Patchwork to Healing, page 11
“Won’t that be marvelous!” Jillian chimed in, oblivious to Mrs. Bennington’s condescension. “I’m guessing by you saying ‘we,’ that you’re referring to you and Rebecca Mills?”
“Indeed.” Ben reached into his pocket and handed Jillian the couple of dollars that she’d returned to him. “Please use this for my payment. Since Mrs. Bennington here has such a generous heart, maybe she could use her kind gesture toward your tip, or for those less fortunate.” He nodded, then turned toward Mrs. Bennington. “Maybe you could even spread your generosity for the needs of kids in the foster program, since it obviously means so much to you.”
Her jaw dropped, and for the first time since she’d introduced herself, she was speechless.
“Good day.” He picked up his belongings and left Mrs. Bennington to sputter in his wake.
Chapter 15
Rebecca lay in bed as the sun climbed. She continued tossing ideas around about Mrs. Getchel’s bequeathed wishes and the inspiration from the wee hour’s dream-filled sleep. She concluded it didn’t really matter if she did the project alone; if she didn’t try, she’d beat herself up, and she’d already done far too much of that in her life.
Rebecca threw off the covers and scampered to the shower, shivering along the way. She clasped her hands close to her chest and teetered back and forth, trying to stay warm while she waited for the water to get hot and regretted not grabbing her robe from the foot of her bed. She was getting colder by the second.
Rebecca darted back to her room to retrieve the robe, but before she could put it on, she slammed her pinky toe into the bathroom’s doorjamb, sending excruciating pain through her foot. The pain was so intense that she thought she’d vomit. She dropped the robe in the hallway and crouched against the bathroom wall as her eyes filling up, fighting the urge to hurl.
Rebecca hobbled to her feet and managed to knock her full water glass off the bathroom counter, smashing it to pieces across the tiled floor. She stood leaning against the sink, her pain and frustration bubbled up. She threw her toothbrush, toothpaste, and any other random items sitting on her counter, then burst into tears. “Today was supposed to be a good day!”
She took a frustrated step toward the shower and with that step, pain took her breath and her feet out from under her.
“I hate my life!” she yelled, and continued to wail like a child that didn’t want to get a shot.
“Oh my God, Ben!” Shear panic flew through her body. She instantaneously coiled at the idea of him seeing her naked, let alone in the situation she was in. “What are you doing here?”
“I knocked,” he stuttered, “I heard—”
“Get out!”
While she lurched for a towel, she slipped again, landed palm down, and slid on the shards of glass. She was absolutely mortified. There she lay, splayed naked on the bathroom floor, with a broken toe that stuck out at an unimaginable angle, a bloodied hand, a runny nose, and was now ugly crying.
Rebecca closed her eyes, as if it would make her humiliation go away. I give up. I’m done. She had no more fight. Rebecca slumped in defeat and shivered while gasping for air between jagged cries. She no longer cared at this point that he’d seen her scarred body or what he’d think of them. Her dignity was in tatters. She brought herself to a sitting position on the floor, and shot him a defiant look. Go ahead and judge me.
Ben didn’t say a word. He simply took hold of the towel and placed it over her body. Then he grabbed the hand towel hanging on a ring, dampened it, then searched for glass chards in her palm before wrapping the towel around her hand.
Rebecca’s breathing calmed, and her initial self-pity and frustration lessened. She was in too much pain and too tired to fight. She ran her fingers through her hair to get it out of her face, then pulled a wad of toilet paper off the roll and gave her nose a blow. Rebecca didn’t hesitate when Ben reached his hand out to retrieve it. She handed it over and he dropped it in the wastebasket.
“Thank you,” was all Rebecca could whisper.
“What else can I get you, Becky?” Ben asked, squatting so near to her, she could feel the warmth of his breath against her cheek.
“I don’t know—I…”
“How about we get you cleaned up?” He reached down and placed his arms underneath her armpits and hoisted her up as though she weighed nothing at all.
