Home

He seemed to take his time, mulling over exactly what it was he wanted to say. I waited as patiently as I could, but it was difficult. A million questions raced through my mind, all of them things I’d want to know if I were him. On top of that, though, I had so many questions of my own to ask, so many things I wanted to know about him, now that we were communicating a bit better. But I knew my questions would have to wait. He’d earned the right to go first by not telling me I was a liar and a bitch and slamming down the phone.

I shifted slightly on my couch, stretching my legs out in front of me and rotating my feet. Sherman sauntered by, rubbed against my toes, and hopped up beside me. I tried to focus on him, on how soft he was, on how wet and cold his nose was as he shoved it against my skin, on how demanding he was getting in his attention-seeking head-butts to my arm, neck, and face. The silence seemed to stretch on forever, and just as I was about to ask if he was still there, Orlando finally spoke.

“This is more difficult than I thought it would be,” he said softly, his voice so smooth, his accent so strong, I had to stop myself from trembling. “I want to ask all these different things, and yet I don’t know which one to start with.”

“I would have thought you’d have narrowed it down before you brought it up,” I said, chuckling to myself. His insecurities, his open vulnerability, were endearing and I felt a warmth spreading through me, almost despite myself.

“I didn’t actually think you’d agree to answer,” he said, chuckling himself.

“You can ask me more than one thing,” I pointed out as Sherman shoved against my face, almost dislodging the phone. I pushed him down to my lap. “We’re doing this whole honesty thing now, remember?”

“Fair enough,” he said, amused.

“So ask away.” I felt very exposed, offering to let him ask me whatever he wanted. I hated talking about myself, telling anyone those little details, and most big ones, that I wanted to keep just for me. Other than Olivia, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d come even remotely close to opening up to someone. That thought made me kind of sad.

“I guess I’ll start at the beginning,” he said, sounding almost resolute. “I’m sorry, I don’t know how to say this any better, but where did your scars come from?”

I knew that would be high on his list of questions. Everyone wanted to know what had happened, but I got the feeling he wasn’t after the sordid details like most people were, more that he cared about what had caused me so much obvious pain, physically and emotionally. It was with that in mind that I was able to answer him.

“I was in a fairly serious car accident a few years ago,” I said, trying to keep my voice flat, to avoid getting upset the way I usually did when I talked or thought about the accident in detail. It had been so long since I’d had to talk about it, I wasn’t sure I could do it. “I’d been out with a couple of friends, celebrating a birthday or something like that, I can’t really remember. I’d just left them at one of their houses and was driving home when an old pick-up truck swerved over the centre line, going way too fast, and plowed right into my little car.” I stopped for breath, trying not to hear the initial crunch of metal and my own scream as I felt the truck slam into me. “I’m not sure how, and I never really asked for details, but my car caught fire, luckily not near my gas tank, but I was pinned in a small triangle between the driver’s door, the dash, and the passenger door.” My throat started to close up and I had to stop, to control my breathing.

“Peyton?” Orlando whispered after a few seconds. I squeezed my eyes shut against the tears that were now rolling freely down my face and concentrated on his voice. “You don’t have to tell me any more if you don’t want to. We can leave it at a car accident, that’s more than enough.”

Oddly enough, though it hurt me to talk about it, though it made me relive every awful second that I’d been pinned in that car, I found myself wanting to tell him. Even Olivia didn’t know all of the details, and I found that I really wanted Orlando to know everything I’d felt, everything I’d experienced. He wouldn’t pity me, he wouldn’t offer false sympathy, he’d just listen. Somehow, instinctively, I knew that.

“It’s okay,” I managed after a few seconds. I swallowed a couple times. “I want to tell you, it’s just hard to talk about, you know?”

“That’s understandable,” he said. “Take your time.”

“The guy in the truck died instantly, they told me after,” I continued, somewhat shakily. “He’d been drinking, and he was old, so his heart had stopped on impact. He didn’t feel anything.” I felt the familiar surge of bitterness rise in me and had to swallow against the bile in my throat. “I was pinned in that car for over an hour before the rescue workers showed up to get me out. I was conscious for a good deal of that time, until I passed out from smoke inhalation and pain from the fire that was burning through my seat. I’ll never forget the smell as I drifted away, how acrid, how heavy it was, how it burned my nostrils. The worst part is, I know now what that smell was, and the thought of it turns my stomach.” I had to stop again, to breathe deep and give Sherman a good squeeze.

“I wish this was easier for you,” Orlando said as I composed myself. The sound of his voice and the raw pain that was ripping through me as my memories overwhelmed me made me want someone there with me, want him there with me. Even just to hold my hand and let me see some understanding and compassion in his eyes, that would have been enough.

“The smell was my skin, Orlando,” I said, figuring this part was better said quickly and bluntly. “Have you ever smelled human skin as it burns? It’s quite possibly the most horrifying and wretched scent I’ve ever smelled. And it was worse because I knew it was my skin that was burning. I could feel the ripping pain as my flesh twisted under the fire, and the sensations made me sick. I literally vomited all over myself, I couldn’t help it. Passing out was the sweetest form of mercy at that point.”

