When she got back to her room, she stood in front of the mirror again, crying, and refused to talk to the psychiatrist the next day. She was tired of all the doctors and nurses, the bandages, the smell of the hospital, the pain after each surgery, and the terrifying sight her face had become. How could she see anyone or leave her house? She would have to wear the face mask forever. The surgeon said the scar would become less vivid in a few months and the smaller scars would disappear, but the three deepest ones could not be repaired more than they were.
She had disappeared from her life after the explosion and had seen no one except Bernard Aubert. But how would she go back now? And she didn’t have her mother to lean on. She wanted to run away and hide. But wherever she went, her half-ruined face would be with her. She couldn’t imagine facing anyone with it, or leading a normal life again. Not only was her career over, but all semblance of a life.
She was sitting in her room, contemplating her future, and the prospect seemed grim, when the phone rang. She assumed it was Bernard, since he was the only one who called her. No further information had been given to her modeling agency, other than that she had been at the Brussels airport and couldn’t work for several months. And there was no work anyway in the summer, so they hadn’t called. She had turned off the phone in her hospital room and hardly turned it on in five months. Many people had written to her about her mother, and she hadn’t had the energy yet to answer them, although she’d been touched by their messages when Bernard forwarded them to her. Many of them were unaware that Véronique had been injured, and she had no desire to explain it to them, especially now. Bernard’s secretary picked up the mail at the apartment every week, paid the bills, and sent the rest to her.
She picked up the phone in her room, expecting to hear Bernard’s voice, and instead a young female voice said a cautious hello.
“Véro, is that you?” It took her a minute to place it and then realized it was Gabriella Foch, a girl she had gone to school with, who had moved to Brussels with her parents five years before. She was startled to hear her voice.
“Gabriella?”
“Yes. I was just reading in a Belgian magazine about the attack on Zaventem, and I saw your picture. There was a whole page of little photos the size of postage stamps of all the victims, and there was one of you, and I read your name. I couldn’t believe it. I’m so sorry about your mom.” They hadn’t been close, but had been in the same class for years and she was a nice girl. “It said that all the victims were taken to the military hospital. I thought I’d just try to see if you were still here. It said that many people are. Are you okay?” Véronique paused, not sure what to answer. Something polite or the truth?
“Yes, I’m okay. I’m going home in two weeks.” She didn’t say that she’d had twenty-six surgeries and half her face had been destroyed, and there would be shrapnel in her body forever. But others were worse off, without limbs, and she was alive. The psychiatrists kept stressing that, but she wasn’t sure now if having survived was a blessing or a curse.
“Can I come and see you?”
“It’s pretty depressing here,” Véronique said glumly, not sure if she wanted to see her or not. She’d have to wear the mask. But maybe how Gabriella would react would be a good test of what lay ahead.
“I don’t care if it’s depressing. I want to see you. I wish I’d known sooner. I’ve been following you since we moved here. I hated it here at first, but I like it now. I’m working for my father in his art gallery. Will you go back to modeling now when you go home?”
“I…uh…I don’t think so. It’s too soon.” She didn’t know what else to say, and Gabriella was afraid to ask her what injuries had kept her in the hospital for five months. She hoped she hadn’t lost a leg or an arm. The article she’d read said many had, and the bombs had been specially built to do as much damage as possible to human bodies. The same had been true about the attacks in France.
“Can I come?” She sounded excited about seeing her old classmate. Véronique agreed to see her the following afternoon, and regretted it as soon as she hung up. She wanted to cancel immediately, but forced herself to stick to the plan. She hadn’t talked to anyone her own age, or seen a friend, in five months. She didn’t want to see any of her modeling friends in Paris. How could she now with the face she was going home with? She had no idea who she was anymore. Everything that defined her had been destroyed. She didn’t feel like a person anymore, or a woman, or even a girl. She was a member of the walking wounded, someone to pity or to look away from in horror.