Rebecca was breathless in his arms as his eyes surveyed hers. It was as if time and space momentarily disappeared as his muscular arms held her in his grasp. In a nanosecond, she was brought back to the here and now when he stood her on the floor, safely away from the broken glass. Pain shot through her foot at putting weight on her toe. She jerked her foot up and grimaced. Ben tightened his grip on her and guided her to the side of the tub to have a seat. “Did you step on the glass?”
“No, I—think I broke my toe.” Rebecca stuck out her foot and the grotesque pinky toe jutted out toward the side of her foot.
“Yep, I’d say you did,” he said, light heartedly. “I’m going to run the tub and help you in. You can pull the shower curtain closed so you can have some privacy, and I’ll take care of the clean-up. Would that be okay with you?”
“Yes—no! I don’t know.”
“Becky, please let me help you.”
His low voice was calming and without judgment. There were no words that she could convey what she was feeling at that moment. He was being anything but selfish and witnessing him in this light was eye opening. The compassion he showed moved her. There wasn’t any teasing or condemnation.
“Okay,” Rebecca said shyly and trembled as he removed the towel from her hand to examine her wounds.
“Nothing too deep—that’s good. I was afraid you might need some stitches. If you can stand it, put it in the water. I’ll do a proper cleaning after you get out, and see if I can set your toe.”
She complied by turning her body to face the tub. The steam rolled as the water filled the tub, and he eased her in, then he pulled the curtain closed.
“Where do you keep your cleaning supplies, Becky?”
“No—I mean—thank you, but absolutely not. You’ve done way too much already and—I—I can—”
“I’ve got it, just relax.” Between the care he gave her, the warmth of the tub, the lack of sleep the night before, her toe and hand hurting, and the fact Benjamin Daly was about to clean up her bathroom, she resigned herself to comply to his request.
“Fine. You win,” she said as she rolled her eyes. This can’t be happening.
She told Ben where everything was, including her first-aid kit, and he went to work while she soaked. Perhaps it was sitting in the tub and the talk of bandages that got her mind wandering. With her eyes closed, her memory rushed in again, bringing her to her first foster care home after leaving the burn unit at the hospital. Her upper body was wrapped in heavy bandages that covered her skin grafts. She could smell the medicinal ointment, bandages, and healing flesh as if it were yesterday, but it was the voice that haunted her most.
Mother Roseline was the name she had to call her. The shrill of her voice was worse than nails on a chalkboard, and her hands were boney and harsh. She was a pincher; the kind of pincher that would take hold of the tender parts of her flesh, squeeze, and twist.
While Rebecca took a bath, Mother Roseline hurt her. Rebecca had tried very hard to keep her bandages dry, but the water was deep, and she was used to receiving sponge baths in the hospital. In the blink of an eye, her arm had slipped off the edge of the tub and landed into the tub with a splash. She jerked it out, but not fast enough.
Mother Roseline screeched at her, telling her she was nothing but trouble, and that she’d pay for adding work. Mother Roseline would have to remove the bandage, reapply the ointment, and rebandage her arm, just because Rebecca stupidly couldn’t keep her arm out of the damn water. All the while, she’d pinch and twist the remaining healthy skin on her other arm, her back, and the inside of her thigh. Terror coursed through her as she tried to escape the pain being inflicted on her. More and more bandages got wet. The shrilling hatred continued spewing.
Ben’s deep, calming voice broke the reliving of her mind. “How ya doing in there? Everything okay?”
She took a couple of breaths before responding, and wiped the tears spilling down her cheeks. “Yep, I’m alright, but I’m ready to get out. Now.”
In fact, at this point, Rebecca couldn’t get out of the tub fast enough. Thinking now, the last time she’d actually soaked in a tub was in the presence of Mother Roseline. The urgency to get out swelled. Her heart raced, and her breathing shallowed and quickened. She needed air and needed it now. Rebecca tore open the shower curtain to allow the heat to escape into the rest of the room, then tried scrambling out.
