James
And now, for the first time, I push the door, quiet as I can, looking in.
Mitch is there, a pad on her lap, sketching. She sits by Charlotte; sleeping, so pale.
No, not pale; pallid.
What they did to you...
But she's clean and warm and comfortable. And by the side of the bed, within touching distance, also sleeping...
Cara...
My daughter...
And in a chair by the window, a hawk-eyed nurse.
What's been happening?
Mitch smiles, holding up her pad: a half-drawn sketch, in pastels, of mother and baby. Then she looks me up and down, pulling a face.
?
I mouth silently. "What?"
She nods me to the mirror and I see myself.
Oh, My God...
Even though I changed, brushed my hair, I can't let Charlotte wake up to see me like this. Or Cara...
The eye is not a pretty sight. It's not
