He rolls his eyes but squeezes my fingers gently before stroking the back of my hand with his thumb. We spend a good hour sitting like that, I hum him to sleep to his beloved Tay Swift, stroking his forehead and telling him he’s going to be just fine, even though I’m not sure he will.
When I was younger, Dad told me about a player, Justin Bourne, who caught a puck to the face, and it ended his NHL career.
I hope to all the hockey gods that doesn’t happen for Tate. Tateishockey. I’m not sure even he knows what he is without it.
When his soft snores fill the room, I find a way to slow my own breathing before I dare look in the direction of his mom.
“How bad is it?” I don’t know when I started crying, but my cheeks are wet, and I don’t like it.
“The pain will be worse for the first few days,” she starts. “Though the doctors say it could take a couple of weeks to completely disappear. Which is also how long they say his stitches will take to dissolve, up to two weeks.”
I nod, swiping at my cheeks with my hands which just makes the tears fall faster.
“The IV is for antibiotics to fight any potential infection post op.”
Makes sense.
“You usually only stay in the hospital for one night following the surgery.” Her sad eyes meet mine. “They checked his fractures with x-rays today but they wanted to keep him in again tonight because he spiked a temp.” She sighs.
“He has plates and screws holding the fractures in place in his lower jaw, and it’ll take upwards of six weeks for it to heal completely.” She holds her hands in her lap. “No contact sports for at least eight weeks.” She shakes her head. “He didn’t like that one the most. I don’t know how I’m keeping him off the ice.”
“I’ll duct tape him to a chair if I have to, Mrs. Myers. I won’t let him be a dumbass.” I think about what she said for a moment. “Is he at high risk of infection?”
She shakes her head. “That’s not usually a complication. Or so they say. Since he gets an IV of antibiotics. But.” She shrugs. “It could happen.”
“What else?” None of this is any of my business. But I’m curious. What other complications could he be facing? Does he need a speech pathologist? What will his diet be like? How much duct tape does it take to strap a really strong and stubborn person to a chair?
“There is a nerve that runs through the lower jaw, it’s what gives you feeling in your lower lip, chin and bottom teeth. The doctors said his nerve may have been bruised at the time of the fracture, and as a result he might feel some tingling or numbness in his lip and chin once everything wears off. It may or may not have been made worse by the surgery. It may or may not get better on its own. And it may or may not take several months to do so. He’s likely going to have hardware in his face forever, they don’t take it out unless it causes any issues, though sometimes the screws they use can damage the teeth.”
She looks at him lying in the bed. “They didn’t take any more of his teeth.” She smiles, sadly, her body slumping when she’s done like she’s been holding onto all of those words for hours since the doctor told them to her.
I lean over and pat her hand, it’s all I know to do. “He’ll be okay. He’s strong and healthy, and he’s a fighter. I know it’s scary, but he’ll be okay.”
She nods, tears slipping down her cheeks. “I know. It’s all just a lot.”
As we sit in silence, my brain whirrs, and while he might not need a speech pathologist, I could definitely help him with his nutrition.
As though she’s reading my mind, she turns to me. “Will he need to learn to talk all over again?”
I shake my head. “From everything you’ve said, having his jaw wired shut won’t impact that. It’s just like gritting your teeth when you aren’t allowed to say what you’re really thinking.” I smile at her. “Communication and mobility shouldn’t really be a problem during his recovery time. There might be some weight loss because you have to do a liquid diet, like maybe five-to-ten percent of his body weight. He’ll have to make sure he stays on liquid protein. He’ll probably have a dietitian assigned to him, but I can help him write out a therapy plan and meal schedule.”
She smiles. “He might be more inclined to listen to what he should do if it comes from you.”
My cheeks heat up again. “We both know the only person he’s inclined to listen to is himself. Hence the need for duct tape. But I’ll do what I can to make sure he’s not his usual stubborn, idiot self.”
She laughs quietly, and we sit in an amicable silence for a long moment before she asks me about myself. What I want to do with my life, what my plans are, what my favorite food is, and we chat for a little while. It’s like I’ve known this woman my whole life. Conversation is so easy that if I had the nuclear passwords, she could probably get them from me with ease.
We’re laughing over a picture of Tate as a young boy dressed as a hotdog on her phone when the door opens. The man who walks in is the image of Tate, just a couple decades older. His hair is salt and pepper gray, there are age lines around his eyesand mouth, but those eyes, the shape of his face, the skin tone—they’re all Tate.
I sit up straight in my chair, fighting the urge to scream, and stare straight into the eyes of the man who ruined my life.
CHAPTER 17
Tate
Not to be dramatic, but everything hurts, and I’m dying.
Okay, hold up. I feel like maybe getting hit in the face by a frozen, rubber disk traveling at somewhere between fifty and one-hundred miles an hour when it hit me affords me at least a little drama.
