Vets of the Heart

by Cathy Woodman

  ‘Are you sure?’ I ask her.

  She shows me the wound in a mirror – it’s hideous, slightly less angry than before but still a major blemish at the side of my mouth. I touch it, rub at it and start to cry, because it’s obvious that nothing I do is going to make any difference.

  ‘I would avoid contact with the wound for now to encourage healing.’ Nicci hands me a tissue to wipe my tears.

  ‘Please will you cover it up again?’ I say quickly, because I can’t bear the thought of anyone seeing me like this – not my mum, because she’ll be devastated and I hate seeing her upset, not my friends and colleagues, and least of all Ross. How will he deal with seeing me like this? I look terrible and I don’t feel like the same person. In fact, I feel numb with grief.

  ‘What about going back to work?’ I say hoarsely.

  ‘I’d like to sign you off for another week to ten days. There’s still a tiny risk of infection and you need time to readjust. I assume that part of your role is dealing with large dogs . . .’ Nicci leaves that statement hanging, letting me think it through to its conclusion. Will I be able to cope, given my fragile state of mind?

  ‘Thank you,’ I say.

  ‘It’s important that you get out and about.’

  ‘What about swimming?’

  ‘I shouldn’t yet. We’ll discuss it when you come back in a week. Having said that, it helps in these situations to stay busy and positive. The scar from the puncture wound will fade to almost nothing over the next weeks and months, and the one at the side of your mouth will start to look less obvious with time . . .’

  ‘But it will always be there,’ I finish for her, an ugly reminder of what happened with Bart, of how life as I knew it ended. I’ve never been the most confident person in the world and this has shattered my self-esteem. I don’t want to leave the doctor’s surgery looking like this. People will stare at me, ask questions. Ross won’t look at me any more. What man will?

  ‘Shannon?’ I look up at the sound of Nicci’s voice.

  ‘I don’t think you heard me. There’s lots of things we can do to help you. The consultant’s letter has suggested revision surgery if you’re unhappy with the cosmetic result of the repair further down the line.’

  ‘That won’t get rid of the scar, will it?’ I say flatly.

  ‘The impact could be reduced – you could have a skin graft or flap; although, you’re right, you will be left with a blemish, whatever we do.’

  ‘Can I have laser treatment?’ I ask, remembering that one of Emma’s twins had laser therapy to remove a birthmark on her face.

  ‘It might be possible in the future, but you mustn’t set your expectations too high.’

  ‘What are you saying? That I should learn to live with it?’

  ‘All I’m suggesting is that it’s very early days,’ she says tactfully. Before I leave the surgery, she offers me counselling and recommends a couple of websites with information and support for people with facial disfigurement. That’s me, I think, with a heavy heart. I am disfigured, and that’s official.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Changing Faces

  Mirror, mirror on the wall. Who is the fairest of them all? The words of the fairytale come back to me as I brush my hair in the bedroom mirror when I return from the doctor’s, walking in through the back door to avoid my mother, who’s working in the shop. It certainly isn’t me, I think, as I try flicking my hair forwards to hide the scar. It makes me look rather ridiculous, as if I’m modelling one of those crazy styles that you see in the hair magazines, so I ‘borrow’ one of Mum’s scarves made from pale pink gauze from her wardrobe. It isn’t really me, but I can tuck it around my neck and face to at least partially obscure the scar before I go and find her.

  She’s talking to someone. I hang back in the shadows at the rear of the shop, but when I realise that it’s Frances and the conversation is bound to drag on, I make my appearance.

  ‘Hello, Shannon.’ Frances holds a bunch of lilies to her chest. ‘I hear you’ve been in the wars, poor thing.’

  ‘Hi,’ I say, moving into the light from the shop window.

  Her expression flashes from curiosity to surprise and then sympathy. My mum lets out a stifled scream and her hand flies to her mouth.

  ‘Oh dear,’ Frances says. ‘That looks nasty.’

  Mum bursts into tears, which is just what I didn’t want.

  ‘It’s fine. I’ll be all right,’ I say, trying not to cry with her. ‘Nicci says there are things they can do.’

