CH 126
I arrived at the university promptly at noon and took a deep breath to steel my nerves as I made my way through the foyer and up the marble stairs.
The fall semester was weeks away and the campus was busier than it had been when Claude first arrived. Desks and chairs were stacked up against the wall opposite his room while the admission office on the first floor had a line of students standing in the hallway.
I weaved through a group of people milling around the top of the stairs and made my way to the room where Claude was awaiting his discharge.
The door was slightly ajar and I could hear Claude and Dr. Anderson's muffled exchange about keeping weight off of his ankle for the next five weeks, making certain that the stitches remained dry and clean until they were removed in a week and a half, and keeping the wound to his thigh clean while examining it daily for signs of redness or discharge.
"I'm quite pleased with your progress thus far," Dr. Anderson said to Claude. "I look forward to corresponding with Dr. Khan to see how you heal in the coming weeks."
"You are a Godsend, Dr. Anderson," Claude said. I heard him sniffle. "Truly, I am grateful for the time and attention you and Dr. Khan have given me and of course my patron for his generosity. I don't know what I would have done if not for all of you."
"I am honored to serve as a physician and surgeon, particularly for those who don't receive ample care. Now, if you will excuse me, I shall finish my notes and then officially release you from my care. You have arrangements for suitable housing while you heal, yes? No stairs or long walks?"
"Monsieur and Madame Kire have been kind enough to open their home to both me and my sister. They have made room for me on the first floor in their study."
"Good. Take care, Monsieur Gillis. It has been a pleasure meeting you."
A moment later Dr. Anderson walked into the hall with a clipboard and startled at the sight of me as we nearly collided.
"Oh!" She jumped back and regarded me for a moment, her hand resting over her heart. "Monsieur Kire, I wasn't expecting to see you here in the hall," she said.
"My apologies if I frightened you."
"My fault entirely for not watching where I was going." She patted her auburn hair, which was braided and pulled back into a high and tight bun. The locks at her temple were starting to go silver, the lines at the corners of her eyes deep from either smiling or squinting. There was something pleasantly regal about the way she carried herself. Given all she had endured in order to practice medicine, she had earned the right to carry herself in such a manner. "Would you like to step into the exam room?"
I followed her gaze to a doorway to the right of where Claude had been staying and held my breath, wary of what was beyond the doorway.
"If time allows."
"Plenty of time." Dr. Anderson opened the exam room door and I followed her into a small room with a large window covered by sheer curtains that allowed natural light into the quaint space. There were two wooden stools beside one another, a desk, and a larger wooden table that I assumed was meant for exams as it contained a white sheet and a small rectangular pillow. On the wall were various medical tools on hooks beside a mirror with a crack on the bottom left corner.
The space had a peculiar odor, musty undertones covered by a cleaning agent. It wasn't strong, but it was noticeable and somewhat sour. I assumed the musty smell was from the window left open a time or two as the bottom sill appeared slightly warped from water damage.
"You may take a seat," she offered, gesturing toward both the table and the stools. "Wherever you think you would be more comfortable.
I chose the table. "Sitting or lying down?" I asked.
"Sitting," she said. "Make yourself comfortable."
Nothing about the room suggested comfort, but I took a seat and gripped the edge of the table. My legs were long enough where my feet touched the floor, but nothing about the situation was comfortable. I focused on my own erratic breathing while Dr. Anderson perched on one of the stools and finished her notes.
"How are you this afternoon?" she asked without looking at me.
"Uncertain of whether I've made the correct decision to be examined," I answered.
"I see." Her gaze flitted up and met mine. "When was the last time you were under the care of a physician?"
"In my early twenties," I said. "By Dr. Khan."
She paused in her writing, but said nothing that confirmed she was quite taken aback by my statement. "Let's start with some questions first. Date of birth?"
"The twenty-eighth of December, eighteen forty-seven."
"How many surviving siblings?"
"As far as I am aware I have one older brother."
"Are your parents still living?"