“Whoah there, Beck.” Ben knelt, then he cupped her cheeks, bringing them face to face. “It’s okay, Becky—I’m right here—you’re okay.”
Seeing the expression on Ben’s face as her panic seared through her, she thought she must appear crazy. His gaze peered into her depths. His jaw was tight, and yet his touch was tender, as was his voice. Before she knew it, she was breathing again, and he was carrying her towel-wrapped body across the hallway to her bedroom.
Ben set her down on the side of the bed, then retrieved her bathrobe from the hallway floor. As she removed the towel, he placed the robe over her shoulders, then he wrapped it around her and tied the belt.
“I’ll be right back,” he said, heading out of the room toward the bathroom.
Rebecca gathered her robe in her fist, as if it would keep her from losing control. It did help her feel grounded. I’m okay, I’m okay.
Ben returned with the first-aid kit and removed some tape, gauze, a tiny pair of scissors. “I’m going to set your toe, and it’s going to hurt, but I’ll be quick.”
Panic once again speared Rebecca’s chest, and she clawed at her robe. The smell of the medical tape, and seeing gauze and scissors, instantly brought her back to the burn unit. She coiled at the memory of them cutting off her dead skin, piece by piece, then re-wrapping her wounds. She breathed a slow breath in and let it out as she clung to her robe. I’m okay, I’m okay.
Ben rested his hands on hers until she no longer needed to cling to a false security.
“Trust me?” Ben asked, making eye contact.
“Yes,” she said, but she wasn’t so sure she believed her answer.
“Once it’s set, I promise you’ll feel a lot better. On the count of three, okay?”
Rebecca braced herself and counted along with Ben.
“One, two,” Crack went the toe, as fast as a lightning strike. A rush of nausea reached her throat, then subsided.
“What happened to three? You tricked me!”
“It was easier for you that way,” he said as he cut a piece of the gauze.
“How do you know how to do all this stuff?” Rebecca stuck out her foot to look at her toe. It was already black and blue and still stuck out a little, but felt better.
“In the Navy.” He threaded the gauze between her pinky toe and its neighbor, then tethered the two toes together. “Sometimes with search and rescue, we’d find people who were hurt.” He ripped off a piece of tape and secured the gauze.
“So, I’m guessing setting a pinky toe is like nothing for you, then.” She could feel her face and neck warm with embarrassment at the silliness of the situation, especially after she imagined he’d seen worse cases than hers in his profession.
“You hurt your hand too, don’t forget.” He retrieved a tube of bacitracin ointment out of the kit.
She examined her hand as if it belonged to someone else, then took notice of her now bloodied bathrobe. Through her panic attack, she’d forgotten all about her cuts.
“Let’s fix that up.” His bright smile pleaded with her as he held the opened ointment in one hand and its cap in the other.
“Sounds like a plan.”
He went to task, and the urge to explain herself was ever-present, but she couldn’t explain her overreaction to herself, let alone to Benjamin Daly, so she let it go. She figured he’d have questions, anyway. By the time he asked, she’d hoped to have a logical answer.
“Have you had breakfast yet?” Ben asked as he applied the last piece of tape.
“No. I’m not really hungry.”
“You should eat. How about I scramble a few eggs—that is if you have any? If not, I can—”
“Yes,” she said with resignation. “I have eggs, some leftover fried potatoes from yesterday, beans, and bread for toast.” She didn’t want to argue about eating, and the fact her head was pounding, made her think he was probably right. “I have so much food from Mrs. Getchel’s fridge and cabinets that I should be able to eat for the rest of the month before having to think of shopping. I have orange juice too.”
“Perfect.” His smile was broad and delicious against his tanned skin. Rebecca thought he was all she’d need to fulfill her appetite. “Let’s see if you can put some weight on that foot.” He helped her up as she steadied her stance.
“It feels pretty good, actually.” She was impressed. He was good looking, smart, and had a wonderful bedside manner to boot. She took a few tentative steps and felt comfortable to move about. Her toe was definitely tender, but the pain was tolerable. “Tell you what. Why don’t you get started in the kitchen, and I’ll get dressed?”
