Chapter 4

Jory

“I wasn’tsure what to say, Desi,” I tell her after chewing a piece of meatloaf. “I mean, I’ve wondered about him for years, of course, but I can’t believe he asked me out!”

His deep, reassuring voice is what got me through countless wound care treatments, where damaged skin was excised, and the burned areas were debrided so that they could apply grafts to my legs. Despite the extreme pain that had tears pooling in my eyes and pouring down my face even though they were pumping me full of heavy-duty drugs, all I had to do was think of being carried away in his strong, capable arms, and I was able to zone out.

He has no idea that even though I was mostly unconscious while he maneuvered us out of the school, that brief connection became my saving grace. I don’t know what the future holds whatsoever, but a small part of me hopes he’s involved. Because anyone who could make that kind of impression during such a difficult time is special. At least to me.

“Why not?” Desi asks. “You’re beautiful, single, gainfully employed, and again, you’re beautiful,” she replies.

“You said beautiful twice,” I tease.

Before the fire, I had plenty of self-confidence. I knew I was pretty, not a raving beauty or anything, but pretty enough to turn heads. Afterward? Not so much. From about mid-thigh down, my legs are like a patched quilt, pieced back together with countless skin grafts. The plastic surgeons did what they could, of course, but I feel like I look like a freak. I seldom wear shorts or bathing suits, unless I’m without prying at Desi’s house, since she has a pool in her backyard. But I haven’t gone to a beach since the fire, too afraid of the looks I’d get from others.

“Because it bears repeating,” she retorts.

“Des, I’m beautiful according to you at least, until I take my pants off, remember?”

“Jor, the man’s a fireman who rescued you from a freaking fire! He knows you got injured, sweetie. And again, because of what he does for a living, I’m sure he’s seen healed burns before.”

My head drops and I whisper, “But they’re so ugly, Desi.”

“Do you know what I see when you wear shorts or a bathing suit?” she questions. “I see a warrior, a survivor. Jor, there are a lot of people who wouldn’t have survived what you did, my friend. Yet, you overcame every obstacle, every infection, every hurdle that should have laid you low. You did it, not me, not the doctors, not the countless other medical professionals who took care of you. You, Jory. You have an indomitable spirit that burns inside of you. What should have killed you has only made you stronger, my friend.”

“She’s right,” Mr. Grey says, adding his thoughts to our conversation. He walks into the breakroom. “Don’t mean to interrupt you two, but I heard what Desi said, Jory, and she’s speaking the truth. You were covered in prayers, countless prayers, not only in Possum Run, but across the country. You’re one of the strongest people I know. Why do you think I hired you?”

My emotions are so high right now, I can’t help the tears that are steadily flowing down my face at Desi’s words. And of course, Mr. Grey’s. “Um, because I applied for the job?”

He starts laughing, shaking his head. “Jory, the two of you were at the top of your class. But that’s not why I hired you. No, I knew that anyone who had gone through what you did would have the compassion needed to take care of the clients we serve. Your kindness is something they crave during the worst time of their lives. Sure, I could’ve hired two people who knew the job, but I’ve always prided myself on the fact that anyone who works here is able to step up and care for those who come through those front doors. Whether they’re in a body bag or walking on two feet.”

The lump in my throat is so big that I can’t seem to swallow around it and speak. All I can do is nod because he’s right. Each person who is on my table is treated as though they are a member of my family. I’m conscientious of the fact that what I do is how their loved ones will see them for the very last time, and I do what I can to ensure that the client looks his or her very best. And while we don’t typically deal with the families like Mr. Grey does, there have been a few times when either me or Desi has stepped in during the viewing or funeral to assist, especially if there are large crowds. Since we’re both lifelong residents of Possum Run, it’s seldom that we don’t know the deceased, and are often able to share stories with them.

“You’re right,” I whisper. “Because when they come into these doors, no matter how that happens, they’re family.”

“And that’s why I hired both of you,” Mr. Grey states. “Now, if y’all are done here, we have some bulletins that need to be folded.”

Grinning, Desi stands and gathers our trash before we follow him to the office. Time to get back to work.