I shook my head. "No, but I do have maternal grandparents that are still living."
"Ah, yes, the reason behind you learning Danish. Det er godt."
"Not as good as I would like," I muttered.
Dr. Anderson stood and set her clipboard on the table beside me. She wiped her hands with a towel, then stepped in front of me and squared her shoulders. "Would you remove the mask?"
My heart thudded. I stared back at her, my hands wrapped around the edge of the table as if I could anchor myself to safety. The edges of my vision threatened to go dark as I considered my time spent with the traveling fair and the humiliation that accompanied months of being displayed. I thought of Christine removing my mask and the terror in her eyes when she saw the monster before her. I thought of how Julia and Alex would have reacted when they saw my bloodied face if I'd been in any state to open my swollen eyes the night they had come to my aid in the alley.
I swallowed and took a deep, trembling breath before I slid my fingers under the edge of the mask at my jaw. I hesitated for one agonizing moment, dreading Dr. Anderson's reaction.
Would she scream, I wondered. Would she inhale sharply in surprise and turn away? Would she collapse in horror, an unconscious heap on the floor?
"I've seen every imaginable wound, injury, and scar," she assured me, her voice soft and even. "As promised, I will not make any written notes and my findings will not be published or shared with anyone else."
I closed my eyes and lifted the mask up and over my head, breath held as I waited for her audible reaction of sheer repulsion.
"Raise your chin, please," she said, her voice unwavering.
I did as she instructed, keeping my eyes closed as I dreaded her expression. No matter the wounds she had seen previously, I was certain there was nothing that compared to the scars I'd had since birth.
"Turn your head to the left."
I did as she asked, my right eye slit open for a glimpse of her expression. Her eyes were slightly narrowed, head turned to the side as she looked at my ear and jaw. I flinched when she ran her fingers over my cheek and along the bridge of my nose.
Does that hurt?" she asked.
"No, I…I will attempt to remain still."
"Apologies aren't necessary. Was your nose broken at some point?" she asked.
"No," I started to say, but paused. "I suppose it could have been when I was younger, but I'm not certain."
Dr. Anderson nodded. "There is a slight bump," she observed. "It looks as though perhaps it healed on its own without being straightened out."
Gooseflesh rose along my forearms and I swallowed, my gaze pinned on some distant point across the room. There had been a handful of times that I had been struck hard in the face, my nose bloodied.
"I suppose it could have been…"
"Do you have problems with your sinuses? Headaches? Trouble breathing when you sleep or when you wake in the morning?"
"Nothing notable," I replied. "Was it a bad break?"
Dr. Anderson frowned. "I've seen worse. This adds character," she said.
I grunted in response.
"How many hours per day do you typically wear your mask?" she asked, running her index finger along my temple.
"With a guest within our home it has been quite frequently, however, when it is my immediate family I wear the mask only when I am in public."
"The mask causes irritation to your flesh," she stated. "On your cheek beneath your eye and the corner of your mouth. The cheek is more noticeable."
I closed my eyes again. "It has become worse the last two days," I admitted. "Irritated from perspiration and the heat."
"Yes, I see that. What have you been using to treat it?"
"My wife applied a salve to it last night and I cleaned it this morning," I said. "An ointment I have used for many years. Ordered from London."
"Dr. Germaine's? It has a green label, I believe."
"Yes."
"Good, continue to use the salve and clean those areas morning, noon, and night. Once you've cleaned the wounds, allow your skin to breathe for at least twenty minutes after each cleansing and then apply the salve. And allow the skin to breathe as often as possible until it has scabbed over. Understood?"
I offered a slight nod of acknowledgment.
"Tell me about your parents. Where were they from?"
"My mother was born in Denmark. My father I am not sure of where he was born or raised."
"Was your father a musician?"
"No, I believe he was a fisherman," I answered.
"What was his health like?"
"He drank himself to death."
Dr. Anderson sniffed. "And your mother? What was her health like?"
"She suffered from disorders of the mind," I replied. "She was unable to care for children."
