I’ll need to take a medical history.”
The wife took a seat and the husband loomed over her, eyes locked on T.W. Odd, though. They were holding hands and T.W. got the impression that the wife was the husband’s tether in some way.
Calling on his training, he took out his Waterman pen and asked the usual questions. The wife did the answering: No known allergies. No surgical procedures. No health problems.
“Ah . . . where are the tattoos?” Please, God, let them not be below the waist.
“On his wrists and his neck.” She looked up at her husband, her eyes luminous. “Show him, darling.”
The man reached to one side and pulled up his sleeve. T.W. frowned, medical curiosity taking over. The black band was incredibly dense, and though he wasn’t an expert on tattooing by a long shot, he could safely say he’d never seen such deep coloration before.
“That is very dark,” he said, leaning in. Something told him not to touch the man unless he had to, and he followed the instinct, keeping his hands to himself. “That is very, very dark.”
They were almost like shackles, he thought.
T.W. eased back into the chair. “I’m not sure whether you’re a good candidate for laser removal. The ink appears to be so dense that at a minimum it’s going to require multiple sessions to make even a dent in the pigmentation.”
“Will you try, though?” the wife asked. “Please?”
T.W.’s eyebrows popped. Please was not a word in the vocabulary of most of the patients down here. And her tone was equally foreign to the locale, its quiet desperation more what you would find in families of patients treated upstairs—those with medical issues that affected their lives, not just their crow’s-feet and laugh lines.
“I can try,” he said, well aware that if she used that tone on him again, she could get him to eat his own legs just to please her.
He looked at the husband. “Would you remove your shirt and get up on the table?”
The wife squeezed the big hand in hers. “It’s okay.”
The husband’s hollow-cheeked, hard-jawed face turned to her, and he seemed to draw tangible strength from her eyes. After a moment he went over to the table, got his huge body up on the thing, and removed his turtleneck.
T.W. left his chair and walked around—
He froze. The man’s back was covered with scars. Scars . . . that looked like they had been left by whips.
In his entire medical career he had seen nothing even resembling this—and knew it must have been left by some kind of torture.
“My tats, Doc,” the husband said in a nasty tone. “You’re supposed to be eyeballing my tats, thank you very much.”
As T.W. blinked, the husband shook his head. “This isn’t going to work—”
The wife rushed forward. “No, it will. It—”
“Let’s find someone else.”
T.W. came around to face the man, blocking the way to the door. And then he deliberately took his left hand out of his pocket. That black stare dipped down and fixated on the mottled skin and the ruined pinkie.
The patient looked up in surprise; then his eyes narrowed like he was wondering how far up the burn went.
“All the way to my shoulder and down my back,” T.W. said. “House fire when I was ten. Got trapped in my room. I was conscious while I was burned . . . the entire time. Spent eight weeks in the hospital afterward. Have had seventeen surgeries.”
There was a beat of silence, as if the husband were running through the implications in his head: If you were conscious, you’d have smelled the flesh cook and felt every lick of pain. And the hospital time . . . the surgeries . . .
Abruptly the man’s whole body eased up, the tension flowing out of him as if a valve had been released.
T.W. had seen it happen time and time again with his burn patients. If your doctor knew what it was like to be where you were, not because they
The wife took a seat and the husband loomed over her, eyes locked on T.W. Odd, though. They were holding hands and T.W. got the impression that the wife was the husband’s tether in some way.
Calling on his training, he took out his Waterman pen and asked the usual questions. The wife did the answering: No known allergies. No surgical procedures. No health problems.
“Ah . . . where are the tattoos?” Please, God, let them not be below the waist.
“On his wrists and his neck.” She looked up at her husband, her eyes luminous. “Show him, darling.”
The man reached to one side and pulled up his sleeve. T.W. frowned, medical curiosity taking over. The black band was incredibly dense, and though he wasn’t an expert on tattooing by a long shot, he could safely say he’d never seen such deep coloration before.
“That is very dark,” he said, leaning in. Something told him not to touch the man unless he had to, and he followed the instinct, keeping his hands to himself. “That is very, very dark.”
They were almost like shackles, he thought.
T.W. eased back into the chair. “I’m not sure whether you’re a good candidate for laser removal. The ink appears to be so dense that at a minimum it’s going to require multiple sessions to make even a dent in the pigmentation.”
“Will you try, though?” the wife asked. “Please?”
T.W.’s eyebrows popped. Please was not a word in the vocabulary of most of the patients down here. And her tone was equally foreign to the locale, its quiet desperation more what you would find in families of patients treated upstairs—those with medical issues that affected their lives, not just their crow’s-feet and laugh lines.
“I can try,” he said, well aware that if she used that tone on him again, she could get him to eat his own legs just to please her.
He looked at the husband. “Would you remove your shirt and get up on the table?”
The wife squeezed the big hand in hers. “It’s okay.”
The husband’s hollow-cheeked, hard-jawed face turned to her, and he seemed to draw tangible strength from her eyes. After a moment he went over to the table, got his huge body up on the thing, and removed his turtleneck.
T.W. left his chair and walked around—
He froze. The man’s back was covered with scars. Scars . . . that looked like they had been left by whips.
In his entire medical career he had seen nothing even resembling this—and knew it must have been left by some kind of torture.
“My tats, Doc,” the husband said in a nasty tone. “You’re supposed to be eyeballing my tats, thank you very much.”
As T.W. blinked, the husband shook his head. “This isn’t going to work—”
The wife rushed forward. “No, it will. It—”
“Let’s find someone else.”
T.W. came around to face the man, blocking the way to the door. And then he deliberately took his left hand out of his pocket. That black stare dipped down and fixated on the mottled skin and the ruined pinkie.
The patient looked up in surprise; then his eyes narrowed like he was wondering how far up the burn went.
“All the way to my shoulder and down my back,” T.W. said. “House fire when I was ten. Got trapped in my room. I was conscious while I was burned . . . the entire time. Spent eight weeks in the hospital afterward. Have had seventeen surgeries.”
There was a beat of silence, as if the husband were running through the implications in his head: If you were conscious, you’d have smelled the flesh cook and felt every lick of pain. And the hospital time . . . the surgeries . . .
Abruptly the man’s whole body eased up, the tension flowing out of him as if a valve had been released.
T.W. had seen it happen time and time again with his burn patients. If your doctor knew what it was like to be where you were, not because they
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