  ‘I’ll leave you to it. I have to get these flowers to the church,’ Frances says. ‘All the best, Shannon. I’ll see myself out.’

  When she’s gone, Mum makes tea. We sit at the table in the back of the shop, among the catalogues and glossy bridal magazines covered with images of flawless models. I turn them all face down so I can’t see the brides’ mocking smiles.

  Mum dunks a biscuit before glancing up at me with a guilty look in her eyes.

  ‘I know I shouldn’t, but I’m a bit stressed. The plastic surgeon did say the repair wouldn’t look great at first, but it’s still a bit of a blow when you get to see it. You know you still look as lovely as ever. It doesn’t change anything.’

  I don’t comment. She’s wrong. Everything has changed.

  People look at me in a different way, even Ross when he drops by after work, leaving the bike outside the shop. It is in darkness, apart from a small lamp at the back that lights the way into the living accommodation at night. I let him in, but don’t invite him any further, preferring to talk in private among the plants and flowers rather than within earshot of Mum and Godfrey. They are cuddled up on the sofa in the living room.

  ‘How are you?’ He unzips the top of his leather jacket.

  ‘How’s work?’ I say quickly. I keep my face averted and my hand covering the switch on the wall for the main light.

  ‘Not too bad, although it’s much more fun when you’re there. Lucky came in for a checkup – he’s still in remission – and Izzy gave Merrie another bath, just to keep her skin allergy under control . . . Anyway, how are you?’ he repeats. ‘You didn’t give me an answer.’

  ‘I saw the doctor today.’ Taking a deep breath and summoning all my courage, I turn the light on and point to my face. His eyes widen as he focuses on the side of my mouth.

  ‘No,’ he exclaims in a throaty whisper. ‘That can’t be right. Oh, god, it’s . . .’

  ‘Aren’t you supposed to say I’ve never looked better?’ I pretend to flirt with him and he smiles, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

  ‘I don’t know what to say. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘You can be honest with me. I look like a freak.’

  ‘Don’t say that.’ He reaches out and traces the line of my scar with the tips of his fingers, before leaning in and giving it a lingering kiss that makes my heart miss a beat as I recall the other kisses we’ve shared in the past.

  ‘Seeing you like this makes me feel doubly guilty,’ he goes on.

  ‘I was angry with you when the consultant first showed me.’

  ‘You can be as angry as you like. I’ve said before – it’s my fault.’

  I haven’t the energy to rant and rave at him. He feels responsible and his dog is dead. I think that’s punishment enough.

  I stare at him. His expression is filled with regret and tenderness.

  ‘When are you coming home?’ he asks softly.

  ‘I’m going to stay at Petals for a while longer.’

  ‘Oh?’ His expression darkens. ‘I suppose that’s for the best – your mum’s around most of the day to look after you.’

  ‘Godfrey’s going to help me fetch the rest of my things.’ I watch the blood drain from Ross’s skin when he chews at his lip. ‘I need some space . . .’

  ‘You mean you’re moving out?’

  I nod as he puts his hands in his pockets, when all I want is to melt into his embrace and have him hold me, but I can’t bring myself to say so
. I don’t want him going out with me because he feels sorry for me, because no one else will have me. I still love him, but how can he love me now?

  ‘You can’t, not permanently.’

  ‘I’ll keep paying the rent until the lease is up.’

  ‘Don’t worry about that. I’ll manage for now, and when you’re ready, you can move back in.’

  I shake my head. ‘That isn’t going to happen.’

  ‘Why not? Please, tell me it isn’t forever. What can I do to make you change your mind?’ His voice is raw with emotion when he continues, ‘Shannon, I don’t want to live there on my own. I want you back. I love you. You’re my best friend, my—’

  ‘No, stop.’ He’s breaking my heart, but I can’t go back when the house, our home, is filled with memories of happy times and broken dreams of the future. ‘I don’t want to hear it.’

  ‘If you knew how I feel about you, you wouldn’t do this.’ He looks at me intently. ‘How can you think that something so . . .’ He hunts for the right word. ‘. . . trivial would change the way I feel about you?’