"Were you raised by other relatives?"
"No."
"Did you live with your parents?"
I felt my heart stutter. Her questions seemed irrelevant to the exam, but still I answered. "I lived with my uncle briefly when I was quite young, but with my mother and father as well until I was twelve."
"What happened when you were twelve?"
"I returned to my uncle," I said. "Until he passed away ten months later."
"And then where did you live?"
"Paris."
"Alone?"
"With a friend," I vaguely answered. "A friend who became my family."
"Sometimes the best family is the ones who choose us. Turn your head to the right."
I did as she asked. My eyes remained closed, my mind gathering images of my mother in her rocking chair and my father teetering down the cellar stairs. I saw the seashore I had frequented as a child and the alleys where I searched for food. I remembered my father standing over me with his hand raised as he prepared to strike me. I remembered my mother muttering to herself, the same strange words over and over. Kong Toke, she would sing, soft melodies of her Viking father. My parents had never accepted me. I hoped that in two week's time, Hilda and Toke would be more welcoming of their adult grandson.
"Relax your shoulders," Dr. Anderson gently said.
"I apologize," I said under my breath, my eyes pinched tightly shut.
"Not necessary," she replied. "Did either of your parents have scars similar to yours that you can recall?"
I shook my head.
"What was your relationship with your parents like?" she questioned.
I paused for an agonizingly long moment, unsure of how to answer without continuing a line of questioning I had no desire to answer. "I didn't have a relationship with either of them," I said tightly. "My father was burdened by my presence and my mother frightened of me."
"Because of these marks?"
"Yes. Why else?"
"Did your father break your nose when you were younger?"
Heat seared up the back of my neck. He broke everything, I wanted to say, even parts of me that I had no idea could be destroyed.
"Why the interest in an old injury?" I asked.
"Patient history."
I stared back at her for a moment, waiting for her to show the true repulsion I knew she had to feel at the sight of me. Belligerent thoughts crowded out what little sensibility I possessed and I silently dared her to question me further.
Instead she took a step back and linked her hands together. "Claude mentioned you have two children. Do either of them possess similar marks?"
"No, but my daughter is from my wife's previous marriage."
"Your son is blood-related to you, yes?"
"He is and he has no marks upon him. He is perfect," I answered. "However, even if he did resemble me, I would not be cruel to him, if that is what you are wondering."
Dr. Anderson simply nodded and regarded me again in silence.
Abscently I reached up and ran my index finger along the bridge of my nose where the physician had indicated the bone had been broken. I'd noticed the flawed curve in my features and the protrusion that had been there for as long as I could recall, but hadn't thought much of it.
"I don't know what I could have done that would warrant being struck in the face hard enough to break my nose," I said under my breath.
My skin prickled at the thought of what I had endured. There was nothing Alex could have said or done that would have made me tighten my hand into a fist and strike him. But he was not me. He was wonderful, a true gift, and I was not. I was a terrible child, always running away…
I cleared my throat. "Better a nose than a finger for a musician and composer," I commented.
Dr. Anderson shifted her weight, but made no remark. Her expression was everything I was not in that moment: calm, collected, and compassionate.
"My father knew that no matter what he did, I would not fight him," I said. "He could club me in the back with his fists or drive his boot into my kidneys and I would…I would take whatever punishment he served up. Without complaint, without protest, without ever considering striking him in return."
I could see him in the back of my mind, goading me to stand up, taunting me as he pointed at his own face and challenged me to do my worst to him. He would dare me to punch him in the face as he took on the stance of a prize fighter and shifted back and forth, stumbling in the cellar. He was far too intoxicated to be light on his feet, and when he fell to the ground, I knew he would do his worst to me.
Stinking drunk and blinded by his rage, he would climb to his feet and teeter before me, greasy hair obscuring his eyes, mouth bloodied from whatever tavern brawl had sent him home prematurely. Rage coursed through him, day and night.
"Do it," he would say through his clenched, crooked teeth. "I know you want to, boy. Come on now."
