“Disgusting,” I whispered, setting the mirror on my lap. Tears sliced through cuts and gashes, burning.
Mom held my hand. Dad’s feet shifted. Silence.
Delgado said, “Your daughter’s alive; plastic surgery will help.”
“Valentía,” she whispered to me—courage—and left the room.
I closed my eyes, pretending to sleep. Dad told Mom he needed coffee. Mom called my name. I didn’t respond, still feigning sleep.
Once they were gone, I grabbed the mirror and threw it as hard as I could, smashing it against the wall. Glass flew everywhere, broken into pieces, like me.
Delgado heard the racket and came in. She didn’t speak but used my call button to summon maintenance.
I felt empty. No tears, no fight, no words.
An elderly maintenance man, Harry, came and swept up the glass. Even he was silent.
Once Harry left, I asked Delgado not to tell my parents. She said that the hospital required her to chart the incident, but promised to play it down when she told my parents. Delgado squeezed my shoulder and left.
My face throbbed. I was tempted to touch the scars, but they had thick layers of gooey medicine on them. My hands fluttered up; I’d will them back to my lap. I was sweaty, miserable, embarrassed.
I pressed the call button. It wasn’t time for my shot yet, but Delgado gave it to me early. Grateful, I fell into a groggy sleep.
My parents visited later. I put my head down. Mom insisted that I was still beautiful and reminded me that we lived in Southern California, the plastic surgery capital of the world. I brightened at the thought and managed a small smile for her.
The next morning, I made it a point to face myself. Promising not to break it, I asked Delgado for another mirror. She brought one. I stared at myself for a minute, then put the mirror down, repeating this over and over for the rest of the day.
I could use the restroom now, and I spent hours in there, staring into a mirror above the sink. I got used to my image. Revulsion gave way to a twisted sense of humor.
I thought of myself—and called myself—“Monster Girl.” Delgado said I was sitting on a “pitty pot.”
When Mom heard me call myself this, she’d say, “You’re not a monster.” I’d retort, “I am a monster—it’s the truth.” She’d look away, her eyes sadder than ever.
After a while, at Delgado’s advice, Mom began to ignore my remarks. She and Dad again brought up therapy. I refused. They wanted to give me time to decide for myself. I told them I would never, ever go.
Though I still felt lousy, I was healing. My vital signs were stable; the morphine was discontinued. I missed it. Pills took the edge off my pain, but I was in reality now. I missed those narcotic escapes.
On the morning of my discharge from St. Joe’s, Delgado helped me into a wheelchair and pushed me to the elevator while Mom took my many floral arrangements to the nurse’s station. Earlier, she’d given Delgado a massage certificate as a special gift of thanks.
Mom juggled a few bags, the last items from my room, and we rode down to the lobby level without a word. At the curb, Dad was waiting in his brand new Lexus: silver, not red, as our old car had been.
As she helped me into the back seat, Delgado handed me a card. I shoved it into my pocket without meeting her eyes. She gave me a little hug, despite my rudeness.
Mom propped me up with pillows in the back, then took her place next to Dad. We pulled away and headed home.
I took Delgado’s note out surreptitiously and read, “Congratulations on getting better. Call me soon. I have ideas for you. Love, Rosa Delgado.” She’d given me her home, work and cell phone numbers. I folded the note and returned it to my pocket.
Everything I saw from the car window seemed overly bright, cartoonish—unfamiliar. We pulled up to our pale peach house.
For the first time in what seemed like years, I walked into our house. I squinted and looked around. Everything was in its place: Mom’s antiques, Dad’s lounge chair, our family portraits. They looked alien, though. Nothing here was the same, including me.
I’d expected relief at being home, but instead felt empty and odd. The place hadn’t changed, but I had, and not for the better. I’d left this house to celebrate a birthday and returned to it one month older, changed forever.
It was only noon, but I was weary. Mom helped settle me into my room and tucked me into bed. I slept until dinnertime.
My parents ordered Chinese. I barely touched it, not even my favorite: lobster Cantonese. After dinner, we watched a DVD of E.T. on our widescreen television. It was an old family favorite.
I’d always thought E.T. was an adorable figure, but now the little alien was, to me, a hideous, monstrous creature. I thought he looked as ugly and strange as I did—repulsive.
To spare my parents, I didn’t tell them that I now hated E.T., but claimed fatigue and went to bed less than halfway through the movie. With worried faces, my parents kissed me.
