then." Even when the scabs were gone— euuu , scabs, how lovely—there would be pale pink marks left on my skin.
"You'll need long sleeves or some kind of wrap anyway, since it'll be October."
North Carolina
weather in October is usually wonderful, but it can turn chilly in a heartbeat. She examined my face with narrowed eyes. "I think your face will be fine by then, it isn't scraped much at all. If it isn't, that's what makeup is for."
I hadn't yet seen a mirror to assess the damage for myself, so I asked, "What about my hair? How does it look?"
"Pretty bad, right now," Siana answered. "I brought shampoo and a blow dryer."
I adore her. She has my priorities straight.
Mom assessed the stitches in my hairline—my former hairline—and the shaved patch. "It's manageable," she pronounced. "A change in hairstyle will cover the shaved part, which really isn't very big."
All right! Things were looking up.
A nurse about my age breezed into the room, fresh and crisp in pink scrubs, which looked great with her complexion. She was a pretty woman—very pretty, with almost classic features—but she suffered from a really bad dye job. When it comes to hair color, "bad" almost always equals "do-it-yourself." This particular dye job was a sort of flat brown, making me wonder what her real hair color was, because who colors her hair brown? My own hair crisis was making me very aware of hair, not that I'm ever really unaware, but my level of attention had been jacked up. When she smiled and came closer, placing cool fingers on my pulse, I studied her brows and lashes. No help there— her brows were brown, and her extra-long lashes were tinted with mascara. Maybe she'd gone prematurely gray. I envied the eyelashes and approved the mascara, which reminded me that my own mascara was probably giving me raccoon eyes by now.
"How are you feeling?" she asked, keeping her fingers on my pulse and her gaze on her wristwatch. She was another multitasker , counting and talking at the same time.
"Better. Plus I'm hungry."
"That's a good sign." She smiled and flicked a glance up at me. "I'll see what I can do about some food for you."
Her eyes were that great mixture of green and hazel, and I thought she must look really hot when she fixed herself up for a night on the town. She was calm and collected, but there was also a controlled spark of fire in her that made me think all the single doctors, and maybe a few of the married ones, were probably doing their best to hook up with her.
"Any idea what time the doctor makes the rounds?" I asked.
She gave me a rueful smile and shook her head. "The time varies, depending on whether or not he has any emergencies. Don't tell me you aren't happy with our hospitality?"
"You mean other than the no-food thing? And waking me up every time I doze off to make certain I'm not unconscious? And shaving my hair twenty-eight days before my wedding ? Other than that, I've had a really good time."
She laughed out loud. "Twenty-eight days, huh? I
was absolutely nuts for the last two months before my wedding. What a time to have an accident!"
Mom had retrieved my keys from my bag and waved on her way out. I waved back, then picked up the conversation. "It could be worse. I could be really hurt instead of just some scrapes and one little cut."
"The doctors must think your condition is a little worse than that, or you wouldn't be here." She sounded a little chiding, but then nurses probably ran into reluctant patients all the time—and, really, I wasn't reluctant exactly; I was just possessed of a sense of urgency. Twenty-eight days were left, and the clock was ticking.
Since presumably she'd read my chart, I didn't see the need to tell her that an overnight stay for observation didn't indicate a serious injury. Maybe she just wanted me to worry a little bit so I wouldn't bug her or the other nurses about when I was getting out. I wasn't in a bugging mood, anyway; if I hadn't had so much to do, I'd have
"You'll need long sleeves or some kind of wrap anyway, since it'll be October."
North Carolina
weather in October is usually wonderful, but it can turn chilly in a heartbeat. She examined my face with narrowed eyes. "I think your face will be fine by then, it isn't scraped much at all. If it isn't, that's what makeup is for."
I hadn't yet seen a mirror to assess the damage for myself, so I asked, "What about my hair? How does it look?"
"Pretty bad, right now," Siana answered. "I brought shampoo and a blow dryer."
I adore her. She has my priorities straight.
Mom assessed the stitches in my hairline—my former hairline—and the shaved patch. "It's manageable," she pronounced. "A change in hairstyle will cover the shaved part, which really isn't very big."
All right! Things were looking up.
A nurse about my age breezed into the room, fresh and crisp in pink scrubs, which looked great with her complexion. She was a pretty woman—very pretty, with almost classic features—but she suffered from a really bad dye job. When it comes to hair color, "bad" almost always equals "do-it-yourself." This particular dye job was a sort of flat brown, making me wonder what her real hair color was, because who colors her hair brown? My own hair crisis was making me very aware of hair, not that I'm ever really unaware, but my level of attention had been jacked up. When she smiled and came closer, placing cool fingers on my pulse, I studied her brows and lashes. No help there— her brows were brown, and her extra-long lashes were tinted with mascara. Maybe she'd gone prematurely gray. I envied the eyelashes and approved the mascara, which reminded me that my own mascara was probably giving me raccoon eyes by now.
"How are you feeling?" she asked, keeping her fingers on my pulse and her gaze on her wristwatch. She was another multitasker , counting and talking at the same time.
"Better. Plus I'm hungry."
"That's a good sign." She smiled and flicked a glance up at me. "I'll see what I can do about some food for you."
Her eyes were that great mixture of green and hazel, and I thought she must look really hot when she fixed herself up for a night on the town. She was calm and collected, but there was also a controlled spark of fire in her that made me think all the single doctors, and maybe a few of the married ones, were probably doing their best to hook up with her.
"Any idea what time the doctor makes the rounds?" I asked.
She gave me a rueful smile and shook her head. "The time varies, depending on whether or not he has any emergencies. Don't tell me you aren't happy with our hospitality?"
"You mean other than the no-food thing? And waking me up every time I doze off to make certain I'm not unconscious? And shaving my hair twenty-eight days before my wedding ? Other than that, I've had a really good time."
She laughed out loud. "Twenty-eight days, huh? I
was absolutely nuts for the last two months before my wedding. What a time to have an accident!"
Mom had retrieved my keys from my bag and waved on her way out. I waved back, then picked up the conversation. "It could be worse. I could be really hurt instead of just some scrapes and one little cut."
"The doctors must think your condition is a little worse than that, or you wouldn't be here." She sounded a little chiding, but then nurses probably ran into reluctant patients all the time—and, really, I wasn't reluctant exactly; I was just possessed of a sense of urgency. Twenty-eight days were left, and the clock was ticking.
Since presumably she'd read my chart, I didn't see the need to tell her that an overnight stay for observation didn't indicate a serious injury. Maybe she just wanted me to worry a little bit so I wouldn't bug her or the other nurses about when I was getting out. I wasn't in a bugging mood, anyway; if I hadn't had so much to do, I'd have
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