by Jolene Perry
“Because it’ll be my turn to call ‘bullshit’ if you don’t feel something here. This is not something I expected to happen. But Clara … you’re stubborn and amazing. Nobody’s made me stumble over my words. Ever. And you do.”
I blink. “What?”
“You’re terrifying, Clara. You’re uncertain but certain. You’re so … amazingly strong … I can’t tell you how intimidating you are, and that doesn’t happen to me often.”
“I’m not following.” At all. He’s describing someone else. My heart slams into my ribs at how close we are. At how our breath mixes between us.
He’s so still and quiet and serious. “I wish I were here every night. And you shouldn’t be thinking about wearing Elias’s ring if you’re conflicted. Even if you’re not conflicted, you have so much life to live before you settle down like that. I heard you on the phone with your friend. I’m not in this alone.”
He touches the center of my chest, and I bat his hand away, not wanting to let the idea sink in that he feels the same as me.
He feels the same as me.
He likes me. For real. Not in my imagination, or not me thinking, Is he flirting with me? but actually. For real. Older. Cooler. Columbia. All the beat poetry and quirky rhythms, and everything I want to be.
I step closer, rest my hands on the chest I’m still staring at, and feel his heart thumping as fast as mine.
“I should go,” he whispers but doesn’t move. “I shouldn’t have listened in. I shouldn’t care so much.”
He should go. So should I. I should be running out of this barn and away from this guy who is so much older and more experienced and …frustrating. But instead I lift my eyes to his, and this time when I breathe in, I don’t stop my body from leaning closer.
He tips his head down and his lips lightly brush mine, sending a wave of tingles from my lips into my chest that spread through my body and warm me from core to limbs.
We hover just inches apart until I close the distance again.
He rests his hand behind my neck. His kiss slides its way through my body and curls my toes and turns my legs to rubber. My hands find their way to his shaggy hair, and I thread my fingers through it, holding us together. Am I a masochist? An idiot? Do I want something from my boyfriend he won’t give me, even though it’s definitely not something I should want?
Want, want, want is all that runs through my head.
We stumble twice until my back is against the stall door, and I need him to push harder, kiss me harder, but I don’t know if it’s possible. His chest is on mine and our stomachs are together, and his hips keep us pinned tightly, sending a rush of perfect heat up my body. Rhodes pauses long enough to slide his mouth down my neck and reality hits. My body freezes.
This is not my boyfriend. I love my boyfriend.
Rhodes pulls away first, his forehead wrinkled in confusion. “I-I’m sor-sorry.” He stumbles over his words. “I shouldn’t have … Not with who I am … The school … your dad … I’m sorry.”
He backs away from me still staring, and I’m left with my arms at my sides, knowing I just broke about a million rules. Rules that have to do with what I believe and what the school would think and what Elias deserves.
“I should go,” he says just before disappearing out the door.
How did I let this happen?
My fingers come to my lips, rubbing lightly where Rhodes’s mouth touched mine. When did I turn into the kind of person who would do this?
A simple phrase runs through my head again and again as I stare at the open door.
Torn between two
when loving just one.
My heart lies in pieces
before life’s begun …
Now what do I do?
17
Dad shoves his hands in his jeans’ pockets as we walk up the crowded sidewalk. The one-way streets in this part of Seattle are a bit maze-like, but Siri seems to know where we need to be.
“We should have said a prayer when we parked the car,” Dad says quietly.
I tug my bangs down. Try not to make eye contact with anyone we pass. I can’t handle stares this morning. New York would be a million times worse—at least until my scars are gone. I really need to work on what to tell Columbia. Soon.
“Clara?” he asks.
“I’m fine,” I say.
“You’re not fine.” We walk a few steps in silence. “You’ve been quiet and detached and … I keep hoping it’s just this upcoming trip, but …”
“Elias proposed.” I’m not sure how those words escaped my mouth, but he knows now.
Dad stumbles once. “Elias—”
“And I got into Columbia.”
“Wait, what?”
“And I saw you and Sukiniq. Kiss.” I don’t slow. Don’t speed. Just keep putting one foot in front of the other.
“Clara,” Dad says slowly. “Stop.”
The moment I stop, someone bumps into my shoulder. Dad tugs my arm so we’re both standing next to a red brick building. He leans toward me, his eyes flooding with worry. “I don’t know where to start. Why didn’t you tell me any of these things?”
I fold my arms. “I dunno,” I mumble.
And then he smiles. “I’m so proud of you. Your mom’s school, huh?”
Mom’s school. I can’t think about Mom now. Cannot. I just shake my head as my throat swells. “You and Suki, huh?”
A corner of Dad’s mouth twitches. “Took me long enough, but yeah.”
“We’re going to be late,” I say and turn to keep walking.
“I’m … What do you want?” Dad asks. “What are you going to do? What did you tell Elias?”
“Nothing. I can’t … I can’t talk about this yet.”
“When you’re ready.”
I nod.
We pause at a set of double doors. Dad checks the address, and I follow him inside. I barely breathe as he checks me in and we’re led down a hallway into a massive office. Dad casts too many glances my way as we go. The nurse leaves us alone with a practiced smile.
