A Wedding in December_ A Novel - Anita Shreve [74]
“Sister,” Innes said. “This woman must be bathed.”
“Now, sir?”
“Yes, now,” Innes said, standing. “In hot water. And then I’ll want to remove the bandages.”
“Sir, it is two in the morning.”
“It is of no consequence to me what time it is,” Innes said.
“There is no hot water, sir.”
Louise reached out to Innes. “Don’t leave me,” she cried. Innes took one of Louise’s hands as the nursing sister began to wheel her in the direction of the bathing room. The large wooden wheels were nearly silent on the lino floor.
“Why can’t she walk?” Innes asked the sister.
“Her anklebone is broken, sir. Crushed.”
Innes bent to lift the blanket from Louise’s feet. A hastily constructed cast was on her lower right leg.
“I’ll be within earshot,” he told Louise. “Just outside the door. You’ll be able to hear me and talk to me.”
Innes watched as Louise was made to lie on a cot. With some expertise, the nursing sister removed Louise’s clothing and bathed her. Innes saw that the cast would have to be remade. He hoped the bones would not have to be reset. He did not turn away from the sight of Louise’s nakedness. The small white breasts, the taut stomach, the swollen right leg. From time to time, Louise called out to him, and Innes answered her.
“Something will have to be found to calm the woman,” he said to the nursing sister.
“There are no medicines,” the sister answered.
When Louise had been bathed and put into a hospital gown, Innes moved closer to her and took her hand. “I’m going to remove your dressings and have a look at your eyes,” he said.
“They hurt,” Louise said, but Innes noted that some of the hysteria had left her voice.
As gently as he could, and with the nursing sister standing to one side of him with a basin, Innes cradled Louise’s head and unwound the gauze. The damage was considerable. In the right eye, most of the external muscles of the ball had been severed, and it protruded from the socket. It would have to be removed. In the left eye, a laceration of substantial depth sliced across the cornea and extended into the skin beyond the eye.
“I can’t see,” Louise said.
Louise, Innes knew, would be blind for life.
Agnes, sitting against the headboard, put the notebook in her lap. It was snowing outside. Had anyone mentioned snow last night? Agnes got out of bed and padded, in stocking feet, to the window. The snow fell thickly. Four to five inches were already on the ground. How amazing! This would be a winter wedding after all.
Agnes crossed her arms over her chest. So Louise was blind. Well, it had to be that way, didn’t it? Agnes knew that she could, in less time than it took to formulate a sentence, make Louise well again, give her sight. But Agnes thought she would not. The reality of the explosion was doubtless worse than Agnes, with all her reading, had been able to imagine. Innes, for example, might easily have found Louise with the glass still protruding from her eyes. Would he then have operated on Louise?
Oddly satisfying, that: Louise blind for life.
Immensely satisfying, too, just to be able to write the story of Innes Finch. Last night, it had been all Agnes could do to stop herself from speaking certain words of another story that had squeezed themselves up inside her throat. She had mentioned Jim’s name, and that in itself had been thrilling, but it hadn’t been enough. Rewarding, though, to discover how much the others had admired their former teacher. What was it that Jerry had said? Mr. Mitchell was the man?
Yes, Agnes thought. He was the man.
Her head throbbed at one temple. If she ate, if she had coffee, her hangover might abate. She didn’t just yet want to get dressed, however, and she very much didn’t want to see the others at breakfast. Perhaps an Advil was what was needed.
Agnes rummaged through her backpack. She found the bottle of Advil at the bottom, slipped two pills onto her palm, and filled a glass of water at the bathroom sink. Two Advil and forget about it. This was the advice she gave her field hockey girls when