Can't Forgive

by Kim Goldman

  “Can you move your neck?” they ask. “I think so, but I am afraid to try.”

  I can’t see anything. Where is everyone? Why can’t I see who is touching me? Where was I?

  The darkness scares me. I feel something foreign placed in my eyes, and then a wet sensation pours over my face. The warmth I felt earlier is now bitter cold. Fear begins to freeze my soul.

  Is this what dying feels like?

  * * *

  I am rushed through the halls of the emergency room, where I can hear a man yelling, “Isn’t someone going to help me, goddamn it? I was just in a car accident! Someone help me!”

  His voice fades as I am wheeled down the hall. In a room, on a cold table, a nurse starts to cut off my drenched clothing. My favorite pair of red painter’s pants are sticking to my legs; they feel heavy and cold. “Check for cuts on her legs,” the nurse yells frantically. “Her legs are bleeding.”

  Bleeding? I don’t feel any pain in my legs, just wetness. Am I cut on my legs? Am I paralyzed? Why can’t I feel any cuts on my legs?

  After a few minutes, another person enters the room and I hear whispering.

  Why is she cutting my pants? I want the nurse to stop. I love those pants. I wear them all the time, with my favorite blue short-sleeved shirt, a little red horse stitched on the chest and my new Bermuda purse.

  “Please don’t,” I plead, “these are my favorite pants.”

  She ignores me and keeps cutting.

  I can’t see where she went. I can’t see the room. I can’t see my legs.

  I can’t see. I can’t see!

  My eyes still have something stuck in them. The wetness drained down my cheeks, leaving a pool on the table.

  Is this what living is going to be like?

  Where is my daddy?

  I sit scared and alone, shivering on the table, when my father rushes in.

  “I am here, honey. How ya doing?” He leans down and kisses my forehead.

  “Daddy, they took my clothes. I don’t have any clothes to wear.”

  My dad strokes my face. I hear him chuckle.

  Then the nurse says I have to be bathed now and my dad has to leave. We both yell, “No way!”

  The nurse is taken aback, but she saw the determination on my father’s face—he isn’t leaving his little girl.

  My father, my hero again.

  He insists they wash my hair, which the nurse wasn’t planning on doing. My dad won’t take no for an answer as he points out the glass, the blood, and the knots. She softens and agrees. My dad stays and helps the nurse clean me off, and together they wash away the remnants. I can still hear the faint cries of that man yelling in the hallway for help.

  My dad runs between Patti and me, checking on each of us as much as he can. After a few minutes of arguing with the nurses, my father convinces them to put us in a room together rather than putting me in the children’s ward.

  I keep telling my dad to call my grandparents.

  “I don’t think that I am going to feel up to having dinner with them tomorrow, Daddy. Call them, so they don’t worry.”

  I have no idea how much time passes, until I feel someone touch my hand.

  “Kimmy, my shana punim, it’s Grandpa. I am here, honey. Can you hear me?”

  I can hear him in my ear, feel his frail hand on mine, and I can smell the reliable scent of his aftershave, but I can’t see him. My eyes are sealed completely shut.

  I have never felt so scared and so alone. The darkness provides me with no solace. No bliss.

  Is this what blindness feels like?

  Morning comes quickly, and I hear the voices of my dad and my brother in the room. I am so relieved to have them close by. Another voice identifies himself as the doctor and joins the conversation. His voice is booming, yet calm and slightly melodic. He sounds knowledgeable.

  I should listen to him.

  “Well, Patti, Kim…you are in the hospital after being rushed here from a pretty disastrous car accident. You both have suffered severe burns to your faces from battery acid. According to the police, last night a man was driving under the influence, down the opposite side of the street than you were on. His tire blew and he drove up onto the median, crashing into a tree. Upon impact, his car battery dislodged from his car and flew across the street into your car and exploded. Patti, being that you were sitting closer to Fred, in the driver’s seat, the battery sideswiped your right cheek and right eye and ended up hitting Kim directly head-on, in the backseat. The battery broke off into many pieces as it came through the windshield. The largest intact piece landed in the back of your station wagon. The battery acid was what you both were feeling on your skin and clothes. It was not blood.”