  ‘Is that what you call it?’ The blood rushes to my face, making my scar itch and burn. ‘I’m signed off work, the doctor’s recommended counselling and I have the option of more surgery. It’s not trivial. It’s life-changing.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.’ He wrings his hands. ‘What I meant was that it really doesn’t make any difference. I know you feel devastated now, but the scar will fade eventually, and you will get over it. I know you will and I can help you, if you let me, and when you’re ready to come back home, I’ll be waiting for you with open arms.’

  I don’t know what to say. I’m not sure which of us is the most distressed. He stands in front of me, his eyes glistening with tears.

  ‘Tell me what I can do to make it right,’ he begs. ‘I’ll do anything.’

  ‘There’s nothing you can do. What’s done is done.’

  ‘Maybe it’s too soon,’ he says eventually, ‘but I’m not going to give up. I’ll be in touch tomorrow, and the next day, and the one after that . . .’ He zips his jacket back up and wishes me goodnight. I lock the door behind him and watch him put on his helmet and jump on his bike before driving off, roaring away with my dreams of the happily ever after.

  As the weekend passes, the glossy magazines in the shop, the actress and reality stars on television all contribute to my deepening sense of inferiority. I didn’t think I judged people on their looks, but now I’m afraid that is exactly what I used to do: When Taylor and I went out on girls’ nights out, drinking and dancing, we used to talk about other women, envying them or criticising their appearance behind their backs. How I regret that now.

  I find all kinds of excuses to stay at home until Ross calls me on Sunday afternoon to ask if I’d like to go out with him on Monday, his day off after his weekend on call.

  ‘I’m sorry I haven’t been able to do anything before – I’ve been flat out at work. I thought we could go and see Penny up at the Old Forge tomorrow. She’s been asking if you could make a start on those training sessions you offered her.’

  ‘Why didn’t she ask me herself?’ I say.

  ‘She didn’t want to put you under any pressure.’

  ‘Well, I’m not sure . . .’

  ‘I’d like to show you around the branch surgery too – I thought you’d like to see it. The sale was completed in record time and DJ is supposed to be making a start on the conversion.’

  ‘I don’t want to let Penny down, but I have another appointment with the doctor so I won’t be free until later.’

  ‘That’s okay. I’ll pick you up. I’ll borrow the ambulance.’

  ‘No, don’t worry. I’ll drive up to Talyford and meet you there.’

  ‘Great. I’ll see you tomorrow,’ he says, and he cuts the call, leaving me wondering exactly what I’ve let myself in for. Training Trevor will be a doddle compared with facing Ross after his emotional pleas the other night. I have no appetite to get into that situation again, but I want to know that he’s all right. I miss him.

  The next morning, I walk to the churchyard to spend a few minutes at my dad’s grave. There’s a chilly wind whistling around the railings and the ancient yews, and the gargoyles pull frozen faces at me, but I don’t care. I bend down to place a posy of flowers on the grave and trace the lettering carved into the stone as I have done so many times over the years. I talk to him for a while before I leave, feeling calmer and reassured because I know he loves me no matter what.

  Next, I head for the doctor’s surgery to keep my appointment with Nicci.

  When I see Mrs Dyer with Nero, I cross the road to avoid having to explain my appearance, because that’s what happens. People smile and say hi, all perfectly normally, until they spot the scar, when they either clam up and find some excuse to hurry away, or stop and stare, oozing sympathy and relief that it didn’t happen to them.

  Nicci asks me how I am and I respond saying I’m fine.

  ‘Have you thought any more about having counselling?’ she says.

  I shake my head.

  ‘How about going back to work?’

  My mouth goes dry at the thought of facing up to all the people, and the prospect of coming across another dog like Bart. My palms leak sweat and my heart races, my breath quickens and all I want to do is run away and hide.

  ‘I’m not ready. Can you sign me off for a little longer?’

