The doctors had done their best trying to graft skin to his ruined face, make him look as normal as possible.
They’d failed.
Ivy had learned that autografts from the postauricular region—the area behind the ear—were best for facial reconstruction.
The extent of the damage made this impossible in his case.
They’d gone over the options—allografts from donors, even xenografts from pigs—but these all seemed too garish. The plastic surgeons had settled on removing the top few layers of skin from his lower throat and collarbone region.
These had helped seal the surface, prevent infection, but they had done next to nothing to improve the man’s appearance.
He was unrecognizable and, to most, resembled something out of a cheap horror film.
Not to Ivy. To Ivy, it was theideaof her father that mattered most. How he looked was irrelevant.
“You okay?” A silly question, but Ivy didn’t know what else to say. Never did.
He didn’t look at her, but he did extend the flower in her direction.
Ivy took it.
Queen Anne’s lace wasn’t highly allergenic, but squatting as she was, and after having disturbed the flowers on her trek, the pollen was getting to her.
As her eyes began to water, Ivy reached into her pocket and produced a thin, cream-colored, stocking-like piece of material.
A transparent facial orthosis, Ivy had learned—a TFO. She now knew as much about facial burns and reconstruction as she did polynomial equations.
After the grafts, he had been required to wear the TFO for almost a year to help him heal. Now, nearly three years in, he still sported the mask nearly around the clock. His appearance frightened the other long-term residents in the adult assisted living facility.
Ivy gently slipped the mask over the man’s head, adjusted it so that the eye, nose, and mouth holes lined up.
Then she wiped wetness from her own cheeks.
Damn pollen.
This was the second time in the past month that he had snuck away from the assisted living facility.
No surprise; it was coming up on the third anniversary of the accident. Ivy was amazed that the man still recognized the timing of the traumatic incident that had taken everything from him—fromthem.
Even though he couldn’t speak.
Could no longer add two and two together.
The timing couldn’t be worse. His primary nurse—no, not nurse; they were called resident care aides—had already warned Ivy that the home was frustrated with her father, and thought his little outings had the potential to be problematic with their insurance policy.
More like problematic with their bottom line.
And with Ivy’s lack of progress at work and her failings in getting through to her students, the idea of looking after him full-time was something she couldn’t even fathom.
Ivy straightened and wrapped an arm around his waist.
“Come on then, let’s get you back.”
She helped him to his feet, only later noticing that the flower he’d been holding had fallen to the ground. ?
The stalk was broken.
?Chapter 5