  He pauses to catch his breath. I gasp for my own. Ron is holding my hand so tightly that I can’t feel my fingers. The tension in the room is tremendous and I know the story doesn’t end here.

  The doctor continues. “Ladies, the battery acid has burned your skin and eyes. Patti, as far as we can tell, you have first- and second-degree burns on the right side of your face and above your eye, which should probably heal itself. We will have to monitor that, and you may need to undergo some reconstructive surgery depending on how it heals and/or scars.

  “And Kim, honey, you have first-, second-, and third-degree burns on your face, neck, and eyes, which is why you can’t see anything. The acid burned your corneas. It is still too soon to assess the permanent damage to your eyes and face at this point, and we will continue…”

  I have no idea what else he said. All I hear in my head is, I am blind

  He continues to explain that the ambulance and the police officers responded as quickly as they did because they were having dinner at the restaurant across the street. They saw the crash and rushed to our aid. Because they arrived so swiftly on the scene, and immediately began flushing our eyes and skin, we were lucky—it could have been worse. Worse than this? Really?

  * * *

  I regained my sight after four days in the hospital, but not before I witnessed the most grotesque image I have ever seen: my own face.

  I was afraid to look at myself in the mirror, based on what the doctor said. I conjured up quite a fantasy about what was left of my innocent, freckly, thirteen-year-old face:

  The acid had burned my nerve endings. My face was raw and completely maimed.

  I could feel it, open and exposed.

  On our second night in the hospital, my curiosity finally got the best of me. I hobbled into the bathroom, dragging my IV, and positioned myself at the sink. I managed to pry one eye open. I was shocked and horrified by the revolting image of my own face.

  Red, burned, raw, ugly. I resembled the Elephant Man, but on fire. My skin was peeled away. I looked like a piece of charred steak on the barbeque. The image was so overwhelming that I fainted on the spot.

  Out of nowhere, Ron appeared, dragging a nurse with him to help. “Hey there, Squirt, whatcha’ doin on the floor? Come on now, let’s get you back to bed. You need your beauty sleep.”

  I smiled because I knew he was trying to make me feel better, but deep inside, I was ashamed and mortified. Ron didn’t say anything else as he brushed the hair off my face. He tucked me in and told me he how much he loved me. He didn’t leave my side for the rest of the trip. I was so grateful to him for that. My brother, my hero.

  Ron was trying to be optimistic, but I knew it was painful—almost unbearable—to look at me. I was hideous.

  On the third night in the hospital, my dad and Ron went to the hotel to shower and finally get some rest and a decent meal. Patti and I were startled by the loud ringing of the hospital phone. Patti answered, “Hello…um, this is Patti. Who is this?”

  There was a slight pause before Patti cleared her throat and revealed the caller: my mother, Sharon.

  Stunned, excited, and confused, I fumbled to find the phone. I put the receiver to my ear; I could hear her breathing. I mustered up the ability to say hello. I hadn’t talked to Sharon in
quite a few years. I didn’t want to appear too eager, but I was curious why she was calling and how she had found me.

  “Kim, it’s your mother. What happened to you? Grandpa told me you are in Florida and that you got into an accident. Why didn’t you call me? I can’t believe I didn’t hear it from you.”

  I was sure she continued to talk, but I was fixated by the sound of her voice. It didn’t sound like what I remembered. She sounded older, and a little gruffer. I could hear a slight wheeze. She was a smoker, so she had that rasp in her voice that a person gets after smoking for years. She sounded angry; I didn’t want to make her angry. Then her words trailed off and the call ended just as quickly as it had begun.

  I wondered what she looked like now. I wondered if I would ever see her again. I wondered if I would ever hear her tell me that she thinks I am beautiful. Would anyone ever say that to me again?

