Hope looked back at her phone screen.
The doctor rapped his knuckles on the door, then came in before we invited him. “How’s everything going here? Getting things sorted?” He had a British accent, and I wondered how he ended up in a Little Rock ER. He leaned in close to look at my cut, swiveling a magnifying glass on a pole between us for a better view.
Pamela relayed the attic story, doubtful but coming around, and I promised it was true. “Trust me, I know domestic violence. I’m free of that now.” Maybe it wasn’t entirely true. Matt’s hands weren’t around my throat on the average Tuesday night, and we hadn’t seen Adam in years, but fear has a long reach. They were still hurting me through the dents and craters they’d left in my self-esteem. The doctor was more interested in my house-building project than a domestic-violence threat. We chatted about energy-efficient building and passive solar. Then he suggested that it was time to start stitching up my face, and I balked.
“What are my options?” I asked, eyeing the door and mapping the best getaway path.
“You made a hole in your head, and we have to close it. Not a lot of great options for that. At the very least I have to glue it.” He leaned in for another look. “Longer than I’d like for glue though. If you split it back open it’s more likely to scar.”
He pinched the gap together a few times. I closed my eyes and kept my breathing even, pretending the razor knives of pain were no big deal and hoping that would help make the wound look small enough to be glued back together like a chipped lamp.
“If you think you can stay out of attics for a while, we can give the glue a try.”
The counselor left and sent in a nurse with a tray. I imagined it holding nothing but a big tube of epoxy. We continued talking about the various stages of building a house and more energy-efficient options. I wasn’t sure if he was genuinely interested in construction or merely trying to verify that my beating had come at my own hands.
Hope never looked up from her phone, partly because she was lost in Pinterest land, but also because she was nearly as squeamish as I was. A peek at my sliced-open eyebrow through a magnifying glass would have undone her.
“… I believe those laws are in place for a very good reason, and I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. Doctors and patients aren’t supposed to have personal contact. It’s a professional relationship. I believe that, and I support those laws. I really do,” the doctor was saying.
What was his name again? And what in the world was he talking about? Of course I was uncomfortable; he had a buffet-style warming lamp inches from my head and was pinching a deep gash in my head. Laws about personal contact? Something was wrong. A snake of warning slithered down my spine. This was something else. He wasn’t talking about houses, abuse, or wounds anymore. I must have squirmed along with that snake.
“Whoa, now. This is going to sting, but it’s vital that you stay absolutely still for about three minutes. I’ve got to hold this glue in place while it sets. You can’t move.”
I almost nodded, because the warning snake had stolen my tongue, but I caught myself and held still, steadying my breathing and trying to slow my heart. His hand was pressed over my left eye, holding it closed. I wanted to close the right eye to block out his distorted face through the magnifying glass. It had turned him into something surreal and nightmarish.
He leaned in again, worsening the effect. “Now let me know if this makes you uncomfortable,” he whispered. “I’m going to put something in your hand now. I’m letting you know so it doesn’t surprise you. Stay absolutely still.”
I did stay still, but due to fear paralysis rather than obedience or curiosity. I’d seen movies about perverted things that happened in doctors’ offices and nurses who stood by silently. What in the hell was he about to put in my hand? It wasn’t just the nurse, either. The door was open about a foot, and my daughter was in the room.
What is happening?
I felt a scream clawing up my throat. Caroline would scream, but even when a bead of sweat dripped down my temple, leaving a tickle trail, I knew I wouldn’t scream. I knew I would stay frozen in shock and fear.
He shifted his shoulders sideways, expertly keeping the hand holding my face together and perfectly still. My left hand was on the bed beside me, palm up, with an ice pack on the bruised knuckles. The rough edges of a tongue depressor slid across my fingers and they closed around it. A flood of embarrassed heat flooded through me.
“Ignore that if it makes you uncomfortable,” he whispered. “I’d love to talk more about the house though. If I build my retirement cabin, I want to go in with as much information as I can. Do it right.”
My hand throbbed from the grip I had on the tongue depressor, and I wondered if it was one of the grape-flavored ones they used to give my kids when they were cranky. My mind was so tired and bruised that I had slipped into a state of deep distrust that turned this curious doctor’s gentle outreach into something ugly and terrifying. Adam had made some headway in his effort to break my mind along with his own.
I relaxed, this time for real, and had time for two deep breaths before the doctor pulled back and smiled at his handiwork. “I’ll put a little tape on this. Try to keep a neutral expression for a while. No extreme laughter. No crying. Doctor’s orders.”
I smiled, but only on the right, and closed both eyes. Taking control of my mind was not an overnight victory. Two steps forward, one step back.
“Stay still for a few minutes. The discharge nurse will be back with paperwork. It was really a pleasure meeting you.” He put out his hand and shook my good one. “Be careful, now. I don’t want to glue you back together again.”
“Thank you. Next time let’s bump into each other in the plumbing aisle, or selecting carbide drill bits or something.”
He waved at the door, never seeming to notice the roller coaster of confusion and fear I had just traveled over a tongue depressor. As soon as he was gone, I looked at it and found his personal e-mail address in blue ink, scribbled out once and then rewritten below. Of course I would e-mail him some tips about house building when I had a chance, and I would also keep the stick as a reminder that it was okay to relax and trust. Not everyone had something dark and nefarious in mind. Some people reached out for friendship (grape-flavored friendship in this case)—something I had forgotten how to do years ago.
*