“Corporal Bailey?” Sister Adele stood over him, concern etched on her face.
He blinked, confused. Muddled by the nightmare.
She held the back of her hand to his forehead. “You were dreaming,” she surmised gently. “I’m sorry. I should have let you sleep. It’s just that you cried out, and I was worried.”
He was glad he couldn’t speak. He didn’t want to have to explain that sleep was his enemy, no matter where he was.
Over the next few days, his wounds began to heal. The taste of copper on his tongue went away, replaced by careful sips of water, then broth. The sharp pain dulled to an ache, though a lot of his face was still numb. They cut back on his morphine, which he was mostly glad of. He preferred gritting his teeth to feeling trapped inside the drug, though sometimes he regretted that steely determination. He’d love a hit right at this moment. One of the nurses had adjusted the head of his cot so he could sit up, and the sharper pain had returned with a vengeance.
Sitting was better than lying down, though. It felt more active. Like he was closer to life than death. And from this position he got his first real view of the hospital: the rows of metal bed frames, the endless flow of doctors, nurses, patients, orderlies, and stretchers. Most of the patients were flat on their backs, some moving, some not. Many had tubes coming out of their bodies. The nurses tended to them all in turn, checking stitches and changing gauze, flitting from one man to the next like those little blue butterflies he remembered from summers at home.
The thought of home brought a wave of longing. He wondered how his parents were, and if John had gotten word to them about his injury. Mail was so unreliable out here.
He missed his mother. The cool days when he stepped inside the house and was instantly soothed by the warm, welcoming aroma of her baking. The familiar sight of her in the sunshine, hanging laundry, pins clamped between her lips. The light of adoration in her eyes whenever she looked at either of her boys. Those pretty, pale grey eyes they had both inherited from her. And the laughter that came so easily to her. Especially when his father waltzed her around the living room floor.
His father was a big man, strong like his first son, introspective like his second, and he always smelled of fermenting grain from the whisky still he ran. Since childhood, Jerry had been fascinated by the process of distilling whisky and the science behind it. Every day after school hewaited for his father to come home from his accounting job so they could work on the still together. He would give anything to be by his father’s side right now, filling the copper vat with barley mash, lining up bottles to be filled and corked.
Most of all, Jerry missed his older brother. Being with John was what Jerry had always known. When he thought of John being back in the tunnels without him, his heart ached with guilt. While Jerry rested here, John fought for his life.
“Good morning, soldier.” Sister Adele stepped up to his bedside, her smile bright and encouraging. “Big day today. I think the bandages might be coming off for good this time. We shall see. Ready?”
She reached for one end of the gauze, and he felt a lightening around his head as she carefully unravelled the bandage. The second time her hand passed across his mouth, he spoke his first word to her.
“Thanks,” he mumbled.
She stopped, surprised. “Why, you’re welcome! How nice to hear your voice. You must be feeling better.”
“Thanks to you.” His tongue felt heavy, but he was relieved that he could say some words without moving his mouth.
“We do what we can. Would you like some water? Maybe a little oatmeal if you can manage?”
“Yes, please.” He still couldn’t move his upper lip much, so he had a hard time pronouncing anything with a b, p, or m in it, but he tried. “Please” came out as more like “tlease,” but she didn’t take any notice of his embarrassment.
“All right.” She handed him a cup of water. “I’ll go get you some breakfast and we’ll see how that goes.”
It was awkward at first, aiming the spoon where it was supposed to go since he couldn’t feel his mouth properly, but she gently guided his hand until it came as naturally as it should have all along.
“Where’s home?” she asked after a bit.
“Ontario.” He was so pleased to finally be able to speak with her. Hewasn’t usually much of a talker, but he’d missed conversation since coming here. And he wanted to know more about her. “Windsor. Do you know it?”
She sat back. “Do I know it? Why, I grew up in Petite Côte!”
His gut clenched automatically at the memory.Frank. Over a decade had passed since that day on the river, and Jerry still felt something more complicated than grief for his friend. Regret. And a whole lot of guilt. Of all the places for her to mention.
He took another careful bite of his oatmeal. “Ten miles from my parents’ house.”
“Isn’t it a small world? You’ve probably never been to Petite Côte,” she said. “It’s so tiny compared to Windsor. It’s nice to meet someone from my neck of the woods, though.”
“I’ve been there,” he said, wanting to keep the conversation going, but it was difficult. How much could he say without bringing it all back? “John and I played hockey on the river when we were kids.”
“My sister and I used to watch. I wonder if I ever saw you,” she replied. “When was the last time you were there?”
“March of ’05.” He knew the date exactly.
She shook her head, wistful. “Those were the days. The world sure is different now, isn’t it?”
He grasped at the opportunity to change the subject. “Is your sister a nurse, too?”
