always wondered why more people don’t do it.
Candace is stammering—not sure what Candace is stammering—drawing a forefinger gingerly along the scabby cut in her daughter’s scalp—“Not to have a doctor look at it, Kimi—it should have had stitches—I should have known . . .”
Not even begun to qualify as a mother.
Kimi pushes Candace’s hands away. Kimi is flush-faced as if her soft smooth cheeks have been slapped.
“Mom, I told you—it’s just nothing. If there’d been stitches—they’d have shaved my head, think how ugly that would be.” Kimi makes a fastidious little face, in unconscious mimicry of her mother.
“But, Kimi—not to tell me about it, even . . .”
Kimi scuttles away drawing her knees to her chest. Candace is surprised as always by the fleshiness of her daughter’s thighs, hips—the swell of her breasts. And now the hostility in Kimi’s eyes, that are red-rimmed, thin-lashed as if she has been rubbing at them irritably with a fist.
You don’t know this child. This is not your child.
See the hate in her eyes! For you.
“That really bothers you, Mom—doesn’t it? That you were not told .”
“Yes of course. Of course—it bothers me. I was summoned to this terrible woman’s office—in your school—‘Lee W. Weedle, Ph.D.’ It was an occasion for your school psychologist to terrify and humiliate me—and to threaten me.”
“Threaten you? How?”
“She might report your ‘injuries’ to—some authority. ‘Abuse hotline’—something like that.”
“But—I told them—my ‘injuries’ are accidental. They can’t make me testify to anyone hurting me because no one did .”
“This cut in your scalp—does it hurt now? Does it throb?”
“No, Mom. It does not throb .”
“It could become infected . . .”
“It could not become infected. I told you—Scotti swabbed disinfectant on it. And anyway it doesn’t hurt. I’ve forgotten about it, actually.”
Candace lunges—clumsily— this is what a mom would do, impulsively— to hug Kimi and to kiss the top of Kimi’s head, the ugly zipper-scab hidden beneath the feathery hair as Kimi stiffens in alarm, then giggles, embarrassed—“Jeez, Mom! I’m OK.”
Candace shuts her eyes, presses her warm face against Kimi’s warm scalp, disheveled hair. She is fearful of what comes next and would like to clutch at Kimi for a little longer but the girl is restless, perspiring—resisting.
“Mom, hey? OK please? I need to work now, Mom—I have homework.”
“Yes, but—it can wait for a minute more. Please show me your shoulders now, and your upper arms. Dr. Weedle said—you’re bruised there . . .”
“What? Show you— what ? No!”
Now Kimi shrinks away, furious. Now Kimi raises her knees to her chest, prepares to use her elbows against Mom.
Candace is trembling. Is this abuse?— this ? Asking her fourteen-year-old daughter to partly disrobe for her, to submit to an examination?
Candace is in terror, for maybe she is to blame. In her sleep, in an alcoholic-drug blackout, abusing her own daughter and forgetting it?
Kimi is more fiercely protective of her body beneath her clothes than she was of the wound in her scalp. Panting, crying—“Leave me alone! Don’t touch me! You’re crazy! I hate you!”
Candace kneels on the bed, in the twisted comforter, straddling the resisting daughter. Kimi is shrieking, furious—Candace is trying to pull Kimi’s sweatshirt up—has to pull it partly over her head so that she can see the girl’s shoulders and upper arms—oh this is shocking! frightening!—the bruises Weedle described, on Kimi’s pale soft shoulders—ugly rotted-purple, yellow. In order to see Kimi’s upper arms, Candace has to tug the sweatshirt off Kimi’s head as the girl kicks, curses—“I hate you! I hate you !” Kimi’s fine soft hair crackles with static electricity—Kimi’s eyes are widened, dilated—like a furious snorting animal Kimi brings a knee against
Candace is stammering—not sure what Candace is stammering—drawing a forefinger gingerly along the scabby cut in her daughter’s scalp—“Not to have a doctor look at it, Kimi—it should have had stitches—I should have known . . .”
Not even begun to qualify as a mother.
Kimi pushes Candace’s hands away. Kimi is flush-faced as if her soft smooth cheeks have been slapped.
“Mom, I told you—it’s just nothing. If there’d been stitches—they’d have shaved my head, think how ugly that would be.” Kimi makes a fastidious little face, in unconscious mimicry of her mother.
“But, Kimi—not to tell me about it, even . . .”
Kimi scuttles away drawing her knees to her chest. Candace is surprised as always by the fleshiness of her daughter’s thighs, hips—the swell of her breasts. And now the hostility in Kimi’s eyes, that are red-rimmed, thin-lashed as if she has been rubbing at them irritably with a fist.
You don’t know this child. This is not your child.
See the hate in her eyes! For you.
“That really bothers you, Mom—doesn’t it? That you were not told .”
“Yes of course. Of course—it bothers me. I was summoned to this terrible woman’s office—in your school—‘Lee W. Weedle, Ph.D.’ It was an occasion for your school psychologist to terrify and humiliate me—and to threaten me.”
“Threaten you? How?”
“She might report your ‘injuries’ to—some authority. ‘Abuse hotline’—something like that.”
“But—I told them—my ‘injuries’ are accidental. They can’t make me testify to anyone hurting me because no one did .”
“This cut in your scalp—does it hurt now? Does it throb?”
“No, Mom. It does not throb .”
“It could become infected . . .”
“It could not become infected. I told you—Scotti swabbed disinfectant on it. And anyway it doesn’t hurt. I’ve forgotten about it, actually.”
Candace lunges—clumsily— this is what a mom would do, impulsively— to hug Kimi and to kiss the top of Kimi’s head, the ugly zipper-scab hidden beneath the feathery hair as Kimi stiffens in alarm, then giggles, embarrassed—“Jeez, Mom! I’m OK.”
Candace shuts her eyes, presses her warm face against Kimi’s warm scalp, disheveled hair. She is fearful of what comes next and would like to clutch at Kimi for a little longer but the girl is restless, perspiring—resisting.
“Mom, hey? OK please? I need to work now, Mom—I have homework.”
“Yes, but—it can wait for a minute more. Please show me your shoulders now, and your upper arms. Dr. Weedle said—you’re bruised there . . .”
“What? Show you— what ? No!”
Now Kimi shrinks away, furious. Now Kimi raises her knees to her chest, prepares to use her elbows against Mom.
Candace is trembling. Is this abuse?— this ? Asking her fourteen-year-old daughter to partly disrobe for her, to submit to an examination?
Candace is in terror, for maybe she is to blame. In her sleep, in an alcoholic-drug blackout, abusing her own daughter and forgetting it?
Kimi is more fiercely protective of her body beneath her clothes than she was of the wound in her scalp. Panting, crying—“Leave me alone! Don’t touch me! You’re crazy! I hate you!”
Candace kneels on the bed, in the twisted comforter, straddling the resisting daughter. Kimi is shrieking, furious—Candace is trying to pull Kimi’s sweatshirt up—has to pull it partly over her head so that she can see the girl’s shoulders and upper arms—oh this is shocking! frightening!—the bruises Weedle described, on Kimi’s pale soft shoulders—ugly rotted-purple, yellow. In order to see Kimi’s upper arms, Candace has to tug the sweatshirt off Kimi’s head as the girl kicks, curses—“I hate you! I hate you !” Kimi’s fine soft hair crackles with static electricity—Kimi’s eyes are widened, dilated—like a furious snorting animal Kimi brings a knee against
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