My psychological wounds are deep. I don’t expect anyone else to understand them. No one who hasn’t experienced all the loss I have could know, but I have PTSD when it comes to firefighting. I sometimes still jump when I hear a siren. I still have nightmares. When Evan died, I felt like a fiery hand reached inside me and gripped my heart until it burned through. Melodramatic? Maybe from an outsider’s view. But for me, it’s real.
The elevator doors open to another aspect of my new reality: hospitals. Lots and lots of time in hospitals. It’s a good wake-up call for me to focus on what’s really important—my mom.
The floor is quiet, with two people behind the desks at the nurses’ station. When I stop there, one looks up. She’s in her midfifties with a lot of laugh lines and a warm smile.
“Hi,” I say. “I know I’m way too early for visiting hours, but I was hoping to just sit by—” Grief cuts through my chest. I clear my throat. “Sit by my mom’s bed. Betsy Cliff.”
“Oh, she’ll be so glad to see you.” The woman stands and comes around the counter. “She is such a sweet soul.”
My spirits lift as I follow the nurse down the hall. “She’s awake?”
“She is. The doctor made rounds early this morning, and since she was awake, he decided it was time for extubation.”
Relief swamps my chest. When I turn into the room, I find Mom propped up in her bed, watching TV.
“Look who’s here,” the nurse says.
Mom rolls her head toward us and smiles, but it’s exhausted and pained. “Hi, sweetheart.”
Love floods my heart. I move to the bed, give her left forearm a squeeze, and kiss her cheek. “Hi. You look so good.”
“How’s your pain, Betsy?” the nurse asks.
My mom holds up a push-button device that fits in her hand. “Just don’t take this away, and I’ll manage.”
“It’s all yours. I’ve got some Jell-O coming up for you soon.”
“I love Jell-O.”
“Then you’re going to love it here. Enjoy your visit.”
I stand beside her bed, forcing out the words that have been haunting me. “I’m so sorry I was late getting to the café. If I’d been on time—”
My throat strangles the rest of the words.
“Nonsense,” she says. “It didn’t have anything to do with you.”
“What happened?”
She’s still looking at me, but I can see her mind drift. “I honestly don’t know. I can’t remember.”
I nod and let it go. I don’t want to remember the incident either. “Well, Cole told me they classified it as an accident, so there shouldn’t be any issues with the insurance.”
“That’s such good news.”
I’m so relieved to have her back with me. “You scared the shit out of me, Mom.”
“I scared the shit out of myself too,” she says with a thin laugh.
I let my gaze travel up her bandaged right arm. “How are you feeling?”
“I’ve been better,” she says, glancing at the pain management system in her hand. “But this is helping. I’ll be fine, sweetheart, try not to worry.”
I’m struck by how close I came to losing her. On fire one day, smiling the next.
“The miracles of modern medicine,” I say. “Have you had a chance to talk with your doctor?”
“A little. He’s a very good-looking young man who came by after the nurses took the tube out of my throat. He said he knew you.”
Must be Davenport. “Did you two talk about your burns and what’s going to happen?”
“Just a bit.” Her eyes glimmer with tears. “I’ve made a real mess of things, haven’t I?”
“It was an accident.”
“One that’s going to be rough on both of us. I’m so sorry about the kitchen, honey.”
“It’ll be okay.”
“But where will you bake for your customers?”
“I’m using my kitchen for now.”
“Oh, honey. It’s the size of a postage stamp.”
“I have your kitchen too.”
“Whoopee, two postage stamps,” she says, her lids drooping. “And all that running around?”
“I’ll figure it out. I don’t want you worrying about that. I’ve talked to the managers at the restaurants I supply, and they all send their best wishes for a quick recovery.”
I skip the part about them telling me they’ll need to get another supplier if I can’t deliver regularly.
“Our kitchens combined will get me pretty far,” I lie. “No big jobs right now, but that’s okay, I don’t have time for that. I want to be with you. It will all be fine.”
“Fine, fine, it’ll all be fine,” Mom parrots. “I don’t think you have a negative bone in your body.”
Oh, I have at least one, and it’s telling me to be truly fine, I need multiple ovens, tons of counter space, bulk supplies, room to work, and time. A hell of a lot of time.
The café and my mother weren’t the only things that went up in smoke yesterday. My hopes of expanding my side hustle into a full-fledged business also burned, killing any plan of creating an income I could live on outside the café.
“I’ll figure it out as I go.” I move a chair beside her bed and sit. “Right now, the most important thing is to get you healed.”
“Is Evan working?” Mom’s question twists the knife in my heart. “He was so amazing yesterday.”
“You mean Cole,” I correct gently.
Her gaze goes distant again and worry creases her brow, so I let it go.
“I’ve had so many people call,” I tell her. “Everyone is worried about you. Jud Timber offered construction supplies at cost to rebuild. Helen and Vicky offered to take care of the house until you’re able to do it on your own, and they said they’d be happy to hang with you when I’m gone to keep you company. My fridge is overflowing with meals ready to cook. You have so many people who love you.”
“That’s sweet. What’s going to happen with your customers?” she says, as if she didn’t hear any of what I just said. “Everything is falling apart. And it’s not just my life, it’s yours. Without the café, without the use of my arm…”
I reach over and touch her cheek. “Shh. Nothing matters but the fact that you’re alive. That you’ll heal. It’s all going to be okay. One step at a time, Mom. The insurance adjuster will be here in a week or so, and I’ll get a lot of answers about the café then. And the doctor who did your procedure says that with time and physical therapy, you’ll regain the use of your arm. Heck, you might end up ambidextrous. Imagine how much you could get done with two dominant hands.”
That makes Mom laugh, and the sight of her smile, even for just a second, lightens my heart.
“Rest, now,” I tell her. “I’ll be right here.”
Her lids drop the rest of the way, and I relax into the chair, my hand still in hers. My heart is heavy with all the challenges ahead, but also flooded with gratitude that I still have her.