  * * *

  On discharge day, I was so excited to leave and to feel the sunshine on my face and the wind in my hair. I had been cooped up since we arrived in Florida and I was getting antsy! My brother came bounding in from the hallway, in good spirits, ready to leave the confines of a cold, sterile hospital room. I didn’t think the hotel would be much better, but not having to eat oatmeal and Jell-O, day after day, or listen to the humming of a monitor all night, would be a nice reprieve.

  It’s funny, but I don’t have any memory of physically leaving the hospital or getting into the car. You would think it would be traumatic to get back in a car for the first time after a horrible car accident.

  I remember the drive to the hotel. I sat in the backseat behind my dad, who was driving, when suddenly I felt very uncomfortable. My skin started to burn, and I was so itchy I started to cry. I felt like I was going to tear my skin off if I scratched it any harder as the sun beat down into the car. I wanted to soak it up, but it was burning my face.

  Before we left the hospital, the nurse had slathered me up with Silvadene (a topical ointment that helps with burns and reduces scarring), so my first thought was that I must have wiped it off and now the sun was burning my exposed face. I started to panic. “Daddy, my face is on fire. It’s peeling away from my cheeks. Make it stop.” My dad told me to get down on the floor. I huddled behind his seat with my head down, crying, trying to be brave, shielding myself from the beautiful, warm sun, which I was so excited to experience.

  Some vacation. Some birthday. Some life I am going to live.

  * * *

  We later found out that I was allergic to penicillin, so the antibiotics I took to decrease infection actually had the opposite effect.

  My dad was running back and forth between Patti at the condo and Ron and me at the hotel. My poor father! The woman and the girl he loved most in his life were suffering, and he can’t do anything to fix it. We tried to be positive and upbeat, hoping to make everyone else comfortable to be around us, but we were scared and unsure of what was going to happen.

  It was time for an outing. Patti and I tried to maintain a good sense of humor, but it was hard, knowing that people were gawking at us, even during the trip we took to the grocery store. Patti and I walking down the aisle together was a sight for sore eyes, literally. Patti, by nature is a label reader and before she would put anything into the basket, she studied the contents for a list of ingredients and the health benefits. We would hold a box of something in our hands, and with Patti’s good right eye and my good left eye, together we surmised that it was okay to purchase. We giggled at how resourceful we were to accomplish the task at hand.

  But just as I turned around, a little child stood there, staring at me.

  “I know it doesn’t look like it, but I can see you!” I screamed.

  Poor little guy. I probably scared the crap out of him. I didn’t realize how self-conscious I was, I just reacted to his judgmental glare.

  Trust me, I know I was disgusting to look at, but it was hard to see the horror on others’ faces as they walked by.

  It was especially difficult when the people you cared about couldn’t stand the sight of you. Honestly, who could blame them?

  I was resting in the condo one day, when I noticed Lauren, Michael, and Brian standing in the doorway staring at me. I wasn’t sure how long they had been there, but they didn’t move a muscle, even when I motioned them inside. From the slit in my eyelids, I could see the looks of discomfort on their faces, or maybe they were expressions of curiosity. But my heart softened in that moment as I tried to understand what they might be feeling.

  At the time of the accident they were four, six, and eight years old. I couldn’t expect them to communicate their thoughts, and I couldn’t blame them for staring. They weren’t being insensitive, but I was in pain, both physically and emotionally.

  No matter who you are or what the relationship is, most of us would feel something to see another person suffer, even if it only comes out in the way of a stare. I know the kids had never seen anything like what they were looking at; I know I never had.

  They came into the room at a snail’s pace, and found a spot to sit on the bed next to me. Lauren wants to color; Michael and Brian are motionless. I couldn’t see the picture fully, so coloring inside the lines was a challenge. My drawing resembled that of a three-year-old holding a crayon for the first time. My goal wasn’t to prove that I was Picasso, but to alleviate their fears about what had happened. Their mother was hurt, and this other girl—a virtual stranger taking up space in their room—was hurt as well.