“Oh my God,” Orlando breathed, taking it all in. I could hear the sadness in his voice, the horror. But he didn’t press me to go on, to keep spilling my guts to him, he just waited, quietly, but I knew he was still there.

“I woke up fully for the first time over a week later,” I said, sniffing away my tears. “I was wrapped in gauze and numbed from head to toe with morphine from an IV. The left side of me was bandaged more heavily than the right, and when I could focus again, I noticed that my right arm was broken, in a plaster cast, but my left side had a different type of bandage on it. It was thicker, but more pliable. My brain was so fogged up from the meds, I didn’t make the connection, I just drifted back to sleep.

“I was in and out like that for a few weeks, as the doctors did what they could for the third degree burns that covered most of my back, up over my left shoulder, and around under my chin and ear, as you saw. They told me later that I was lucky, that if the flames had spread any more, they might not have been able to contain the infection and it could have killed me.

“My arm healed fairly quickly by comparison, and before long, the only thing wrong with me was the burns. I developed asthma from the smoke inhalation, but it’s all but gone now.

“Then came the really awful part.”

“Dare I ask?” Orlando said, almost with bated breath.

I shuffled Sherman on my lap so I could get up, and began to pace as I remembered the dreadfulness of the months that followed. As bad as the accident was, and as hard as it was to talk about, the rehabilitation that followed was ten times worse. I had to really focus to keep talking.

“The first time I actually saw what the burns had done to me, they were open, oozing masses of charred skin,” I started, my voice shaking. “The sight of them actually made me sick and the nurse had to move me away from the mirror. I wasn’t usually conscious when the nurses cleaned the burns at first, so seeing them like that was a bit of a shock. The pain was kind of a distant gnawing sensation because of the morphine, but I could still feel the nurse washing me, pulling away the dead tissue, and I’ll never forget how it sounded.” I shook my head.

“After awhile, the burns started to heal, and the doctor ordered a form of physiotherapy to help me get moving again, to help the muscles in my back recover,” I went on. “But I was still stuck in the hospital, day in, day out, for fear that any exposure outside would bring back the infection they’d been battling from day one.

“So I started the physiotherapy, and it hurt unlike anything I’d felt yet. Every day the nurse took me back to my room with tears streaming down my face, and she’d inject meds into my IV to make me sleep. I was foggy most of the time because of it, but when I was doing my exercises, the pain made everything sharp and clear, and I started to fully grasp what had happened to me.”

My voice was cracking as I remembered the helplessness I’d felt, the anger, the bitterness. I went to the kitchen and grabbed a glass of water.

“Are you sure you want to tell me this,” Orlando said as I gulped greedily at the water. “We can always talk about it another day, if you want to. I can’t imagine how you felt, or how you feel now, reliving it like this, and I don’t want to put you through that.”

I smiled. “It’s okay,” I assured him, setting my glass on the counter again. “Oddly enough, it’s kind of a relief to be able to talk to someone about this. I usually keep it to myself.”

“Then I’m glad you can trust me with it,” he said, and the tenderness and concern in his voice told me I’d made the right decision. After a quiet pause, he asked, “Where were your parents for all of this?”

I sighed. That little detail made the story even more unbearable, but I pushed on anyway.

“My dad was there a grand totally of four times the entire time I was in hospital,” I said evenly. “My mom couldn’t stand the smell of the hospital, or the hardness of the visitors’ chairs, so she didn’t come that often, either. Maybe once a week, and only if I was too groggy to talk much.”

“That’s terrible!” he exclaimed quietly. He sounded disgusted again.

“My parents aren’t exactly the most caring people in the world,” I said, shrugging to myself. I’d dealt with that fact already. “The fact that they showed up at all amazed me in itself. My dad is really no better than my mom when it comes to being self-absorbed and downright nasty.”

“It’s probably not my place to say this, but I’m not really surprised you’ve kept yourself hidden for so long,” Orlando said. Thankfully, there was no pity in his voice. “With a support system like that, it’s a wonder you talk to anyone at all.”

“True enough,” I agreed, feeling a bit of a laugh rumble in my chest. The truth sucked, but when he said it, it didn’t sound so bad. “Do you mind if I stop for awhile?” I asked after a few seconds. “I’m beat after today, I’d like to take a hot bath and head to bed.”

“Not at all, Peyton,” he said, and the sound of my name from his lips sent chills through me. “Thank-you, for being so open with me tonight. In a way, I’m glad your mum did what she did today. At least now I’ll get to know you better.” He sighed. “The real you.”

“Then some good came out of her having a mouth the size of the Atlantic,” I agreed, amazed at how lighthearted the comment sounded.

“Can we talk again soon?” He didn’t press me for more, just a conversation. For that, I was grateful.

“Absolutely.”

When I hung up the phone, I went into my bedroom and flopped down on the bed again. Sherman cuddled against my side, singing his happy song, and for the first time in a long while, I felt truly at peace.