“Sounds like a great plan to me. See you in the kitchen.” He turned and left the room, whistling a cheerful tune.
Rebecca removed her robe, and for the first time in a long time, stood naked before the full-length mirror. Her hand trembled as she ran it over her bumpy, scarred flesh. She could barely feel her touch as her hand caressed her once-scorched skin, but the memory of its pain still lingered on. This is what he saw. She was neither sad nor embarrassed, as she peered more intently into the mirror. She just felt ugly, and it surprised her that Ben hadn’t appeared repulsed by her as others had been in the past. Perhaps he was, she thought, but covered it well. As he’d said, he’d seen a lot. She closed her eyes and turned away from the mirror.
Rebecca put on a pale blue tunic blouse, then, being careful of her toe, worked a pair of leggings up her legs, as best she could, with her bandaged hand. She retrieved a paisley-printed scarf out of her drawer and carefully wound it around her neck just so, then went back to the mirror to inspect her handiwork. Much better, she thought, then gingerly made her way to the kitchen.
The smell of bacon beckoned her. She held back short of the kitchen to take in his strong stature. He moved with ease about the kitchen, whistling as he worked. He took hold of the frying pan’s handle and lifted the pan waist high, quickly shifted it back and forth, then flipped four fried eggs into the air. She held her breath until they landed safely back in the pan.
“I’m impressed!” She limped to the table to take a seat. “Let me guess—the Navy?”
“Nope. Just a way to keep myself entertained.” He grinned.
He separated the eggs in half, and slid them onto her plate, added the bacon, a couple spoonfuls of reheated potatoes, and placed the plate of toast and butter before her. “I’ll have you do the honors of buttering. Do you want jam?”
“No—I’m good, but thanks.” She held the now-buttered toast with her non-bandaged hand. Again, he went back to whistling his tune while he poured juice.
“Ben, you never told me why you’re here, and how do you even know where I live?”
“Ah, that, I almost forgot about that.” He ground pepper onto his eggs. “How did I know? Small towns, but why I’m here, isn’t important right now. You look like you’re feeling better.”
“Seriously? Yes, I’m feeling better.” She didn’t know if he was referring to her physical or mental health, but either way, he was avoiding the question. “Why are you here, Benjamin?”
“Okay. There’s good news and bad news. I didn’t want to tell you bad news because—well, you’ve already had enough bad for one day.”
“Ben, honestly, my restraint from wanting to punch you is wearing thin.”
“I ran into a lady at Grounds. Her name was Bennington—Margo, I think. She’s a real peach,” he said with a sarcastic tone and a roll of his eyes.
“Oh?”
“She might be an issue for us and the project.”
“I see.” A prickly feeling ran down her spine. “That woman is insufferable.”
“Yep.” He leaned in and glanced down at her plate. “How are your eggs? I took a guess at over medium. Am I right?” His cavalier question and avoidance were purely for his own entertainment. She wanted to throw her plate at him, but he’d said, us, which wasn’t a term he’d ever used before, so she indulged his antics.
“Fine. You don’t want to answer. Honestly, I don’t really care what that woman thinks or does. I’ve had worse people in my life than the likes of her.” She said it emphatically, but she hated to think what Mrs. Bennington would do.
“Cool.” He nodded, then took a bite of his toast. He wore a glimmer in his eyes and a mischievous grin. “You didn’t tell me if you like your eggs.”
“None of your dang business,” she said, then put a fork full in her mouth and gave him a smirk. She’d be darned if she’d ask him what the good news is.
“I was just wondering, because I figured, if I’m going to be sticking around a while, it would be good to know how you like your eggs.”
She swallowed her mouthful and her mind reeled with his surprising news. He’s staying—a while. She took a gulp of juice to hide her wary excitement. A while is a good start. I can work with that.
“Over medium works for me, but I prefer my bacon crispy,” she said nonchalantly, as her insides burst with joy.
