creaking without relief, a deepening growl in the air. The rain isn’t falling. It’s floating, but not in a benign way. I see individual drops. They’re bigger than I’d imagined, rounder, fine-milled buckshot.
All I used to think about was the future. It was bright, shiny. But after the burn, thinking about the future feels wrong in some way, an abstract sin. Is it bad to dream of myself as I was before? To dream I’m hanging with Jay and Emma and maybe Marisol and Sam, before I was The Girl Who Had Acid Thrown in Her Face; we’re all at the beach, playing volleyball, glittering waves, the faint taste of salt and smiling and no sunburn, no bandages, no being stuck for the rest of my life in my room, my bathroom, staring at It?
Staring at the donor site this past Saturday as the surgeon removes the stitches. Me: “Why are they purple?”
Doc shrugs as he tugs the stitches from my hip: “Why not?”
Mom glares at him.
Doc: “How’s the case going? Police any closer to finding out who did it to her?”
Mom slaps the examination table. “Could you not be so cavalier? You’re not rehashing the latest
CSI
episode at the watercooler. She’s right here in front of you. She’s right
here.
You will acknowledge my daughter’s presence, Doctor. Or else we’ll just have to get another surgeon. There are plenty of you out there, but there’s only one Nicole. And you will respect her. Are you clear on that?”
He takes a moment to let Mom’s words bleed into him. He studies me, then he really looks at me. “Nicole, I’m honored to be working on you. Your bravery inspires me. It truly does. I’m sorry, I meant I’m grateful to be working
with
you.”
Mom nods and wipes a tear from her cheek and tries to say thank you but the words are deep in her throat and come in a weak whisper.
The doctor doesn’t need to be grateful. How could one be grateful for having to deal with the Thing that lives on the left side of my face? All of the pretending. It’s dissolving me. Relying on her feels too easy but so good. Dead without her. Deadened without her smile.
I’m
so grateful. She winks at me. I try to wink back. She nods and mouths “I love you.”
Emma on the mend. Nothing else matters.
From the notes of Dr. Julian Nye, Tues 10-26:
Nancy, please transcribe and email the following to Jane Schmidt, Brandywine Hollows High School. Dear Dr. Schmidt, in my session with Nicole Castro tonight, I learned that you are concerned she is overly reliant on her mother. You and I spoke about this prior to your coming on in Nicole’s treatment. As lead therapist in Ms. Castro’s rehabilitation, I ask that you refrain from sabotaging my therapy plan. Your job is a simple one: apprise Nicole’s teachers of her special needs. Sincerely, Julian Nye, MD, PsyD
Dr. Nye, Nicole needs to be getting out and about, not
hiding
out in her house. In my one conversation with her father, he seemed to be of the same mind. You’re doing the Castros a disservice, particularly Mrs. Castro, who is worrying after her daughter 24-7, in prescribing this under siege, batten down the hatches mentality.
Dr. Schmidt, I am convinced that the patient exhibits a latent interest in self-harm, even if she herself is unaware of her inclination at this time. Until we figure out what this is and how it might manifest, if it hasn’t already, I do think it’s appropriate that the Castros “batten down the hatches,” as you so delicately put it. God help you if, while she’s following your “get out and about” admonition, that girl is attacked again.
Tuesday night I set out to eliminate the weak maybes from my suspect list, beginning with Mr. Sabbatini, except I couldn’t eliminate him. He went from weak maybe to what’s going on here after I cracked his Gmail Sent folder.
JS contacted me. I have located what you need. Pick it up Wednesday during my office hours, between 3 and 4pm. Be discreet. If anyone finds out about this, considerable
All I used to think about was the future. It was bright, shiny. But after the burn, thinking about the future feels wrong in some way, an abstract sin. Is it bad to dream of myself as I was before? To dream I’m hanging with Jay and Emma and maybe Marisol and Sam, before I was The Girl Who Had Acid Thrown in Her Face; we’re all at the beach, playing volleyball, glittering waves, the faint taste of salt and smiling and no sunburn, no bandages, no being stuck for the rest of my life in my room, my bathroom, staring at It?
Staring at the donor site this past Saturday as the surgeon removes the stitches. Me: “Why are they purple?”
Doc shrugs as he tugs the stitches from my hip: “Why not?”
Mom glares at him.
Doc: “How’s the case going? Police any closer to finding out who did it to her?”
Mom slaps the examination table. “Could you not be so cavalier? You’re not rehashing the latest
CSI
episode at the watercooler. She’s right here in front of you. She’s right
here.
You will acknowledge my daughter’s presence, Doctor. Or else we’ll just have to get another surgeon. There are plenty of you out there, but there’s only one Nicole. And you will respect her. Are you clear on that?”
He takes a moment to let Mom’s words bleed into him. He studies me, then he really looks at me. “Nicole, I’m honored to be working on you. Your bravery inspires me. It truly does. I’m sorry, I meant I’m grateful to be working
with
you.”
Mom nods and wipes a tear from her cheek and tries to say thank you but the words are deep in her throat and come in a weak whisper.
The doctor doesn’t need to be grateful. How could one be grateful for having to deal with the Thing that lives on the left side of my face? All of the pretending. It’s dissolving me. Relying on her feels too easy but so good. Dead without her. Deadened without her smile.
I’m
so grateful. She winks at me. I try to wink back. She nods and mouths “I love you.”
Emma on the mend. Nothing else matters.
From the notes of Dr. Julian Nye, Tues 10-26:
Nancy, please transcribe and email the following to Jane Schmidt, Brandywine Hollows High School. Dear Dr. Schmidt, in my session with Nicole Castro tonight, I learned that you are concerned she is overly reliant on her mother. You and I spoke about this prior to your coming on in Nicole’s treatment. As lead therapist in Ms. Castro’s rehabilitation, I ask that you refrain from sabotaging my therapy plan. Your job is a simple one: apprise Nicole’s teachers of her special needs. Sincerely, Julian Nye, MD, PsyD
Dr. Nye, Nicole needs to be getting out and about, not
hiding
out in her house. In my one conversation with her father, he seemed to be of the same mind. You’re doing the Castros a disservice, particularly Mrs. Castro, who is worrying after her daughter 24-7, in prescribing this under siege, batten down the hatches mentality.
Dr. Schmidt, I am convinced that the patient exhibits a latent interest in self-harm, even if she herself is unaware of her inclination at this time. Until we figure out what this is and how it might manifest, if it hasn’t already, I do think it’s appropriate that the Castros “batten down the hatches,” as you so delicately put it. God help you if, while she’s following your “get out and about” admonition, that girl is attacked again.
Tuesday night I set out to eliminate the weak maybes from my suspect list, beginning with Mr. Sabbatini, except I couldn’t eliminate him. He went from weak maybe to what’s going on here after I cracked his Gmail Sent folder.
JS contacted me. I have located what you need. Pick it up Wednesday during my office hours, between 3 and 4pm. Be discreet. If anyone finds out about this, considerable
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