Has to Be Love (15 page)

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.”

“Every situation is different. Of course the pictures show the scarring in the worst possible light and the aftereffect in the best one.” He holds my gaze for a moment, his face still relaxed and far too calm for the situation. “I will readily admit that. But even in the photos, Clara, you can see that the lines don't completely disappear. And only a few people I've worked on have hypertrophic scarring as severe as yours on facial tissue.”

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.

My phone buzzes. It'll be Elias or Cecily, and I'm not sure how to talk to either of them. Some car race is on the TV, and the droning of the engines helps to dull the screaming in my head. How stupid am I? Did I really, really think I'd be able to be fixed?

“Why don't you give it a try?” Dad tosses the remote over to my bed. “Watch whatever you like.”

“No thanks.” I tuck my knees closer to my chest, grasping my shins.

“Clara …” he starts, but I can tell by the tone of his voice that I'm not going to like what comes next. “We can do as much of the surgeries or as little as you want. I promise. We can talk to someone else if you like.”

I chew on my thumbnail. “I thought it was a mistake.”

“What was a mistake?” Dad asks, but I can't answer him.

No.

I could answer.

I won't.

All this time I thought being out there in the woods was a big mistake. That my scars didn't belong on me. That they were also a mistake. I was wrong. They were for me. I'm just not sure what I did to deserve them.

I pull out my notebook to write but still can't get words down. I need words. I need to write. My fingers shake with my desire to put something on the page.

I finally start to write.

How many times can I break till I shatter …

How many times can I break till I shatter

How many times can I break till I shatter

How many times can I break till I shatter

How many times can I break till I shatter

And then I stop when I realize my hand has followed the same rhythm over and over.

19

I will always be the scarred-face girl. Not the writer girl or the cool girl from Alaska. I'm stuck. Who would bother looking past this? I'm not sure I would.

All the next morning at the hotel I cough. A sore throat means I can't talk. An illness could keep me from school. I'm planning ahead.

I'm numb as we move through the airport and climb on the plane. I watch some ridiculous family movie on the flight with a dog and a crazy brother, but I'm still numb.

And then we're driving in the dim light of midnight, and my life isn't different. I was supposed to come home hopeful, knowing
different
was on its way.

My future crumpled in front of me in a way that no one could possibly understand. I close my eyes as Dad drives and try to talk to Mom.

I need you here. Don't you see that? Dad isn't a girl. He won't understand. I can't believe so much was taken from me.

Where are you?

Some people say that they can hear the voices of people they know who died.

Why can't I hear you?

WHY?

Mom?

My body shakes. My heart is crammed inside a box a million times too small. I hold my breath to stop the tears. My body shakes again. I'm being pushed apart from the inside. I can't go to New York like this. I can't. Columbia is out. University of Alaska is fine. It's
fine.

Why did we pick that day for a walk? Why weren't we warned? Why didn't we feel something telling us to go inside? People at church talk about being led out of dangerous situations all the time. Why weren't we? What did I do that was so horrible?

Dad's shushing pulls me out of my internal pleading but doesn't slow the crying.

Even the guilt over how I'm sure I'm tearing Dad up isn't enough for me to want to overcome the cracking and splintering.

The moment we're home, I run for my room and lean against the door as it shuts behind me. I'm so done. I'm done with everything. My heart feels as if it's been burned and shriveled from the inside, on fire and melted or crushed. I curl up in my bed and wish the world to disappear. I can't do this. Everything was supposed to change after Seattle. My life was supposed to get better. I was supposed to get a face that I could stand to look at in the mirror. A face that would take me places. A face that had the chance of blending in.

I don't want a lesser version of the face that was carved into me.

I want
my
face.

I want people to know me for me. I want to speak for myself. Use my own words, instead of my scars screaming about experiences I wish I could hide.

My phone rings for the millionth time, and I check the ID to see the only person I might want to talk to right now.

“Hi.”

“There you are!” Cecily.

My throat is too thick for talking. “I'm not … He can't …” And I don't say anything else.

“Oh.”

We sit in silence for a few minutes, but I know she's there. “Wish you were here.”

“Set your phone down. Let's listen to Ed Sheeran and drown in sorrows, okay?”

A sobby, quiet laugh escapes, bringing more tears down my face. “Okay.”

The music starts almost immediately, tinny and faraway sounding. Cecily's on the other end of this, being with me in the only way she can.

I let my wool socks slide on the stairs until my foot drops to the next step. The two days we've been home have felt like an eternity. An eternity where I sit in my room and don't answer anyone's calls or texts. I'm past caring how juvenile I'm being.

“Which spatula do you use for pancakes?” Dad calls from the kitchen.

“The black one with the silver handle,” I call back as I slowly slip down another step.

Dad's been whispering to Rhodes in the kitchen, and I can only assume he's talking about me. So strange that Dad and Rhodes have struck up this odd sort of friendship. I take a few silent steps closer and strain to listen.

Dad's voice. “I don't know what to say to her about Elias …” His voice fades with the sizzling bacon. “… She blurted it out, but I haven't said anything … Like your idea … a weekend …”

So.

They're talking about me. How totally unoriginal. Part of me wants to call them on it, but if I do, they might just drag me into their conversation. I'm so not up for that.

The sweet smell of pancakes and the salty smell of bacon hit my nose as I slip into the kitchen. Breakfast is the only thing Dad can cook unless the barbecue is lit. So, pancakes for dinner.

“I can ask a friend of mine,” Rhodes says. “Cool girl. Might be fun for—” He stops the second our eyes meet.

“Glad to see you,” Dad says with a too-wide smile.

Yeah. Because I just caught him talking to Rhodes about me.

My phone beeps again.

Elias: Clara? I'm seriously worried. I wanna talk.

I lean against the counter. After dinner, ok?

Elias: Perfect.

No one but him would put up with the silence I've given him—especially since I'm not sure I'll be able to talk to him after dinner. I glance back and forth between Dad and Rhodes for just a moment, wondering if I'll get any more clues about what they were discussing.

“Wow.” Rhodes is staring. “You look like hel—”

But he cuts off when Dad frowns.

“Tired.” Rhodes nods. “You look tired.”