  ‘That’s no problem. How about swimming? You can start that now – the wound’s healing well and you could cover it with a light waterproof dressing while you’re in the pool.’ Nicci pauses. ‘Shannon, I’m worried about you. You seem very low. You’re bound to feel sad and there’s no shame in that, but it would be good for you to make some plans, even small ones, like going out for a drink with a friend.’

  ‘Oh, I’m going out later today.’

  ‘Well, that’s good. One step at a time. Let me know how you’re getting on in the next week or so. There is always medication to fall back on if you need it.’

  ‘Antidepressants, you mean?’

  ‘Yes, you don’t have to suffer. A short course can be helpful.’ She smiles as she gets up to show me out of her consulting room, which is covered with photos of her horses. ‘I prefer to call them happy pills.’

  ‘I’ll be all right,’ I say, thanking her as I leave.

  There’s nothing that can make me feel better, I think, as I pick up the car and drive to Talyford. I park in the courtyard outside the house I shared with Ross and gaze out of the window, remembering with sadness the fun we had together, the party, sitting on the sofa chatting, the evening when we went to the pub and the morning after when we woke up in the same bed. I can’t bring myself to go and knock on the door, and it crosses my mind that I should never have agreed to come. I sit clinging to the steering wheel until my ex-housemate emerges from my former home in shorts and a polo shirt, and walks across to open the driver’s door.

  ‘Hi, it’s great to see you. I’m glad you could make it. I’ve spent a couple of hours mowing the lawn and weeding – I’ve done enough gardening to last me a lifetime.’ He smiles ruefully and my heart does that familiar somersault at the sight of him because, even though my appearance has changed, my feelings haven’t. I still fancy him like mad. I still want him. I still love him and always will. ‘Are you going to stay there all day?’ he adds.

  In response, I slide out of the car, change into my trainers and pick up a long lead and treats from the back before crossing the road to the Old Forge with him.

  ‘You don’t have to help me with this.’

  ‘I want to,’ he says, knocking on the cottage door, at which there’s a flurry of barking and scratching, followed by the sound of Penny’s voice.

  ‘Out of the way, Trevor. Move.’

  ‘This could be interesting,’ Ross says, looking at me. Eventually, the door opens and Trevor flies out past us, over the bridge across the stream and into the
road and back again. Ross tackles him before he can repeat the exercise in front of the tractor that’s rumbling along the lane.

  ‘Come in.’ Penny reverses her wheelchair along the hallway and into the living room, where Trevor throws himself down on the floor, panting. ‘You can see why we need help,’ Penny goes on, red-faced. ‘Thanks for catching him, Ross.’ She turns to me and reaches out for my hand, giving it a brief squeeze. ‘And it’s kind of you to come along, Shannon, when you’ve been having a hard time of it.’ Somehow, I don’t mind when Penny’s eyes settle on my scar, because she’s been through far worse than I have. It puts my situation in perspective, at least temporarily.

  ‘I said I’d do it, so here I am,’ I say, feeling more cheerful at the thought of doing something useful instead of moping about at Petals. ‘My plan is to have a chat about what the problems are before I take Trevor out for a walk to practise some sit and stay, and simple recall. We’ll work on his behaviour indoors at another session.’

  ‘It’s good to see you out and about,’ Ross says when we’re walking down by the river a little later, with Trevor running about on a long lead. ‘I’ve been worried about you.’ He moves closer until I can feel his fingers tangling with mine. I brush them away, putting some space between us. When I look up, he’s biting his lip, as if he’s deep in thought, and I feel like a complete bitch for rejecting his approaches, even though I know it’s right not to encourage him. Sometimes you have to be cruel to be kind. In my current mental state, my argument seems entirely rational. One day, Ross will thank me for it.

  When we reach the footpath leading to the stile at the end of the Green, I spot some figures hanging around on the bridge, and suggest that we turn back.

  ‘We could go a little further,’ Ross says. ‘What is it? What’s bothering you?’

  ‘I don’t want to run into anyone.’

  ‘Because of Trevor?’

  ‘Because of the way people stare and make stupid comments about how I look.’

  ‘Oh, Shannon, they don’t . . . Do they?’