“You can go to Columbia,” Dad says. “I’ll miss you terribly and it won’t be easy, but we can make it happen.”
Not yet. “Was just curious, Dad. And I really, really don’t want to talk about any of this right now.”
Dad and I sit in leather chairs in an office that’s at least five times the size of my bedroom. Diplomas cover one wall, books another. Nerves dance so forcefully through my body that I’m concentrating just to breathe. In … out … in … out …
My fingers find the familiar lines on my face. I can feel Dad’s eyes on me. Feel his concern wafting around him. I drop my hand and stare at my lap. I should be excited. Bouncing in my seat. Instead my stomach’s turning over all the things I wish I wasn’t dealing with on top of this appointment.
Dad swallows again. Hard. Doesn’t speak. He blinks a few times. His arm comes around me, and his fingers squeeze a little too tight on my shoulder.
“That day … I’m so sorry, Clara. I’m so sorry I didn’t get there sooner. Didn’t know … I could have stopped the bear. I could have …” He tightens his arm again, his breath shaky and his eyes fixed on the wall in front of us. Maybe I should have asked to come alone.
Mom.
I need my mom here. I needed her when I woke up bandaged in the hospital, I wanted her when Elias gave me my first kiss, and I need her now when I’m about to talk to a doctor who can maybe change some of my life back to how it was before.
I swipe a tear off my cheek.
Mom is not what I want to think about. I need to focus on me and my scars, and how we’re going to fix them. My fingers trace the outside edge of the notebook tucked into my back pocket.
“We have a lot to talk about,” Dad whispers.
“Maybe,” I whisper back. Just not now.
“Sorry to keep you waiting.” A quiet voice penetrates the near silence in the room. A small man, probably mid-thirties, closes the door behind him and takes
a seat in another chair facing us. Even with the furniture arranged like a living room, there’s no disguising that this is a doctor’s office.
“I’m Thomas.” Dad reaches out his hand and Dr. Breckman shakes it.
Mine are so tucked into my sides that I don’t think to put my hand out until Dr. Breckman is already facing me, waiting.
“And you’re Clara.”
“Hi,” I mumble.
He studies my face, tilting his head to the side and scooting his chair closer.
“May I?” He reaches forward and I sit still, letting his too-soft fingers touch my face. Elias’s calluses are familiar; this is … foreign. As foreign as the office and the city and the situation.
Dr. Breckman lets out a breath, sits back, and starts to look more like a person than the doctor whose website I’ve stared at too much.
“So?” I ask.
“So, I’m glad you came.”
I sit silently.
“What do you envision happening?” He gives me a relaxed smile. “I’m assuming you came here to see what I can possibly do for you. So in your dream scenario, what would you like to see happen?”
“I want you to fix my face.”
“And what does ‘fix’ mean to you?” he asks.
Dad shifts in his seat. Lets out another shaky breath.
“Fix.” That should be obvious enough. “Make me look like I’m supposed to. Like I should.”
“Scoot forward,” he asks.
I do. He slips on glasses, and his soft fingers smooth over my scars again. My heart starts beating in my throat.
His mouth twitches, turning into a slight frown before he leans back. “You have hypertrophic scarring. Do you know what that means?” His soothing voice scratches on me like fingernails on a chalkboard.
“It means my scars are raised.” My voice sounds pinched and foreign.
He nods. “And that very often comes with the darker color.”
“Like mine.” Like all the things he’s supposed to make go away.
My lower lip trembles and I suck it into my mouth, biting down to hold it still.
“I’m going to be very honest here because the last thing I want is for you to have expectations that we simply cannot meet.” His hands clasp together. “But I can help. I promise.”
My skin pricks with heat. I stay silent. If acid wasn’t rolling in my stomach, I’d feel detached from my body.
“I reviewed the pictures you sent. You don’t seem as concerned about the scars on your side and back.”
I shake my head.
“Breathe.” His smile widens as he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. There’s an odd, watchful quality to the way he’s looking at me. “I said I can help.”
“How?” Dad asks. “Wh … what can you do?”
Dr. Breckman clears his throat. “We can do skin grafts, but they’re not perfect. And I for sure wouldn’t recommend doing everything at once. We’ll want to see how one set of scars heals before we attempt the others—at least that’s how I’ve found the most success.”
He pauses and glances back and forth between us a few times. “Are we okay?”
No. I’ve been waiting. I’ve been waiting for years for this, and now he’s talking about doing one small part—and then how long will I have to wait?
“If you decide to go the grafting route, several surgeries will be involved, and we’ll be trying to make that skin blend into your facial skin, which will have scars of its own.”
He pauses again.
“Just spit it all out, please,” I choke. More scars?
“Clara.” He clasps his hands together.
Dad rests an arm over me.
“I’m sorry,” Dr. Breckman says. “I know I’m not telling you what you want to hear. But I wouldn’t be doing you a service if I lied and said I could make your scarring disappear. I can’t. You’ll have new scars instead of your old ones. They’ll be smaller, less noticeable, but that’s all we can do.”
