticky dressings that covered the burns during my first weeks in hospital.
Dad takes another glance at the place on my thigh where they took the skin for the graft—that’s healing well too—and then I can get dressed.He’s just packing away the rest of the bandages and stuff when there’s a knock on the door.Nurse Petra sticks her head in.“Neil, we’ve got a sprained ankle waiting out here.”
“Be right with you,” Dad promises.
My pulse quickens slightly.“Dad?”I say as he turns back to me.
He looks at me.“What is it, pet?”
“Why didn’t you tell me that Colin has diabetes?”
Sometimes the best way is just to come straight out and ask the question that’s on your heart.
Dad raises his eyebrows in surprise.“I’m his doctor.”
“And you’re my father,” I say.“You should have told me.”
“Even if I could, I had no way of knowing it mattered that much to you.”Dad leans against the sink.
I want to say,It doesn’t, but that wouldn’t be true.
