Hidden Scars by InitialLuv

Chapter Six

MICKEY

Donna's cry causes me to freeze for a moment with my hand on my wallet, and my eyes lock with those of the nurse who had assailed me with the forms. She's young; a little younger than me, probably about Donna's age. But in that frozen moment the dangerous glare she gives me makes me feel like I am being reprimanded by someone much older. My mind brings up an image of a sour-faced teacher, lightly slapping a ruler in her palm as she approaches an unruly student.

But still, I'm surprised to find myself turning from the exit and instead moving further into the hospital. I think I go down the hall leading to the exam rooms more to get away from the judgmental nurse than to respond to Donna's call.

I easily find the correct room. There are not many occupied rooms, but that's not the reason why; it's more because of the noise and activity that I can hear behind the partially open door. I push it open far enough to see the chaos taking place. Mark is fighting tooth and nail to be anywhere but here (I know what that's like, Markie) while Donna is doing her best to hug the kid into submission. There's a doctor watching from the relative safety of the back of the room, and the older nurse is sitting in a chair with her hand covering her nose. Neither of them is attempting to help Donna, although knowing her, she probably wouldn't have accepted their help. She is very possessive of Mark. That should make me jealous, but it doesn't.

Donna sees me approach and the gratitude (and what else? Surprise?) on her face makes me feel like a world-class heel. Just two minutes ago I'd been thinking about bolting. If she hadn't cried out for me at just that moment. . .

Mark notices his mother's reaction and he looks my way. "Daddy!" he sobs, reaching out toward me.

Even a world-class heel can't refuse a sobbing four-year-old. I come fully into the room and pick Mark up off the bed. His small body is almost hot from the adrenaline-fueled frenzy. He seems to be having a hard time catching his breath, and the cut above his eye is still bleeding. I look for a place to sit with my boy, but the nurse is still occupying the only chair in the room, so I opt for hoisting myself onto the bed. Donna is trying to sort herself out a little, fixing her clothes and hair. She also seems to be having trouble catching her breath.

"What the hell happened in here?" I ask, not really directing it at anyone specific, just to whoever is willing to explain.

The doctor comes forward, although he gives Mark a wide berth as if he doesn't trust that he's over his outburst. "Sir? I'm Dr. Rose. I was just explaining to the boy's mother –"

"Mark. His name is Mark." Donna has apparently taken all the time she needed to recover.

The doctor begins again. "I was explaining that Mark needs stitches, and the best way to do that safely and painlessly would be to inject a local anesthetic." He pauses. "Mark was . . . resistant."

I see the needle the doctor is holding and I trade glances with Donna. "Resistant of a needle bigger than him?" I look back to the doctor. "Did that really surprise you?"

The nurse seems to have recovered as well, although as she takes her hand from her face I see her eyes are red and watery. She rises to stand near the doctor, out of Mark's reach.

"No matter his resistance – this is the best way to properly stitch the wound." Her voice is slightly nasal, and she wiggles her nose occasionally as she speaks. "Unless you'd rather us suture it with no anesthetic."

Donna sits next to Mark and me on the bed. She takes her hands and places them on the sides of Mark's face, looking at him with motherly resolve. I know that look. This is the face she gets when Mark drops his ice cream cone because he's running and goofing on the boardwalk, and he can't understand why we don't just get him another cone. This is the face she gets when Mark has to be banished to the back seat of the Studebaker because he's unable to sit still in the front, constantly wiggling and playing with the window and the mirror and the ash tray. It's time to try to get the four-year-old to understand logic.

Maybe he'll surprise me by listening. He is almost five.

Donna looks askance at me. "What are you grinning about?"

"Sorry."

She returns her gaze to Mark. "Mark, I need you to listen to me." She pauses. "Are you listening to me?"

"Yes, Momma."

"Are you looking at me? Can you see how serious I am right now?"

"You're holding his face prisoner, where else could he look," I mutter. Without moving her hands from Mark's face, Donna is still able to elbow me in the side. It's not a simple jab, considering Mark's in my lap and partially blocking my body. But she accomplishes it. It's even a little painful.

If I look down and to the side a little, I can just see Mark's face. He is somberly regarding his mother as she continues speaking.

"You heard Dr. Rose. He needs to close the owie on your head – do you know how doctors and nurses do that? They use a needle and a special type of thread."

I can feel Mark jerk in my arms. "Like when you fixed my coat? They want to sew me?"

I'm grinning again. I can't help it. I think Donna even has to suppress a smile.

"Kind of. . . But that's what they have to do to fix you."

Mark pulls away from his mother's hands, and I can feel the fear rising in his body. His breathing quickens, his heart is a hummingbird beating against my chest. "It's going to hu-urrt," he whines.

Donna doesn't disagree. She doesn't pander much with the kid. "Yes, it will. But if you let the doctor give you the shot, it will only hurt a little bit. The shot will make your forehead go to sleep, and you won't even feel them sew your owie closed. But, baby – if you don't let the doctor give you the shot, then you'll feel them sewing, and that will hurt a lot more."

I can see the consternation on Mark's face as he processes his mother's words. He turns his head slightly in the direction of the doctor. The man has moved forward, and he nods at Mark now. "Your mother's right," he says. "The medicine I have in this needle will make your 'owie' numb. You won't be able to feel it when we put the stitches in. It will be very fast, and then you can go back home."

"What do you think, young— Mark? I know you don't know me, but you trust your mother, right? She wouldn't lie to you."

No, Donna doesn't pander, and she doesn't lie. She might omit facts once in a while, I mean, you can't tell a four-year-old everything – but she doesn't lie to him.

Well, except concerning me. I have a feeling there's been more than a few times when she's bent the truth to Mark about my whereabouts, my absences, the reason for my absences.

Mark heaves a shuddering sigh and returns the doctor's nod with an infinitesimal one of his own. Suddenly Dr. Rose and the nurse are all business. The doctor checks and adjusts the syringe, then directs the nurse to get Mark back on the bed. As the nurse reaches for Mark I unconsciously clench him tighter, and Donna moves in front of me to prevent the nurse from taking Mark from my arms. The nurse sighs noisily. I can tell she's just as tired of this whole scene as the rest of us are.

"Can't he just stay in my lap?" I look between the doctor and the nurse. "Can't you just do that part like this, and then lay him down for the stitches?" I call upon my best smile, the one that gets things done.

The smile rarely fails me. I hold Mark's upper body tightly, and Donna provides backup. We do our best to keep his head motionless. The doctor is quick and efficient. He is able to put two quick pricks into Mark's head, one on either side of the injury, and it takes maybe ten seconds.

"It'll numb up fast. Just a few minutes." The nurse already has a small metal table near the bed with the necessary tools. "If you'll put him on the bed, please."

Once Mark is on the bed I move back, ready to let Donna take the reins again. But as the nurse and doctor approach, my son's glazed eyes seek me out and he calls to me.

"Daddy, don't go! Daddy. . . sing."