My lower lip starts to shake.
“For the grafts …” he starts and then continues when neither Dad nor I stop him. “We’d cut out scar tissue, possibly filling in some, adding tissue.” He pauses again. “With all of that work, there is no way to make skin appear as if it had never been touched. We can make a difference, but you cannot expect perfection. And this isn’t something that’s going to happen with just one surgery. Maybe not with just two. We’ll have to see how well your body accepts what we’re trying to do.”
Every sentence is saying the same thing over and over, nailing the same words into my brain.
He. Can’t. Fix. Me.
“So.” Dad sits up a little straighter, his arm still resting around me.
The doctor uses a flashlight pen to highlight my face as he talks. “I’d suggest we start the skin graft with that outer corner of your eye. After the first attempt, we can take a break and decide what you’d like to work on next, or”—he frowns, but maybe realizes he can’t just stop mid-sentence—“if you’d rather stop at that point, we can see what happens with some upscale microdermabrasion and bleaching creams.”
Microdermabrasion? Like stuff you get at the drugstore? Seriously? That’s a half step up from doing absolutely nothing. How can that be his recommendation?
Dad scoots forward in his chair. “How … um … You’d take skin from somewhere else?”
The doctor nods. “Very common. We usually take a small piece from the thigh.” He points to my eye. “There’s so little needed here between your eye and your hairline that you’ll barely notice that small graft. And even the corner of your mouth wouldn’t be—”
“This is nothing,” I say. “You’re talking about this one little spot. We’re talking about maybe months and several surgeries or …”
The doctor nods and sits back again. “I don’t believe in giving false hope to people, Clara. I also think that some minor bleaching by a good dermatologist could help with the discoloration. We can do a lot. I just … I don’t want you to think it’ll happen fast, and I don’t want you to think that I won’t try everything I can. But the reality is that without some kind of new technology, I can’t make your scars disappear to the point where your skin looks as if nothing touched it. I’m very good at what I do, but I’m not a magician.”
“I was told …” My chin quivers, my lip quivers, and my fingertips rub against each other as if the movement will keep me grounded. “I was told after it happened that I should wait until I was eighteen, or close to eighteen. Until I was done growing and my scars had taken time to heal. That someone would be able to fix them.”
He watches me with the same relaxed intensity he has had since walking in the room. “I can minimize your scars. But we need to ask—is the minimization of your scars worth what we’ll do to your body in the process? That’s going to be up to you. I say we should plan on the lip, maybe the outer corner of your eye, and I can get you in touch with Dr. Mickelson in Anchorage who could help smooth over the scarring from the surgeries and maybe lighten some of the redness. Once we spend a year on that route, you can decide how much more you’d like to do.”
No. No. No. This is not how this was supposed to go. At. All. A year? I can’t walk around like this for another year. This appointment was supposed to be the beginning of the end of this horrific thing, and instead … instead … I feel like I’m starting over.
My legs tense. My eyes close. My hands clutch the arms of the chair so hard my fingers ache. Dad’s hand rubs up and down my back a few times, but it feels like sandpaper instead of comfort.
Dad and the doctor exchange a few words about scheduling and timing and possibilities. Dad mentions the cream I already sometimes use, and they talk about other options, which I tune out. It’s all too calm and quiet compared in the screaming in my head. “I saw the pictures.”
“The pictures?” the doctor asks.
“Of the …” I’m blinking again. And again. “… of the people on your website.”
Dad asks another question, and now they’re talking about a treatment that’s been done with some kind of shots, but I can’t focus. Their voices fade together and the walls fade together and my thoughts fade together into a black hole threatening to collapse around me.
I don’t hold back when my legs tense up, and I’m standing. I’m floating just outside my body as I move for the door, shake the doctor’s hand. The walls blur, Dad’s arm around me blurs, I blur. The black hole is winning. We move up the hallway, out the door, back onto the busy sidewalk.
“I want to go home,” I whisper.
“Our plane leaves in the morning.”
That’s a whole afternoon, evening, and night from now. We were going to hit Pike Place and celebrate by eating everything in sight. And then hit the mall to get me some pretty clothes to go with the new face I was going to get. Instead I need to get up the sidewalk to our car and into the hotel room before I shatter into pieces I can’t pick up.
18
Tears roll in a continuous stream down my face. The hotel bathroom tiles cool my legs. Nobody knows how much I’ve lost today. Maybe Cecily. Maybe.
Dad knocks to ask if I’m okay. Normally I have words for everything, but I don’t have words for this. The only smart thing I’ve been able to do is to not look at myself in the mirror.
“Clara, please?” he asks quietly.
Guilt pushes me off the tile because I can’t sit here with Dad breaking on the other side of the door.
When I step out of the bathroom, the worry lines have etched so deeply that Dad’s aged another ten years. I step toward him for a hug, but his warmth rushes another wave of tears down my face. I push back, staring at the floor. No hugs. Not now.
The cheap hotel comforter scratches me when I lie on the bed, and I wish I’d begged Dad for two rooms because I need to be alone.