I was defiant in one moment and obsequious in the next, beaten bloody but not once uttering a sound or complying in the way he wished. I had no desire to fight him, to be him.
"It angered him when he went looking for a fight and I would not give him one. I believe it truly enraged him to know that no matter what, I would not inherit his malice."
"How often did this occur?"
"Frequently," I answered. My blood had turned to ice, my body numb as the past bore down on me.
"That was how you stood up to him," Dr. Anderson said. "By not becoming him."
I suppressed a shiver. "I had forgotten that part."
"Perhaps from this day forward you will remember your strengths."
I blinked at her. "Perhaps."
"What is this here?" she asked, running her finger over the thin scar that disappeared into my hairline. "This appears to be newer."
"From an accident in the spring," I said, deciding I had told her enough truth. I closed my eyes again and swallowed. "An injury from a fall."
Dr. Anderson fell silent for a long moment and I agonized over what she was thinking. I grappled with the thought of her knowing I spoke untruthfully to her.
"Would you unbutton your shirt?"
I opened my eyes and hesitated. Dr. Anderson offered a nod of reassurance, and at last I relented and fit the buttons through the first three holes.
"To the last one, if you would, Monsieur Kire."
In silence I honored her request, my mind gauzy and fingertips numb. She placed an instrument against my chest, a long metal device that looked similar to the end of a trumpet with a thin tube attached to a bell-shaped object that fit into the physician's ear.
"Breathe normally," she said.
Normal seemed impossible. I took two short, quick breaths, then inhaled deeply and held it.
Dr. Anderson removed the bell-shaped piece from her ear and smiled at me. "Like this," she said, inhaling and exhaling several times. "Like you are relaxed and writing your beautiful music."
Music was hardly relaxing when I was in the midst of composing, but I didn't protest. I took several breaths, which seemed to take most of my concentration as I worried that somehow Dr. Anderson would find additional abnormalities.
At last she removed the instrument from my chest and told me to sit forward. She stood, slid her hand and the device up my back where she asked me to breathe again.
"What are you doing?" I tersely asked, my body rigid.
"Listening to your heart and lungs," she explained. "An indication of your overall health. Deep breaths again, please."
My jaw tensed. I forced air in and out of my lungs, my hands in fists and mouth dry. I waited for her to feel along my spine, to note the raised scars from Persia that criss-crossed over my back. I would not answer any of her questions regarding the floggings that had taken place two decades earlier and if she insisted that this was part of her examination, I would immediately remove myself from the room and return home at once, awaiting Claude's arrival by ambulance.
"A strong, healthy, heartbeat and clear lungs," Dr. Anderson said once she removed the device and placed it on the table beside me. She met my eye again, her expression unwavering. "Is there anything regarding your overall health that you wish to discuss or mention?"
"Nothing comes to mind."
She nodded once and grabbed a clean rag and an amber bottle from a metal cabinet and wiped down the instrument she had placed against my chest and back.
"Where did your musical talent come from?" she asked.
Words of depreciation sat lodged in the back of my throat. I was an anomaly; an individual who didn't fit in anywhere. My desire to create sound was seen as simply a disturbance by my father, not talent.
But my father was not the only person who occupied the house.
"My mother sang frequently."
Night and day, in fact, rocking in her chair as she hummed or softly muttered words I thought were nonsense.
"She had no formal training, but her voice was quite lovely."
"I can tell by the look in your eyes that you were fond of her singing."
I battled against the self-loathing aching to spring forth. She would not have wanted me to listen to her songs, to share in something so intimate as her achingly gentle voice. She didn't sing for me, for the demon residing beneath the floorboards. Indeed, I was certain that if I had uttered a sound, she would have stopped , just as she did whenever my father returned home.
"Music was the only thing I had in common with either one of my parents," I said.
The only link to my mother was one she never knew existed. Something deep inside of me ached with regret for what I would never have with her.
"Do your children play any instruments?"