* * *

The silence in my small loft apartment is deafening, and once again, I think about getting a kitten or two to fill the quietness of my home. Something to break up the monotony that is my life. As I change into my yoga clothes and grab my mat, I cue up my playlist. Once my water bottle is refilled, I begin my warmup stretches. One of the things the doctors said was that something like yoga or Pilates would help keep my skin limber. I also have a skincare routine that I faithfully follow to ensure I’m doing everything I can to take care of what I was given. A second chance at life.

“Not like this is easy,” I grumble as I transition into the downward dog pose.

I hold each position as long as possible, moving seamlessly from pose to pose. By the time I’m done, I’m drenched in sweat, but the stress I didn’t know I was feeling from what I had to do earlier in the day has eased. Gulping down my water, I mentally think about what I have in the fridge to cook for dinner. Because it’s a bit challenging to cook for one person, I typically spend Sundays preparing several meals that I either divvy up for the week, or freeze for another one. It all depends on what I make. I still eat a lot of protein, since it was a mainstay for me while I was healing. I change my playlist to some easy listening, get up and put my mat away so I can take a shower and get into some comfy night clothes before I worry about heating up something to eat.

Standing underneath the warm water, I groan as the spray sluices across my body. There are still areas, even all these years later, that are numb while others are sensitive. The doctor”s explanation was that the spots that are numb are because of the layer of skin damaged. Since biology wasn’t my strong point in school, I don’t worry about it any longer. Pushing my thoughts aside, I finish my shower, then spend the next twenty or so minutes going through the painstaking, but necessary, aftercare process. Gently patting my wrecked skin dry, I put on the lotion, rubbing it in as carefully as possible. It’s a pain in the ass, but I don’t want to screw things up at this point. I mean, it’s fully healed, of course, but using the lotion means I keep the skin supple.

As I continue my ministrations, my mind wanders back to when I was in rehab right before I was discharged.

“Now, for the first few weeks, you’re going to need to be extremely careful, Jory,” the nurse advised. “Here’s the soap the doctor wants you to use. You’ll follow it up with a layer of the antibiotic ointment, then recover the surgical sites with this bandaging.”

I nodded to show I understood, even though I was still in a great deal of pain from the surgery itself. My mom stepped in and asked, “Will we get some written instructions as well? I don’t want to forget anything, and want to make sure we’re doing everything we’re supposed to do.”

“Will I… will I have to have any more debridement treatments?” I questioned. Out of everything that had been done to me since I arrived at the hospital, that was the absolute worst part.

“No, Jory, no more treatments,” the nurse stated. “Now, you’ll follow up with the surgeon next week and he’ll probably unwrap everything so he can see how it’s all healing, but either he or his staff will do what I’m doing right now. They may administer a topical painkiller, or it may be orally, I’m not really sure.”

I laughed, and even though it sounded a bit bitter, when my mom and the nurse looked at me, I merely shrugged. “I didn’t like it when they debrided the wounds,” I admitted. “It didn’t matter what they gave me for the pain, I still felt every single scrape of the curette thingie they used.”

I saw my mom’s eyes fill with tears while the nurse’s expression was one of compassion and understanding.

“Having had some experience with that very thing, I can only agree with you,” the nurse advised. At my look, she pushed her sleeve up and I saw the evidence of a prior injury that caused burns, as well as the unmistakable markings of skin grafts.

“Is that why you went into nursing?” I asked.

My nurse smiled and nodded. “I had always been interested in the medical field, but when this happened to me when I was ten, I wanted to take care of people the way my nurses took care of me.”

“But not a doctor?” my mom queried.

“Oh, I had good doctors for sure,” the nurse admitted, “but it was the nurses who did whatever they could to help ease the pain and fear of a little girl that captured my attention.”

Snapping out of my thoughts, I finish up my routine, slip into a camisole and pair of sleep pants, then head into my kitchen with my laundry basket so I can get some laundry knocked out. As my dinner warms, I think about running into the fireman… no, Bryson, and I smile. While I’m terrified that the feelings I have may be misplaced, as well as the fact I obviously can’t be trusted to choose a good guy, somehow, I think my life may be changing for the better.