Hidden Scars by InitialLuv

Chapter Eight

DONNA – TWO WEEKS LATER

As our trio gradually recovered from our hospital experience, the next few days passed in a kind of distorted normalcy. Mickey came and went, but stayed close like he had promised. Mark and I went downstairs to invite Daisy and Rose to the apartment for Mark's birthday. While I was talking to the girls' mother, we'd suddenly heard twin screams of horror from the other room. I had jumped up in a terrified kind of déjà vu, running toward the squeals, only to find that Mark had peeled back the bandage on his head to give Daisy and Rose an up close and personal view of his stitched wound. When I had hastily said "Sorry" and shuttled Mark back upstairs, he'd surprised me by being shamelessly unapologetic.

"Daddy said girls like scars. I wanted to show Rose."

I knew I would talk to Mickey later about that bit of advice. But I had bypassed the first comment, instead intrigued by the latter. "Didn't you want to show Daisy?"

"No. . . I like Rose. She's more pretty."

"Prettier," I had corrected, and then had pointed out, "Mark, they're identical twins. That means they look exactly the same."

He had shaken his head stubbornly. "No. Not to me."

Mickey and Mark had been almost inseparable at first. When Mickey was home, Mark had padded around the apartment after his father from sunup to sundown. Morning would find them in the bathroom, Mark sitting on the edge of the tub watching his father shave. They'd have breakfast together, go out together for a ride in the Studebaker, come home to eat lunch together.

Mark had even seemed to try to rectify his previous apathy toward the piano. He had sat next to Mickey on the bench, carefully watching his father's fingers bring melody out of the white and black keys. Mickey had given quiet, patient instruction, and when Mark had finally been able to plink out the eight note "Do, Re, Mi" scale, he'd squealed with delight, jumping up from the bench to give me a hug. Mickey had hung back at the piano, no longer playing, just soberly watching the two of us.

It might have been then when I had started to notice the change. I realized I had almost been expecting it. I think ever since I got that precognition in the hospital about Mickey disappearing, I had been waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Mickey suddenly became withdrawn and moody. He rose early and left the house before Mark was awake, and made excuses for why Mark couldn't accompany him on the daily errands. If Mickey was actually at home at night, he rarely came to bed, instead claiming he'd unexpectedly fallen asleep on the sofa.

There was a two-day "show." And when Mickey had returned from that trip Monday night, he'd come home with no gift for Mark.

Mark's birthday had only been a few days away at that point, and I had taken him aside and hinted that Mickey was probably saving his souvenir for a birthday gift. Mark had seemed appeased by my explanation, but the smile he'd given me was faint and brief. He had also noticed the change in his father.

Mickey hadn't been home longer than a day before he'd told me he would be flying out to yet another gig in just a few days. I'd barely had the energy to react. My response had been out of duty, not honesty.

"Mark's birthday is Friday. You said you'd be here."

"I said I'd do my best." Mickey had actually come to bed that night, but it had been like there was a wall between us in the bed.

"Your best for us, or your best for you?"

Mickey hadn't responded, and I had turned away from him so that he couldn't see the tears welling in my eyes.

Mark's birthday has come and gone. Mickey has just. . . gone.

When Mickey had left on Thursday, there had been no clear indication that he might not return. His good-byes had been routine, his actions normal and lacking guile. It makes me wonder if something unexpected happened to prevent him from coming home, from even calling. But either way, he's still gone . . . and I'm beginning to realize that this time, it's for good.

The Monday after Mark's birthday, we return to the hospital to have his stitches removed. We take the bus. The boy I bring into the hospital is a subdued shell of the one whom I had carried in just two weeks prior. There are no howls of pain, no pleadings for comfort, no chaotic fits. He rests quietly on the bed as the on-call doctor clips and extracts the sutures. When the doctor finishes, he looks appraisingly at Mark's scar.

"Dr. Rose did fine work," he informs me. "You can see – as the scar fades, it'll blend right into his eyebrow. It'll be barely noticeable."

I peer at the thin red line on my son's forehead, still outlined with small dots from the just-removed sutures. "But it'll still be there. The hurt will always be there."

The doctor's frown is puzzled. "Is it still giving him pain? It looks well-healed."

I shake my head, pulling a smile up out of nothingness. "No, I'm sorry, I was talking to myself. He's fine, Dr. Rose really did do a great job. Thank you very much."

I use some of the last cash I have to pay the bill. And as we take the bus back home, I look unseeingly out the window and start running a mental tally of other upcoming bills versus my non-existent income. I need to get a job, which means I'll need a babysitter for Mark. There's practically two months before he starts Kindergarten. I add the cost of a babysitter to my bill tally. I close my eyes as anxiety grips my insides, making me feel nauseous. I can feel sweat breaking out on my upper lip. My hands are trembling.

I suddenly feel two small hands gripping my shaking pair. I open my eyes to see Mark looking up at me, silent tears shining in his eyes. He doesn't say anything, he just stares up at me. But the grasp on my hands is firm, strong.

If he can be strong, I can be too. We have to be. It's just the two of us now.

Epilogue will follow!