Page 8 of The Candle Palace (Jamison Valley 6)
He had kind eyes.
My face burned hot at the realization I was staring—at a patient.
I blinked, dropping my chin. Then I focused on my hands and the package of gauze. Carefully, with as gentle a touch as I could manage, I began to remove the bandages on his arm. “I’m sorry. This might hurt as I change your dressings.”
Milo moaned, the sound forcing my eyes up. He blinked once, then twice. The focus he’d had just seconds ago disappeared and his eyes clouded over again. This time, the haze was not from sleep or sedatives, but from pain.
Whatever thoughts I’d had seconds ago about Milo’s handsome face were gone, blasted from the room by Milo’s piercing roar of agony.
It’s bad before it gets better.
Milo’s bad was going to be the worst.
Two
“I liked that guy better when he was unconscious,” the cafeteria aide muttered. He’d just delivered the cart of meals for the unit, taking patient lunch trays into each room.
I’d heard Milo’s bark about not being hungry all the way from the nurses station. Then came the crash and the unmistakable sound of metal utensils clanging on the floor.
I reached the doorway just as the aide was making his escape. He had splatters of lasagna and pudding on his scrubs.
“Sorry,” I told him. “He’s in extreme pain.”
The aide frowned. “That’s still no reason to kick a perfectly good meal to the floor.”
“I’ll clean it up.” I edged around him for the door. “Sorry.”
I wasn’t sure why I was apologizing on Milo’s behalf. The man had been terrible to everyone since he’d woken up yesterday morning. I would have written him off as a jerk except his muttered curses and angry glares were never aimed my way. Mostly, he refused to look at me when I was in the room. His eyes were almost always closed. But when our gazes met for just a few short seconds, his was always full of remorse. My gut told me the Milo who was quick to snap at his parents and bark at Dr. Vernon wasn’t the real Milo.
The real Milo was somewhere hidden beneath the intense pain and frustration.
As the cafeteria aide walked down the hallway, pushing his empty cart, I went to the supply closet for a stack of towels. Before going into Milo’s room, I took a fortifying breath, then rapped on the door—still ajar—and pushed inside.
“Milo, you have to eat,” his mother said, standing at the foot of his bed.
“I’m not fucking hungry.”
“Please.” Her shoulders fell, but when she caught me from the corner of her eye, they snapped straight. “Oh, hi, Sara. I’m so sorry about this. I’ll get it cleaned up.”
She was a flurry of movement, spinning in a circle as she tried to decide what to pick up first. The spoon. The carton of milk. The overturned plate. The streak of chocolate pudding on the wall. Her brown hair was pulled back, giving me a good view of the tears she was trying to hide.
I set my towels down. “Mrs. Phillips, may I have a word in the hall?”
Her eyes got wider. Maybe she was expecting me to say Milo was getting kicked out, but she nodded and followed me outside. I pulled the door partly closed as she wrapped her arms around her stomach.
“I’m so sorry, Sara. He’s not like this. He’s such a sweet and caring man. I don’t—”
“It’s okay. Really.”
“I don’t want you to think he’s a bad person.”
I gave her a reassuring smile. “I don’t. People aren’t themselves when they’re hurting this much.”
“I’ve never seen him like this,” she whispered, her voice shaking. There was fear in her eyes. Fear for her son’s pain. Fear that he might not recover and return to the son she knew.
“It’s bad before it gets better,” I promised. “But it will get better.”
She nodded, her eyes unfocused and full of tears. “I hate this. I feel helpless.”
