Playing with Fire

Grams took my hand in hers and pressed it to her chest. Her heart was beating wildly against her ribcage.

“Whatever happens”—she wiped her tears with leathery, shaky fingers—“I’m here for you. You hear that, Gracie-Mae?”

Her fingers froze on my ring.

“You put it back.” Her mouth fell open.

I nodded. I was afraid if I opened my mouth, I’d start crying.

“Why?”

“Rebirth,” I answered simply. I hadn’t died like Momma, but I did need to rise from my own ashes.

Dr. Sheffield cleared his throat, standing between us.

“Ready?” He flashed me an apologetic smile.

I gave him a thumbs-up.

Here’s to the beginning of the rest of my life …

He removed the bandages slowly. Methodically. His breath fanned across my face, smelling of coffee and bacon and mint and that clinical, hospital scent of plastic gloves and sanitizers. His expression did not betray his feelings, though I doubted he had any. To him, I was just another patient.

He didn’t offer me any words of encouragement as I watched the long, cream ribbon twirling before my eyes, becoming longer. Dr. Sheffield removed my hopes and dreams along with the fabric. I felt my breath fading with each twist of his hand.

I tried to swallow down the lump of tears in my throat, my eyes drifting to Grandmomma, searching for comfort. She was by my side, holding my hand with her back ramrod straight, her chin up.

I searched for clues in her expression.

As the bandages curled into a pile on the floor, her face warped in horror, pain, and pity. By the time parts of my face were exposed, she looked like she wanted to shrivel into herself and vanish. I wanted to do the same. Tears prickled my eyes. I fought them out of instinct, telling myself it didn’t matter. Beauty was a seasonal friend; it always walked away from you eventually—and never returned when you truly needed it.

“Say somethin’.” My voice was thick, low, unbearably raw. “Please, Grandmomma. Tell me.”

I’d enjoyed the perks of my looks since I was born. Sheridan High was all about Grace Shaw. Modeling scouts stopped Grams and me when we visited Austin. I was the most prominent actress in school plays and a member of the cheer team. It had been obvious, if not expected, that the splendor of my looks would pave a path for me. With hair rich and gold as the Tuscan sun, a pert nose, and luscious lips, I knew my looks were my one-way ticket out of this town.

“Her mother wasn’t worth spit, but luckily Grace inherited her beauty,” I once heard Mrs. Phillips telling Mrs. Contreras at the grocery store. “Let’s just hope she fares better than the little hussy.”

Grams looked away. Was it really that bad? The bandages were completely gone now. Dr. Sheffield tilted his head back, inspecting my face.

“I would like to preface this by saying you are a very lucky girl, Miss Shaw. What you went through two weeks ago … many people would have died. In fact, I am amazed you are still with us.”

Two weeks? I’d been in this bed for fourteen days?

I stared at him blankly, not knowing what he was looking at.

“The infected areas are still raw. Keep in mind that as your skin heals, it will become less agitated, and there’s an array of possibilities we can explore down the line in terms of plastic surgery, so please do not be disheartened. Now, would you like to look at your face?”

I gave him half a nod. I needed to get it over with. See what I was dealing with.

He stood up and walked over to the other side of the room, plucking a small mirror from a cabinet, while my grandmomma collapsed on top of my chest, her shoulders quaking with a sob that ripped through her scrawny body. Her clammy hand gripped mine like a vise.

“What am I to do, Gracie-Mae? Oh my lord.”

For the first time since I was born, a rush of anger flooded me. It was my tragedy, my life. My face. I needed to be consoled. Not her.

With each step Dr. Sheffield took, my heart sank a little lower. By the time he reached my bed, it was somewhere at my feet, pounding dully.

He handed me the mirror.

I put it up to my face, closed my eyes, counted to three, then let my eyelids flutter open.

I didn’t gasp.

I didn’t cry.

In fact, I didn’t make a sound.

I simply stared back at the person in front of me—a stranger I didn’t know and, frankly, would probably never befriend—watching as fate laughed in my face.

Here was the ugly, uncomfortable truth: my mother died of an overdose when I was three.

She didn’t have the rebirth she’d longed for. She never did rise from her own ashes.

And, looking at my new face, I knew with certainty that neither would I.