Hidden Scars by InitialLuv

Chapter Three

DONNA

I am comfortable in Mickey's embrace, desire and denial making me forget the previous anxious hours that I had spent with the clock. He makes some wry comment about getting our son to bed so we can have some privacy. I am about to reply when Mark starts to scream in the living room.

When my niece Annie was five months old (and about one month before I admitted that I was expecting), Brenda liked to play up the "mother's intuition." She claimed she could tell by Annie's cry whether she needed to be changed or to be fed, whether she was getting sick or if she was just lonely. Once I became a mother I realized that Brenda had actually been telling the truth, albeit a little condescendingly.

There's no mistaking this hysterical crying. I freeze for a millisecond, as images flash in my head about what I'll find in the living room. And then I'm on my feet, leaving Mickey looking shell-shocked in the kitchen. I turn the corner to enter the living room, and the first thing I see is the toy plane on the floor a few feet from the piano. The next thing I see is the blood.

Mark is half-sitting, half-lying, at the edge of the piano. He is hitching in sobs in between the screams. It seems with each scream the gash on his head leaks more blood. It's on his shirt, on his hands, in his hair. I can barely see his left eye in the frightening flow of scarlet.

I don't know what happened, but I hazard a guess. The way he'd been climbing the furniture to get the plane as high as was capable with his small frame and an outstretched arm. A loss of balance, a fall – my eyes frantically track to the sharp edges of the piano bench.

I drop to the floor and try to pull him into my arms, but he is so upset he sits up to push me away with a wild strength. "No!" he cries. "Don't hurt!"

I'm vaguely aware of Mickey standing behind me. "What the hell. . ." he says with disbelief. I have a feeling he is thinking on the same level as I: how had we not heard Mark fall? We had been so consumed with each other in the kitchen, only realizing something was wrong when we heard the screams. I am deeply ashamed, angry at both of us.

"Get me something – a towel, something!" I bark, barely glancing at him. I'm trying to get a better look at Mark's injury, but I can't see anything for the blood. I reach for him again, speaking softly, trying to calm him.

"Mark, honey, please let me see. Let me fix it, please."

Mickey's back again, with a bath towel, a hand towel, and a clean dishrag. It appears he's raided the linen closet. I grab the dishrag, folding it in half and meaning to place it over what I think is the main source of the flow of blood. As I reach for him, Mark shuffles back in fear of more pain, and smacks the back of his head against the piano bench. I wince in sympathy and feel tears prick my eyes. "Mickey, God, help me!" I plead.

It takes a beat, but then Mickey seems to understand what I need. He pushes the piano bench out of the way and kneels behind Mark, gently but firmly grasping his arms. I am finally able to place the dishrag against what I've determined is Mark's injury, a deep and ugly gash along his left eyebrow.

He's like a wildcat in his father's arms. I can see the surprised reaction on Mickey's face as he has to tighten his grip to keep Mark from escaping. We are like bookends, with our injured son in the middle. I can hear Mickey humming quietly, not quite singing. I'm not sure I recognize the song. Whatever it is, it seems to give Mark something else to concentrate on. He's stopped struggling, but he is still intermittently sobbing and whimpering.

The dishrag had been light yellow. It is quickly becoming red. I look at Mickey with an overwhelming fear like I have never felt before. "We have to take him to the hospital. We have to take him now."

Mickey has an odd, distant look on his face. He stops humming, and his grasp on Mark loosens. "Hospital?" he murmurs. "Are you sure?"

I direct my eyes at the saturated dishrag. I'm ready to swap it for the hand towel. I think the bath towel would be overkill, but I haven't completely disregarded it.

Mickey has gotten the point of my gesture. He starts to rise, then looks at me with concern. "Will you be okay with him? I can't help you and drive."

I nod assertively. "I'm fine. Just help me get him downstairs."

Mickey carries our son while I hurry next to them, doing my best to hold the compress against Mark's gash. I barely realize we've gone downstairs before we're standing in the street next to the Studebaker. I open the rear-hinged back door and slide in, then reach for Mark. He's still crying, but now the tears are mainly silent. Even in the darkness there is enough light from the street lamps to see his face is pale. That is, the part of his face I can see that isn't streaked with blood.

Mickey is hesitating again. "What?" I explode.

"Maybe spread the bath towel out. You know. . . The blood."

I look at him with disbelief. "Give him to me," I demand coldly.

Mickey leans down, but Mark suddenly clings to him for dear life. "No, Daddy!" He starts to sob loudly again. Mickey tries to peel Mark's arms from around his neck. I can see there's blood on the shoulder of Mickey's shirt and on his cheek. While Mark was struggling the dishrag shifted position, and the gash seems to be freely flowing again.

"Markie – I have to drive. You have to sit with your mother. C'mon, kid, that's enough."

I'm a little nonplussed at the brusque words, but they seem to get through to Mark. Mickey is finally able to place him in my arms, and I put the waiting hand towel on his bleeding head. I toss the saturated dishrag in the street before Mickey closes the back door.

Like I missed the trip down the stairs of the apartment building, I miss the drive to the hospital. It seemed we had just pulled away from the curb seconds ago. Mickey is rounding the car to open the back door, but he doesn't attempt to take Mark from my arms. I step out of the car with my injured son cradled to my chest, and together Mickey and I walk in to the emergency section of the hospital.