All of her psychiatrists had reservations about her going home, particularly with no one to go home to, and no family to support her through the inevitable difficulties she would face. But medically there was no longer any reason to keep her in the hospital, which was depressing for her too. Their overall decision was that she needed to get back into a more active life, to the degree she was able. She would have to return for further surgeries to effect some slight improvement to the scars on her face. There was still the potential risk that the shifting of any of the shrapnel still in her body could cause a life-threatening situation, but there was no way to predict that. They had done very little cosmetic work on the extensive scarring on her body, but Véronique had opted not to. She could always deal with that later, if she wanted to. The wounds were still very fresh. For now, she preferred to wear long-sleeve shirts and sweaters and trousers to conceal the scars on her body, rather than undergo additional surgeries. She said it didn’t matter to her. She wasn’t modeling anymore, and beauty was no longer a professional necessity, or of importance to her. The only scars that mattered to her were those on her face, so that she wouldn’t be so shockingly disfigured, but they were the ones they were the least able to improve. They had done their very best, but even they were disappointed by the results. The unmarked half of her face served as a cruel reminder to them as well as Véronique of how perfect and flawless her face had been before.
She made a point of visiting the other victims she had met in the hospital before she left, although she hadn’t gotten to know many of them very well. Most of them were too ill and damaged to leave their rooms, even six months after the explosion. She saw some of them occasionally in wheelchairs in the garden, missing limbs and accompanied by nurses. And for many months she hadn’t been well enough to leave her room either, after her constant surgeries.
They wished her luck when she said goodbye to them. She gave a box of chocolates to the young woman in the room next to her, who had lost both arms and a foot, and had three young children who were being cared for by her mother, waiting for her at home. Her husband had died in the blast of the bomb. It reminded Véronique again that in many ways, she had been lucky. And even without working, she was financially able to take care of herself. Many of the victims were in dire financial straits since they weren’t able to work, and government payments for the wounded had not kicked in yet. Victims of the attack in Paris four months earlier than the one in Brussels were still waiting for government funds too. The machinery of government did not move quickly. In many ways, Véronique was better off than her fellow victims.
The nurses gave her a cake and a little party the night before she left, and she thanked them for all the help they had given her. They were happy for her that she was leaving, and they said they were going to miss her.
After she went back to her room, one of the nurses said to another, “I used to look at her in magazines, and envy her, she was so beautiful, and now I wonder what will happen to her.”
“She’ll be all right,” the older nurse reassured her. “She’s young, she’ll come through it.” But they both knew that wasn’t always true. Victims of catastrophic events like the one she’d lived through often committed suicide, unable to adjust to the changes they had to face. At least Véronique had shown no sign of suicidal tendencies so far.
She had told them she’d be back for further surgeries. She intended to come back to the doctors she knew, and didn’t want to try and find new ones in Paris. She didn’t know anyone to recommend them to her, and didn’t want to ask, and she had had enough medical attention to last a lifetime. She had no complaints about the treatment she’d had at the military hospital, but couldn’t bear the thought of more operations.
She lay awake in bed that night, and only slept a few hours. She was torn about going home, both terrified and jubilant. In her heart of hearts she still magically believed that her mother would be there to greet her and tell her it was all a big mistake, she hadn’t died and had been waiting for her in Paris all along. She knew that wasn’t going to happen, but she kept hoping anyway.
She left quietly the next morning, with the nurses waving as she got into a taxi to take her to the train station. She had a small tote bag with her toiletries and her computer in it, some underwear they had given her at the hospital. She was wearing the clothes the nurse had bought for her, a pair of jeans and a gray sweater, a pair of navy blue sneakers, and she wore the surgical mask for the trip home. She felt as though she was returning to Paris as a stranger, not herself.