“Yes. I had a good time doing it for four years, but I feel like I have to do something better now. Maybe help the victims of other terrorist attacks and Brussels too. There are so many needy wounded people in the world. I was lucky. I survived it, but many of the victims in Paris and Brussels are much worse off than I was.” He nodded, and found the thought of it appalling. The savagery of it was breathtaking. He had read some of the reports online after his father told him. He couldn’t imagine how Véronique had lived through it. “I’m coming back here again in two and a half months for another surgery. Maybe we could get together then.”
“Absolutely. And don’t disappear now. We’ll have some business matters to take care of soon.” He didn’t tell her how much money it involved, and she didn’t want to know yet. What he had shared with her, and his acceptance, meant far more to her. Her father had given her another gift telling Chip the story, so Chip didn’t discover it on his own after his father’s death. He had united brother and sister with his blessing, and told Chip what she meant to him.
“I’m easy to find.” She smiled at him. “I’m living in my mother’s apartment, where I grew up. And I’m here for another ten days, until the doctors release me.”
“Dad gave me that number. It’s where I called you. And I have the others too, including your cellphone in Paris.”
* * *
—
They talked for another hour and he told her stories about their father that helped her know him better and made her laugh and touched her. His sisters sounded a little difficult, and more like their mother, and he didn’t deny it, but he said he was close to them in spite of it, and he wanted to protect her from them. He didn’t want them to be harsh with her and they might. They were twice her age, and much tougher. Véronique seemed like a gentle person to him, in spite of all she’d been through, and her enormous success as a model. She wasn’t full of herself, or bitter, or angry, even about their father, who had ignored her for so long. She was just grateful for the time she had had with him, however brief, and now she was grateful for Chip’s friendship and kindness to her.
She left him outside the Carlyle and walked home in the crisp air. She had a lot to think about, and a lot to be grateful for. Now she had a brother. She wasn’t entirely alone in the world after all.
* * *
—
Dr. Talbot and Dr. Dennis met with her ten days later, and both were very pleased with what they saw. The scars on her arms and legs and the ones on her stomach were noticeably better, and some had almost disappeared. They weren’t nearly as shocking. And the scars on her face had lightened remarkably. They weren’t gone by any means, but they didn’t appear as deep or as angry, and the smaller one near her jawline had vanished. Phillip Talbot was very pleased with the results. He thought they would get even more improvement with the next surgery. They would never disappear completely, but eventually they would no longer be the first thing one saw about her. He wanted to give her a face she could live with comfortably, without shocking people. He didn’t want her to be ashamed, or want to hide. He said the same thing Doug had, that she was a beautiful woman with scars, but she was still spectacularly beautiful. She wasn’t The Scars. They were something that life and circumstances had added to her, but they didn’t define her. She was beginning to see it differently herself.
They kept gauze on her face just to protect it, and told her she could take it off in a week. In all her injured areas, the skin was thinner now and had to be treated more carefully. They set a date for her next surgery in March, which oddly was on the anniversary of the attack in Brussels, but somehow that seemed fitting to her.
She had dinner with Doug before she left and showed him the improvement, and he was impressed and encouraged for her. She told him about Chip, and called Chip before she left. He told her to take care and he would contact her soon about financial matters.
Then she flew home to Paris, and had to face the same painful phenomenon she’d experienced before, expecting to see her mother when she walked into the apartment, and no one was there, just the echo of her own footsteps resonating in the empty apartment. She wondered how long it would take her to get used to the reality that her mother was gone, and even in their familiar home, she was alone now.
* * *
—
Two days after she got home, she had a phone call that shocked her. A major French television network, the most important one, contacted her. They were preparing a documentary, covering the anniversary of the attack in Brussels, and honoring the surviving victims. They wanted to know if she would be the spokesperson and principal guest to narrate it. They were planning to interview all of the survivors, particularly the injured ones, many of whom, she learned, were still in hospitals, and many had not yet received government benefits, which represented a financial crisis for most of them. She was able to support herself with her savings and what her mother had left her, but many couldn’t. She thought it was a noble project, but she told them flatly that there was no way she would participate in it. She preferred to recover quietly in the shadows.