Hidden Scars by InitialLuv
Chapter Five
DONNA
As the nurse leads me and Mark back to an exam room, I look over my shoulder at Mickey, standing forlornly at the nurse's desk. I am struck with a strange certainty that this is the last time I will see him. My chest clenches in fear and a sudden loneliness.
The nurse helps me situate Mark on an exam bed. He is nearly silent now, and that in itself is worrisome. If Mark isn't gaily jabbering and talking my head off, he still is almost always making some other kind of noise. Whether it is imitating the engine sounds of his toys, singing snatches of songs he's heard from his father, or just creating commotion by running and jumping and climbing around, silence is not something he is known for.
The nurse starts asking me what had happened, how long ago, how long it had taken the bleeding to stop. Wait, it stopped? I look closer at my son, so small on the adult-sized bed. I start to lift the hand towel, only to have the nurse stop me. When her hand comes close to Mark's forehead, he flinches.
"What? You said it stopped!" I have a pressing need to see the gash, to see if it is as bad now that it's not full of blood. It had been so close to his eye, and if I can just see it, maybe it won't be as bad as I'm imagining. . .
"We really need to keep the pressure on it until the doctor can see him," she explains, but it is not with much feeling. She is very blunt and direct. I find myself instantly disliking her for no other reason than she thinks she knows better than me when it comes to my son. My son.
My son who fell when I wasn't looking, and is now in the hospital with a red, angry gash dangerously close to his eye.
The nurse has wet a small cloth and she bends down, preparing to wipe some of the blood off Mark's face. He starts to move his head back and forth in a familiar motion that I'm privy to every time I need to wash his face. "Young man, you need to be still," she directs testily, and I feel my teeth clench with tense anger.
"Please do not talk to my son that way."
The nurse pauses to look at me warily. I hold out my hand for the cloth. After looking down at Mark and then looking back up at me, the nurse quietly puts the cloth into my hand.
I lean over Mark, and begin to gently wipe the tear- and blood-streaked face. I avoid the left eye – I can't reach much of it, anyway, with the hand towel compress still in place. He keeps his head still and doesn't complain, which is a minor miracle. I wonder if he's doing it in quiet solidarity against the nurse.
"Where did Daddy go?"
His voice is almost normal, just a small tremor. Mine, on the other hand. . .
"He's just taking care of things. Don't worry, honey, he'll be here soon." As if in answer to my promise the door opens, but it's not Mickey, it's the doctor. He's tall and imposing in his white smock, about the same age as the nurse, and I recognize them as being cut from the same cloth. I am positive I will also dislike this man.
"So what do we have here?" he asks jovially, but his voice is loud and sudden and I see Mark's eyes widen in fear. I squeeze his shoulder firmly, and when his eyes track back to me I muster a reassuring smile that feels more like a grimace.
The doctor introduces himself as Dr. Rose, and asks me the same questions the nurse did. Then he speaks quietly to the nurse, giving her directions as he prepares to lift the hand towel off Mark's head. I think we are all holding our breath to see what's under the compress.
As the towel is removed I can see the gash is still bleeding, although it's nothing like the earlier free flow. And I can finally see the full damage: a deep laceration at least two inches long, running almost parallel to Mark's left eyebrow. I gasp before I can stop myself.
"I'm sorry, Momma." Mark's voice is small and toneless. I want to scoop him up in my arms. He is apologizing – to me. He has somehow decided this is all his fault.
"Baby, no, you have nothing to be sorry for! This was an accident, you didn't do anything wrong!"
"I was on top of the piano. I'm not supposed to be on the piano. Daddy said."
I see the nurse quirk an eyebrow. I don't know if it's because she's picturing Mark climbing on a piano, or because she got the impression Mark's father doesn't let him on the piano, but I do.
Dr. Rose interrupts. "He's going to need stitches, and I'd like to clean the wound out. The safest way to do that is to inject a local anesthetic. It'll numb the area so that he won't feel the pain from the cleaning and suturing." I nod my understanding without speaking. The doctor speaks to the nurse again and she leaves the room briefly.
Stitches. How many stitches? Will he have a scar? I should be happy it's just a scar. When considering the proximity to his eye, it could have been so much worse. I hold Mark's hands, my eyes unable to draw away from the oozing wound. Because of my single-minded view, I do not see the nurse arrive with the injection needle, handing it to the doctor. But Mark does.
His body suddenly goes rigid, and I see the abject terror in his eyes. The nurse reaches out to restrain him as Dr. Rose approaches with the needle, and then all hell breaks loose.
Mark begins to kick and fight. One hand smacks the nurse in the nose. That fills me with a guilty pride, until one of his feet kicks me in the gut and almost knocks the wind out of me. The doctor has backed up, still holding the needle, and I can hear him ordering me to get my son under control, that this is not acceptable, and I wish I was four years old and I could start smacking people in the nose, too. But I have to admit that Mark needs to be calmed down. I've never seen him like this before, and I don't think I can handle him on my own.
Mark lets out a high-pitched wail, and I find myself screaming in harmony with it.
"Mickey! Mickey! Mickey, I need you!"