I slept deeply. When I woke up, it was already 10:00 a.m. I got out of bed and sat down at my vanity table. Looking into my mirror, I said aloud, “You need plastic surgery.”
Now this was something to feel hopeful about. I decided to research every noted cosmetic surgeon and find the very best one to fix my scars. I began to feel better already, now that I had a goal.
Springing into action, I dressed quickly and went downstairs to the kitchen. My folks were done with breakfast, but Mom offered to make me waffles. I asked for toast instead.
While my bread was being toasted and buttered, I announced my surgeon-hunt to my parents. Both nodded in approval, and Dad said money was no object.
As I devoured my toast and gobbled down a banana, I asked if I could work in my dad’s den. He had the best computer: a brand-new Mac with a flat-screen monitor and a laser printer. It had all the bells and whistles. I wanted this for my research.
I went to Google and typed in “plastic surgery Los Angeles.” Thousands of URLs popped up. I was delighted.
Hours passed. I was immersed, reading and printing out mountains of before-and-after photos. I was flushed with excitement and asked Mom to bring my tuna salad into the den for lunch. I didn’t want to stop my hunt.
That first week, I explored dozens of plastic surgery Web sites. I surfed the Net and read up on the latest techniques, from local doctors and those as far away as France, Mexico and India. I read up on cutting-edge doctors and their policies. Dad had given me carte blanche; I didn’t bother to compare prices.
A week after I got home, Dad announced at dinner that he had a special gift for me. He and Mom led me into the recreation room, where I saw a huge, beribboned box. I imagined it was a television and unwrapped it quickly.
When I saw a brand new computer, the duplicate of my dad’s, with an even newer printer, I whooped and jumped up and down like a little kid. Dad got his den back, and I was thrilled.
I wanted surgery as soon as possible, so I could get back to normal. I convinced myself that I’d feel like my old self once the doctor fixed me up to look just as I had before the crash.
Learning that I couldn’t have surgery for nine months didn’t distress me much. I could and would wait, and I vowed to be patient. I’d look and feel like myself again. It was only a matter of time.
Over the next weeks and months, my mother and I went for consultations with reconstructive surgeons. One was in the Valley, near home. Another practiced in Santa Monica; a third was at Cedars Sinai.
Each doctor we saw was thorough and showed us huge books of full-color before-and-after photos. The receptionists and nurses had all been worked on by their bosses and proclaimed each to be the very best.
Dr. Gold of Encino was a jovial type who made lots of jokes. I liked him until he told me to be realistic in my expectations. I tensed up and tapped Mom’s elbow, signaling that I wanted to leave.
The second surgeon, Dr. Patel, was very quiet but had tons of experience with accident victims. He said he could revise my
scars and give them symmetry. I didn’t want revision; I wanted removal.
My dream of plastic surgery giving me back my unmarred face had kept me from despair. I would not give up my hope and conviction that I could get rid of the scars.
Dr. Katz at Cedars was the most positive. He told me that lasers and creative techniques were making a world of difference with corrective work on injuries to the face, even severe ones like mine. This made me smile; I’d been right all along.
I told Dr. Katz that I wanted the scars to disappear.
He said, “I can give you a result I believe you will like.”
I took this for a guarantee that I’d be scar-free.
Dr. Katz made me feel it was okay to be hopeful, to expect happiness with his results. I had heard what I wanted to: I could look normal again. Dr. Katz gave me hope. I nodded my assent to Mom, and before leaving, she arranged for me to be added to the doctor’s schedule.
Surgery was set for six months later.
While waiting for my procedure, I let my spirits soar. I still stayed home, away from prying eyes, not even letting my best-friend cousins, the Three Ts, visit. I kept in touch with them by Internet. My plan was to reappear after surgery, all better, patched up, renewed.
My Fairview High assignments were e-mailed to me. I zipped through and returned them. Then, I’d surf the Net. Online constantly, I often slept all day and prowled the Web or watched late-night movies until dawn.
Mom teased me, saying I was becoming a night owl and recluse. It was true. I wouldn’t visit my cousins, attend Mass, go to restaurants, or leave our property. I stayed indoors or in our huge backyard under the patio table’s huge umbrella, carefully shading my scars from sunlight, on doctor’s orders.
My parents insisted I needed fresh air. They nudged me again to see a therapist, which I stubbornly refused to do.
