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Dry Bandages
by Linda Rosen Kiss me,” she said, her voice just above a whisper. The white bandage covering her chin prevented her lips from opening wide. “Please, Stan. Kiss me.” This time the decibel a bit higher. Stan’s dark brown eyes cut from the novel on his lap to his wife lying in the narrow hospital bed. Sterile white blankets covered her petite frame. He stood and leaned over the bars that prevented her from falling out. The odor of Lysol mixed with dried blood infused the air. With eyes focused on the opposite wall, he kissed the top of her head. Just a peck, just enough to feel the brush of her red hair against his lips. Diane sighed. Stan lowered himself onto the metal folding chair. He pulled it closer to the bed. “Is the pain really bad today?” He slipped his hand under the bars. His strong fingers clasped her long tapered ones, the mauve nail polish intact. The accident hadn’t touched her piano playing hands. “No. It’s not that kind of pain.” “I don’t understand.” Diane let out a long, slow breath. “Why won’t you look at me?” “I do, honey.” “No, you don’t.” Her words barely touched the air. She struggled for volume. “ You read your book, check your email, you talk to me, but you never look at me.” She shook her head. “Like now, you’re looking at my lap.” Diane unclasped her fingers from her husband’s and lay back against the pillows. She closed her eyes and remembered the warmth of his lips on her neck when he’d come up behind her sitting at the kitchen table reading the Sunday paper. His kiss seeped deep into her skin, as delicious as Belgian chocolate. She thought about the moments, early in the morning, when her hair was mussed, her face naked, not a trace of makeup, as she padded through the house in sweat socks and an old pair of shrunken sweatpants. Stan would press a kiss to her cheek and say, “You’re beautiful.” Diane tapped the corner of her eye where another bandage began and ran her index finger in a diagonal down her cheek to her earlobe where diamond studs sat until three days ago when a nurse removed them before surgery. She touched her chin, then her nose and felt the packing around the bridge and nostrils. Her fingers found stitches in her forehead. She counted twelve and swallowed a tear. “Don’t cry, Di. Please, don’t cry. The bandages have to stay dry.” The door opened. Stan looked up, nodded to his brother dressed in green scrubs with a stethoscope around his neck. Josh’s grin brightened the room. He looked directly at his patient. “How’re we doing today, beautiful?” He read the chart clipped to the foot of the bed. “Looks like you had a good night.” He gave her blanket covered foot a gentle squeeze and walked to the head of the bed, bent down and kissed her cheek. The rough bandage touched his lips. Diane smiled at her brother-in-law, her cheeks pulling against the stitches. She glanced at her husband worrying his fingers in his lap and her face fell. She lay back against the pillows, pulled her lips tight together. Her breath came fast, but she wouldn’t cry. The bandages had to stay dry. |
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