Chapter 3 - THE MARK INSIDE THE SCAR
Dr. Alan Mercer—no relation to anyone else—was the geriatrician who rounded at Westridge twice a week.
Eleanor hated him for approximately thirty seconds because he entered carrying a tablet.
“No computer.”
she said.
“I need the chart.”
“Then remember it.”
He looked at me.
I looked away.
Not getting involved.
Dr. Mercer put the tablet face down.
“Fine.”
Eleanor nodded.
He had passed the first test.
Paula remained in the room because Eleanor chose her.
I remained because Eleanor chose me.
Rebecca was not invited.
The door was closed.
Dr. Mercer asked:
“What would you like me to assess?”
Not:
Show me the scar.
Good.
Eleanor said:
“I want you to tell me what you can tell from it.”
“What question are you trying to answer?”
She became irritated.
“That is what I just said.”
He waited.
Then Eleanor looked toward me.
I said nothing.
Finally:
“Whether all of it came from surgery.”
There.
Dr. Mercer nodded.
“Okay.”
Then:
“I may not be able to answer from appearance alone.”
Eleanor’s face tightened.
“I know.”
Good.
He asked permission before moving closer.
Before touching.
Before lifting a robe edge.
Each time.
She said yes.
Not cheerfully.
Still yes.
He examined the scar.
Longer than I had.
Then he stepped back.
“Most of the broad area looks compatible with old grafted or reconstructed skin.”
Eleanor’s jaw tightened.
“That means surgery.”
“It means some surgery may have been involved in treating whatever injury created the area.”
There.
Important.
“And the mark?”
Dr. Mercer looked again.
“The paired indentation?”
“Yes.”
“I can’t identify its cause by looking.”
Eleanor almost became angry.
Then he continued.
“I would not describe it as a typical incision.”
Her face changed.
“What would you describe it as?”
“An old pressure or contact mark is possible.”
“Burn?”
“Possible.”
“Restraint?”
“I cannot tell you that.”
Good.
He would not give her certainty just because she wanted it.
Eleanor stared at him.
Then:
“Could metal do it?”
“If metal pressed against injured tissue or became hot enough, yes. Many things could.”
She closed her robe.
Done.
Dr. Mercer did not ask for a photograph.
He did say:
“If you ever develop skin breakdown there, the altered tissue may need closer monitoring.”
Eleanor glared.
He smiled.
“That does not mean Hannah gets a camera.”
Good.
She liked him after that.
Barely.
When he left, Eleanor sat in silence.
Then said:
“My mother said it was a second operation.”
I stayed quiet.
“She said doctors had to repair what the first surgery did.”
I looked at Paula.
Paula waited too.
Eleanor continued.
“I was sixteen.”
Chicago.
She had severe adolescent scoliosis.
Not a mild curve.
Her spine had progressed enough that physicians recommended surgery.
Her parents, George and Beatrice Whitcomb, took her to Hawthorne Orthopedic Hospital, a private institution north of the city with an excellent reputation at the time.
Eleanor remembered the first operation.
She remembered signing nothing because sixteen-year-old girls did not sign the things their parents signed.
She remembered waking nauseated.
Pain.
A rigid brace.
A turning frame used during recovery.
She remembered nurses who were kind.
And one who was not.
“Mrs. Delaney.”
she said.
“Charge nurse?”
“I suppose.”
“You remember her name?”
“I remember everybody’s name.”
The words came out sharp.
Fear disguised as pride.
Mrs. Delaney believed Eleanor was dramatic.
That was the family story too.
Eleanor cried during repositioning.
Complained that something under the brace hurt.
Kept twisting her shoulder.
A doctor told her to stop resisting.
One evening, a metal securing plate or buckle sat beneath the edge of the brace near her right shoulder blade.
Eleanor said it felt hot.
Then burning.
She told a young nurse.
The young nurse adjusted the bedding.
Eleanor kept complaining.
Mrs. Delaney said:
“You’re frightened, not injured.”
The sentence had survived sixty years.
The staff tightened the securing strap because Eleanor would not stop turning away from the pressure point.
At some point that night, according to Eleanor, she was given medication and slept.
The next morning the pain was worse.
Then things became blurry.
Doctors.
More medication.
Her mother crying.
Someone saying:
“Complication.”
A second procedure days later.
Then another weeks afterward.
When Eleanor finally saw her back months later, the scar was large.
Her mother told her:
“They had to repair the surgical wound.”
Eleanor asked:
“What about the buckle?”
Beatrice said:
“There was no buckle injury.”
Eleanor insisted.
Her father became angry.
“You were sedated.”
There.
Credibility erased through circumstance.
“You imagined pieces.”
Maybe.
Sedation does affect memory.
That fact became the family’s safest explanation.
Eleanor said:
“But the mark stayed.”
She reached behind herself, not touching.
“Two little lines.”
Paula asked:
“Did anyone ever tell you there had been a burn or pressure injury?”
Eleanor laughed.
“Not to me.”
“What did the discharge paperwork say?”
“My parents kept it.”
“Do you have records?”
“No.”
Then Eleanor stopped.
Her face changed.
“I might.”
There.
Her mother had died twenty-one years earlier.
Afterward, Eleanor inherited boxes.
Financial records.
Letters.
Medical paperwork.
She had thrown most away.
Kept one locked metal file box because she could not find the key at the time.
It sat in the basement of Rebecca’s house.
Why Rebecca’s?
When Eleanor sold her home and moved to Westridge, Rebecca took boxes labeled:
KEEP / FAMILY
The key had turned up later in Eleanor’s jewelry drawer.
She still had it.
Rebecca had the box.
Eleanor immediately said:
“Don’t call her.”
No one did.
Good.
Then she looked at me.
“I need the box.”
“That sounds like something you need to ask Rebecca.”
Her face hardened.
“She’ll ask why.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t want to tell her.”
“Then you can say you need the box and don’t want to discuss why.”
“She’ll push.”
“Probably.”
Eleanor stared at me.
“What if she says no?”
I almost offered to intervene.
Stopped.
Whose relationship?
Not mine.
“Then we figure out the next step.”
She hated that answer.
Because at seventy-six, sharp and capable, Eleanor still wanted someone else to guarantee her daughter’s reaction.
Nobody could.
She called Rebecca that evening.
I was not present.
The box arrived the next afternoon.
Rebecca carried it herself.
And by the time she left, both women were crying.
Not because the scar had been explained.
May you like
Because Rebecca had finally asked the question Eleanor had spent decades training everyone not to ask.
“What happened to you?”
