CHAPTER 1
Auggie
The old cardboardfelt so delicate in my hand, I feared it would break in half if I simply held it too hard. The little book had been read so many times, by so many children, the ink was worn from its pages around the edges, showing the plank paper underneath. Words that had once glittered in silver were now only legible by the engraving on the cover, spelling out the title “Grandfather Twilight”.
Even well funded hospitals didn’t usually have many books for their patients, so when I volunteered to read to patients, I usually just brought my own. After volunteering for years, my shelves were now filled with an eclectic selection of reading material that I’d picked up from used books stores. I’d only just recently moved to Baton Rouge, so it was my first time volunteering at the local hospital, but I knew the routine, and I’d brought a selection of my own books.
“Grandfather Twilight” was usually a good choice for children who needed a calming experience, and since it was late in theafternoon, I assumed the hospital staff wouldn’t appreciate me riling the patients up with a more excitable tale.
“Name,” a nurse demanded at the front desk when I arrived, not even looking up from her computer.
“Um, Augustine Conway,” I said, clutching small children’s book in my hands a little tighter as I tried to make my voice sound as unassuming as possible.
It was a futile effort.
When people saw my name on a list for volunteers to read to hospital patients, they always built a preemptive image of me in their head. No one ever admitted it, but they usually pictured a middle-aged librarian or a retired professor that needed something to do on the weekends. Someone soft and studious, with kind eyes probably framed by dainty little glasses, with pristine hands that had never held anything more dangerous than a particularly sharp pencil.
So, with this image in mind, they were always shocked to find themselves suddenly faced with a scarred up military veteran, well over six feet tall. At forty years old, I’d already retired from the military, but working out was an ingrained habit by this point, and I still maintained a battle-ready physique.
When the nurse looked up and saw me, having to crane her neck much farther than expected in order to meet my eyes, the clipboard she was holding clattered from her hands.
“Uh… Mister Conway?”
The question mark after my name was subtle. She didn’t want to question me outright, probably afraid I’d make a scene, but she also didn’t believe the words coming out of her own mouth.
Moving slowly, I picked up her dropped clipboard and handed it back to her.
“That’s right, though most people just call me Auggie. I should be on the volunteer list for today.”
She looked wide-eyed at the clipboard like it might bite her. There, at the very top, my name stared right back at her.
“Right. Um, I’ll just need to see some ID to get you checked in.”
Withholding a sigh, I pulled out my wallet from my pocket. At first, my hand hovered over my driver’s license, which would be the easiest form of identification, but instead, I changed my mind at the last moment and handed over my veteran ID.
The picture on the card had been taken while I was still in service, before I’d received most of the scars that now marred my skin. It made me look a little less frightening and reminded people that I wasn’t a monster. I was just a human. A man who had served his country, and paid the price, but lived to tell the tale.
Plus, not to brag, but when I was younger, I looked pretty good in the military dress blues.
As expected, the nurse took one look at my ID, and an embarrassed blush spread over her cheeks. She didn’t say anything, but after quickly meeting my eyes, she waved me through the main doors and instructed me about where to go without ever looking me in the eye again.
Even the simplest hospital was always a winding maze of rooms and corridors that seemed to have been smashed together with no rhyme or reason. Perhaps to an architect looking at the grand design spread out on a blueprint it made sense, in the same waythat historians could look at scratches in a rock and decipher the writings of a dead language. However, to anyone trying to actually walk the halls, the chaos was as easy to navigate as untangling a ball of Christmas lights.
I’d been in plenty of hospitals over the years, and I still managed to get lost three times before finding my destination.
Today, I’d been assigned to read at the Long-Term patient ward. That included patients of all ages, but as usual, it was only the children who were interested in story time. Most adults found it demeaning to have someone read to them, so I wasn’t surprised to find half a dozen kids huddled around the chair that had been set up for me in the visitor section.
As soon as I stepped into the room, every set of eyes turned toward me. The hospital staff and the children’s parents gave me a variety of different looks. Some were confused by my appearance, while others gawked openly at my size. A few even backed away, as if uncomfortable being near me.
The patients, however, all focused on the same thing.
My scars.
The marks on my skin came from a variety of different wounds, and created a twisted pattern of raised skin along both of my forearms and my neck. They were especially visible in the hospital’s florescent light, and stood out on my dark skin like glowing beacons.
When I’d first started volunteering, I’d tried covering up my scars, afraid the sight of them would upset the patients. However, due to their placement they were impossible to hide completely unless I wanted to cover myself in extensive make up, so my scars were inevitably seen anyway. It turned out, I’dhad no reason to fear. The patients actually liked the sight of my scars. Apparently, knowing that someone of my size and strength could be wounded made them feel less ashamed of their own ailments and gave them hope that they’d survive just as I had.
Now, I walked into that hospital room displaying my scars proudly, like a living bulletin board of hope and proof that life could continue on after injury.