"My son could if he desired and my daughter is more interested in listening. However, my wife is expecting our third child."
Dr. Anderson smiled back at me knowingly. "Congratulations to you and Madame Kire. Perhaps this third child will take after you, like the Hartmann family of composers and artists."
"That would be quite remarkable."
Dr. Anderson clasped her hands. "Well, Monsieur Kire, I believe the scars, as you call them, were most likely caused in utero," she explained as she turned and removed the mirror from the wall. She held it in front of me and I stared back at my mangled reflection. "The epidermis did not develop, which resulted in the overall redness in some areas and this yellowing here on your cheek as well as your temple where the flesh appears almost like the webbing of a duck's foot," she said, pointing at the areas while she spoke. "Did you shave this morning?"
"Hair doesn't grow on this side of my face where shaving daily is necessary," I said.
"The hair on your scalp is also thinner, yes? Beneath the hairpiece?"
I nodded, feeling somewhat self-conscious that she was aware of the wig despite her profession.
"The dermis is quite thin in some areas, but I'm not certain why. I've seen many birth injuries and children born with port wine stains, hare lips, and the like. I don't recall seeing anything to this extent, however."
My heart sank. "I see."
Dr. Anderson returned the mirror to the wall. "Are you familiar with the terms I have used?"
"Somewhat. I've read medical texts in the past when they were available."
"Beneath your eye where you've scratched your flesh raw," she said. "The hypodermis is lacking the top layers of skin, so it tears easier and becomes more irritated if the conditions are unfavorable. Your skin burns quite easily in the sunlight, correct?"
"I do not typically have my face exposed to sunlight." I paused, thinking back to the same time period in which I had been flogged. "Overall I've been cautious with exposure to light."
Twenty years earlier, the Sultana had not permitted me to wear my mask when I was outside of the palace, and my face had not simply burned from the sunlight, but it had blistered within a matter of hours. I had forgotten how sensitive my flesh had been beneath the Persian sun, how the damage to my flesh had repulsed even me. I had gasped the first time the right side of my visage had become sunburned, afraid it would never heal, such was the extent of the damage.
"Would it be possible to obtain a mask made of a different material so that the skin is able to breathe better? Cotton, perhaps?"
"My wife is a seamstress. I'm certain she could create something more suitable."
"Good." She ran her finger along the scar that Julia had sewn up months earlier, the one that trailed into my hairline and a good inch past my hairpiece. "This was stitched closed?"
"Yes."
"Whoever closed the cut did a fine job," she praised. "That is certainly not an easy part of the body to sew up again, especially considering that the skin is so thin here."
"Is correction possible?" I asked suddenly. "To add to the missing layers you mentioned?"
I wasn't sure why I inquired. I had little desire to undergo surgery, but I had even less desire to continue looking like a piece of raw meat.
Dr. Anderson frowned and I felt my shoulders sag. Of course it was not possible. I was not like anything else she'd ever laid eyes on.
"There isn't much I could do in terms of adding to the dermis, but I think it could be replaced with healthy tissue from a different part of your anatomy," Dr. Anderson replied. "I can provide further information on the procedure and what the surgery entails once I've returned home. If you are willing to travel to London, the procedure can be done in my clinic, however, if you prefer staying in Paris, I have another visit scheduled in January and I will inquire about the surgical suite here at the university."
"How many people would oversee the procedure?"
Dr. Anderson seemed unsurprised by inquiry. "I believe Dr. Khan would be the only assistant required for such a surgery. Would that suit you?"
"I will consider it," I answered.
"Very well." She handed me my mask and took a step back so that I could stand. "We shall discuss your options via post."
I turned my head away and fit my mask into place, immediately feeling the discomfort of the barrier against my tender cheek. Once I returned home, I had every intention of locking myself up in my bedroom with my mask cast aside for the rest of the afternoon.
"You did very well today, Monsieur Kire," Dr. Anderson praised. "It has been a pleasure serving as your physician, and I very sincerely hope our paths cross again in the future."