  How could anyone process that?

  Thirty minutes or so passed while we colored. That calmed and hopefully reassured them. I wanted to show that my spirit hadn’t burned in the accident—just my face.

  Hopefully that reassurance transfers to my heart as well.

  * * *

  The burns leave enormous bright red scars that are extremely obvious: on my nose, from the bridge to the tip (so badly damaged, in fact, the doctors worry that I will lose the tip); my neck (from just below my earlobe to just about my chin); my forehead (a triangle-size scar about two to three inches in width, starting at my hairline, to about midforehead); my lip (about a half-inch long scar, which affects my lip line); and above my left eyebrow—not to mention the scar in my eye on my retina. My nostril is caved in on one side, so it limits my breathing, and my ears are uneven and don’t bend forward, because eventually I will use the skin behind my ears for a skin graft during one of my three reconstructive surgeries later in my life.

  This accounting of my wounds doesn’t even address the scars that have already begun to form on my ego and on my psyche.

  Upon returning to Chicago, my dad and I made numerous visits to plastic surgeons to find the one who will help me heal with the least amount of long-term impact. Nobody knows, but everyone hopes that because my skin was young and still had a decent amount of elasticity, I will recover with minimal negative effects.

  Not so much.

  I continued on as a “normal” fourteen-year-old girl would, to the best of my naïve ability. I returned to eighth grade, thinking that my friends would be cool with the new me. I know that most of them were warned about what had happened, so I guess the jeering could have been more than it was—but kids are mean, nonetheless. The staring and the whispering continued for weeks until people got used to me, and realized I wasn’t fragile. I just looked weird. I really had to force myself to smile and laugh, and carry on as I normally would. I was student body president, so I needed to resume the role of leader. But I always wondered if people listened to me because I had something to say, or if they were just trying to get close enough to see the scars. Were they taking pity on a fourteen-year-old deformed young woman?

  I struggled with not having a mother in my life to teach me about makeup, put outfits together, or curl my hair. I was a tomboy—by choice or by default, I don’t know. Growing up and not obsessing about my looks helps me deal with my accident, I think. I learned to rely on my inner beauty and develop inwardly first. I watched oth
ers learn to wear makeup, and to care about how they present themselves, but it wasn’t a priority for me. I developed a strong sense of self at a young age, but almost felt as if it had been born out of insecurity, rather than from a place of strength. I tried really hard to be unique; I didn’t want to just stand out because of my scarred face.

  I was a young girl whose mother didn’t want her—would my scars give her and others yet another reason not to love me?

  I wasn’t left out as a teenager. I was a popular kid, and despite my scars, I had boyfriends and made the cheerleading squad. For the most part, I was a normal young woman. But the imperfections, the flaws, the scars, were all I saw when I looked in the mirror.

  To this day, I constantly touch my hair to cover my forehead. I only take pictures from the side so my scar is hidden, and I am horribly self-conscious that the bright spot on my nose (that people always say they don’t notice) will always be noticed. It is truly painful for me to look at pictures of myself as a young girl and wonder, would I be a different woman, if I didn’t have this scar on my face?

  My face is largely repaired, and according to my plastic surgeon, it will take at least two more surgeries to return my face to its almost original state, whatever that means. However, I have decided not to proceed with any more surgeries; this is the face I have now.

  But it will never be the face I was born with.

  Or the face that I had always hoped my children would resemble.

  Or the face that reminded me of my only sibling.

  It will never be what it was at 9:19 p.m. on December 20, 1985.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “The more difficulties one has to encounter, within and without, the more significant and the higher in inspiration his life will be.”

  —Horace Bushnell

  * * *

  A dear friend of mine, Sharyn Rosenblum, asked me if my brother’s murder and subsequent trials were the defining moment of my life. I quickly retorted with an emphatic “NO.” The truth is, the “Trial of the Century” deeply impacted me in a way that is still evolving and completely fucked up, but it wasn’t “the” defining moment in my life.