Hidden Scars by InitialLuv
Chapter Seven
DONNA
When Mark beckons to his father, plaintively asking him to sing, I think it has finally become too much for Mickey. I see the tense muscles in his body, the dark shadows under his eyes, and the anxious glances around the room like he's afraid the walls are getting too close. I know I'm asleep on my feet and Mark is awake purely on fear-based adrenaline, but I realize that after his long weekend, Mickey must be physically and mentally exhausted.
The exhausted man slowly walks back to the bed and his waiting son. I am standing at one side of the bed; Mickey drops into the chair the nurse has recently vacated, and he moves it so he is opposite me. He looks up at the doctor, who has just returned to the head of the bed after disposing of the syringe and re-scrubbing his hands.
"Can I sit here? I'm not in the way, am I?"
Dr. Rose gives Mickey an approving nod, and I'll be damned if the old bat of a nurse doesn't put a reassuring hand on Mickey's shoulder. I feel my mouth opening slightly, and I snap it shut before my disbelief can be witnessed. I don't know if it's because I'm a woman and he's a man, or because of that smile, but apparently while I am persona non grata, Mickey has become the fair-haired boy.
"Daddy?" Mark's eyes are shifting around the room in an eerie resemblance to his father's furtive glances. My son scrabbles with his hand toward Mickey, and Mickey grasps the thin, blood-smeared fingers. The doctor begins cleaning Mark's wound, and there's no reaction from my son – apparently the anesthetic did its job. But when that part of the ordeal is over and Mark can see the surgical needle now being readied above his head, he again implores for his father to rescue him.
"Make it better, Daddy. Sing."
And Mickey starts to sing.
"Chi-baba, chi-baba, Chihuahua,
Enjilava kooka la goomba,
Chi-baba, chi-baba, Chihuahua,
My bambino go to sleep."
I realize with a start that it's the same song Mickey was humming in the apartment when we were trying to tend to Mark after his fall. It's an old Perry Como tune that Mickey used to sing to Mark as a lullaby when he was just a baby. I don't think I've heard him sing it for over three years.
Mark is enthralled by his father's soft croon. His eyes are riveted on Mickey's face and he is completely unaware that Dr. Rose has begun suturing his head. Mickey, encouraged by Mark's amazing change in composure, continues into the next verse. If memory serves, he changes the words a little.
"All the stars are in the skies ready to say good night,
Can't you see your mother's sleepy, too?
Close your drowsy little eyes, Papa will hold you tight,
While he sings a lullaby to you."
And then it's the nonsense words again. I remember how Mark would laugh at those words once he was old enough to understand that they were funny. Mickey would play up the words with goofy faces, eventually getting Mark giggling uncontrollably. It was a little at cross-purposes with getting him to sleep, but that giggle was intoxicating.
This man right here, right now – this is the man I fell in love with.
This is the man who uses that same soft croon to serenade me with Ritchie Valens' "Donna" while we're cuddled together in bed. This is the man who once snuck out onto the fire escape on Christmas Eve to jingle bells outside Mark's window, his eyes bright as he vicariously imagined Mark's reaction to the possibility of Santa being right outside the apartment.
This is the man who had accompanied me to my mother's funeral when Mark was barely four months old, even though he knew he wouldn't be accepted or welcomed or appreciated by the mourners. It had been a small, bare affair, with only Ron, my brother's little family, and a few distant relations completing my limited relatives. There were friends in attendance of course, and I know many were confused by the open hostility most of my family had for Mickey, and by relation, for me and Mark. But Mickey had taken it in stride. He'd ignored the looks, the thinly veiled disgust, the not-so-quiet disparaging comments. He had come with me for me. He had stood next to me with his strong hand massaging my back as I had held my infant son in my arms and quietly sobbed.
I don't see this man that much anymore. I had been afraid he no longer existed.
The doctor has finished stitching Mark's head, and the nurse is applying a bandage. Mickey has ceased singing, instead reverting back to a light hum, and he glances up at me with a self-satisfied grin, obviously proud of himself. Then the grin falters, replaced with a quizzical look of concern.
I realize I am crying.
Mark is almost down for the count after his injury is stitched and covered. His last coherent comment is directed to Dr. Rose, delivered in a business-like manner.
"Rose is a girl's name."
The doctor chuckles good-naturedly. Even though the childish criticism can easily be dismissed as fatigued ramblings, I feel I have to explain."We have neighbors. Daisy and Rose. They're twins."
Mickey chimes in. "And they have a guinea pig named Tulip."
Dr. Rose's grin catches me off guard; it's wide and completely candid. "Well, when you come back to get Mark's stitches out, look to see if I'm here. And then I can tell him my first name."
The doctor leaves the room. Once he's out of earshot, the nurse turns to us and says in confidence. "It's Shelley. His first name is Shelley."
After the last two hours of excitement, the checking out of the hospital and the ride back to the apartment is anti-climactic. Mark is in my arms again, having slept in the car the entire way home. My legs feel like lead as I climb the staircase, and I stand wavering at the threshold while Mickey unlocks the door. He enters first, then holds the door open so I can follow.
The apartment is a mess. The left-over chicken and half-drunk beer is still on the table. Mickey's chair is tipped over. I didn't even realize he'd gotten up that quickly. And of course, there's the dried puddle of blood on the living room floor.
I feel like I'm going to be ill. My legs don't want to move. There's a disconcerting rushing sound in my ears. I shake my head, hard, and see little spots before my eyes.
"Donna?" Mickey says my name with intensity, and I get the impression he's been repeatedly calling me.
"Yes, Mickey?" And then I can't help it, I'm laughing hysterically. I start to half-sing, half-scream: "How do you call your Lover Boy? Come here, Lover Boy!"
Yes, we both have songs.
Mickey gently takes Mark from my arms, then holds his sleeping form against his shoulder while he guides me to the sofa and attempts to make me sit. I recover somewhat, swallowing and shaking my head again.
"No. No, I just want to go to bed. I'm okay, Mickey, I'm just. . . done in."
The guiding hand changes direction and assists me to the bedroom. I'm too tired to change out of my clothes, only stepping out of my shoes before I climb into the bed. Once Mickey sees that I'm settled, he bends down to place Mark next to me. I turn to my son, smooth back his curls, and kiss the bandage hiding the seven stitches.
I'm vaguely aware of Mickey slipping into the bed on the other side, of his hand crossing over Mark's body to take mine, and then I am asleep.
NOTES FOR THE ABOVE CHAPTER:
- The song that Mickey sings in the hospital is "Chi-Baba, Chi-Baba (My Bambino Go To Sleep)" originally performed by Perry Como (1947). Written by Al Hoffman, Jerry Livingston, and Mack David.
In the verse that Mickey changes, the original lyrics are:
All the stars are in the skies ready to say good night,
Can't you see your doll is sleepy, too?
Close your drowsy little eyes, mama will hold you tight,
While she sings a lullaby to you.
- The song that Donna sings in the apartment is "Love is Strange" by Mickey and Sylvia (1956). Written by Bo Diddley. Discerning readers will recognize it from a cabin scene in the movie Dirty Dancing.
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