Love You More: A Novel

Then, at the last second, I did fall, into a tight little ball that I then sprang out of, straight into the towering giant’s legs. I caught him at the knees, jerked sideways, and toppled him like a redwood.

The instructor blew the whistle. My classmates cheered.

I staggered to standing, touching gingerly at my nose.

“That’s gonna leave a mark,” my instructor informed me cheerfully.

I crossed to Chuck, offered him a hand up.

He accepted gratefully enough. “Sorry ’bout the face,” he said, looking sheepish. Poor big guy, having to take on the girl.

I assured him it was all right. We were all doing what we had to do. Then we got to square off against new partners and do it all over again.

Later that night, curled up alone in my dorm room, I finally cradled my nose with my hand and cried. Because I didn’t know if I could go through that again. Because I wasn’t sure if I was really prepared for a new life where I had to hit and be hit. Where I might honestly have to fight for my life.

At that moment, I didn’t want to be a trooper anymore. I just wanted to go home to my baby girl. I wanted to hold Sophie and inhale the scent of her shampoo. I wanted to feel her chubby little hands pressed against my neck. I wanted to feel my ten-month-old daughter’s unconditional love.

Instead, I got pummeled the next day, and the day after that. I endured bruised ribs, whacked shins, and aching wrists. I learned to take a blow. I learned to deliver in kind. Until by the end of the twenty-five-week course, I came out of the gate swinging with the best of them, covered in purple welts but ready to rumble.

Tiny, fast, and tough.

Giant Killer, my fellow recruits called me, and I was proud of the nickname.

I remembered those days now, as the doctor examined the results from the CT scan, then gently probed the mass of swollen purple flesh around my eye.

“Fracture of the zygomatic bone,” he murmured, adding for my benefit: “Your cheek is broken.”

More perusing of film images, more inspection of my skull. “No sign of hematoma or contusion of the brain. Nausea? Headache?”

I murmured yes to both.

“Name and date.”

I managed my name, blanked on the date.

Doctor’s turn to nod. “Given the clear CT scan, it would seem you have only a concussion to go with your fractured zygomatic. And what happened here?” He finished with my head, moving to my torso, where the yellow and green remnants of a fading bruise covered half my ribs.

I didn’t answer, just stared at the ceiling.

He palpitated my stomach. “Does this hurt?”

“No.”

He rotated my right arm, then my left, searching for further signs of damage. He found it on my left hip, another deep purple bruise, this time in the shape of a rounded arc, like what might be formed from the toe of a work boot.

I’d seen bruises in the shape of men’s rings, watch faces, even an imprint of a quarter on a female who’d been slugged by a boyfriend holding a roll of coins. Judging by the doctor’s face, he’d seen it all, as well.

Dr. Raj smoothed my gown back in place, retrieved my medical chart, made some notes.

“Cheek fracture will heal best if left alone,” he stated. “We’ll keep you overnight to monitor the concussion. If your nausea and headache have subsided by morning, chances are you may go home.”

I didn’t say anything.

The doctor stepped closer, cleared his throat.

“There is a bump on your left sixth rib,” he stated. “A fracture I suspect did not heal correctly.”

He paused as if waiting for me to say something, perhaps a statement he could enter into my medical chart: Patient says husband knocked her down and kicked her in the ribs. Patient says husband has a favorite baseball bat.

I said nothing, because statements became records, and records became evidence that could be used against you.

“Did you wrap your ribs yourself?” the doctor asked.

“Yes.”

The doctor grunted, my one admission filling in all his blanks.

The doctor saw me as a victim, just as the EMT had seen me as a victim. They were both wrong. I was a survivor and I was currently walking a tightrope where I absolutely, positively could not afford to fall.

Dr. Raj studied me again. “Rest is the best medicine for healing,” he said finally. “Given your concussion, I cannot prescribe a narcotic, but I will have a nurse bring you some ibuprofen for the pain.”

“Thank you.”

“In the future,” he said, “should you injure your ribs, please come to me immediately. I would like to see them better wrapped.”

“I’ll be all right,” I said.

Dr. Raj did not appear convinced. “Rest,” he repeated. “The pain and the swelling will subside soon enough. Though I have a feeling you already know that by now.”

The doctor departed.

My cheek burned. My head throbbed. But I was satisfied.

I was awake, I was lucid. And finally, I was alone.

Time to plan.

My fingers fisted against the sheets. I studied the ceiling tiles with my one good eye, and used my pain to steel my resolve.

A woman remembers the first time she is hit. But with any luck, she also remembers the first time she fights back and wins.