Although I felt stir crazy after months of self-imposed house arrest, I couldn’t bring myself to go out. I knew there’d be stares and wasn’t ready.
Finally, Dad came up with an idea I agreed to. After dark, all three of us drove out to Malibu to stroll the beach by moonlight. The sand felt deliciously squishy between my toes. My lungs sucked in fresh, cool air. Darkness made me anonymous. This was perfect.
We took beach trips several nights a week. If we couldn’t get out to Malibu, Dad and I drove up into the Mulholland Hills to watch the night sky. We’d park at a viewpoint, climb out of the car and stare up at infinity. The air felt good; the sky was a miracle. I’d have a miracle, too.
Dad would put his arm around my shoulders and call me his old pet name, “mi estrella”—star. I quietly thought, “I’ll look like Dad’s star again … after my surgery.”
Schoolwork, the beach, the Internet and Mulholland helped the time pass. Mom and I went for a final pre-op doctor’s visit. Dr. Katz wanted me to be positive yet realistic; positive was all I heard.
Positive sounded good. Dr. Katz had been positive. I would not think realistically. I convinced myself that my surgeon’s magic laser wand would make the scars, those obscene skin crawlers, disappear.
I marked off each day on my bedroom calendar and the one in our kitchen—a countdown to my transformation. On the day of my procedure, I arrived at Cedars in high spirits and grinned when Mom kissed me goodbye in the pre-op room.
Surgery went without a hitch. When I woke up in the recovery room, my hands went automatically to my face; it felt as if it was on fire.
A nurse gently pushed my hand down, reminding me not to touch my bandages. She gave me a shot, and I drifted away. I stayed overnight, enjoying Demerol dreams.
When I awoke, I was groggy, my face bandaged. I was given a pain shot “for the road” and wheeled out to Mom’s black BMW.
At home, I said I needed a nap and headed upstairs. There I shut and locked my door, and went to my vanity table. I sat and pulled up the corners of my bandages.
I’d expected my scars to have evaporated, faded away, slithered right off my face-neck-arms-legs as if they’d never been there. But this sort of magic had not occurred.
I sat on my white vanity chair, staring into the mirror, sick at what I saw: a road map of black stitches. I was just as grotesque as I’d been before. My healed scars had been opened and “revised.” Now, I looked different but ugly, nonetheless. A monster girl.
I unlocked my bedroom door and turned on the television. I didn’t tell my parents that I’d seen myself, but claimed pain and weariness. For two days, I stayed in bed, popping Percocet.
Mom took me to Dr. Katz for my follow-up. He checked me out, pleased that there was no sign of infection. When he told me that I was “looking good,” I raised my eyebrows skeptically, which he saw.
Dr. Katz put smaller bandages on, saying I should wait before having a look. A week later, my stitches would come out.
At home, I went to my vanity mirror and peeked again. My face looked the same as before, but less swollen. I told my parents I had a migraine and stayed in bed all week, eating little and watching TV.
Mom and I went to my appointment with Dr. Katz the following week. I moaned as he took out the sutures on my face and neck. Once they were out, he held a tape measure up to each of my scars, declaring that he’d reduced the width of both long scars and taken down much of the texture on my face and neck.
He looked happy—a man proud of a job well done. I tried not to cry or glare at him. It was pointless.
The doctor volunteered that if my keloids started to grow back again he could inject them with cortisone. If that didn’t work, there were other options. Mom thanked him. I nodded.
Dr. Katz took a few polaroids, then showed us my “before” photos. He considered the improvement to be significant and said that now the scars would be much easier to cover with makeup.
I was buying none of this. I stared at Dr. Katz, still silent. I knew he sensed my disappointment, which, from the look on her face, Mom seemed to share.
As far as I was concerned, the surgery had been a failure. I felt foolish for deluding myself. If this was as good as I’d ever look, I was a monster for life.
Dr. Katz asked me not to look in a mirror for a week. I agreed, no longer expecting magic, anyway. At home, I watched television day and night: soap operas, movies, MTV—it didn’t matter.
A week later, to the day, I again sat at my vanity table and lifted the bandages. There was less redness and swelling, but to me the scars looked as grisly as they’d been before.
Post-op days became weeks and months. My scars were red, but not as thick and ropy. They were prominent, though, and dominated my face and neck.
I saw the truth: there was no magic wand. I wasn’t just a badly injured accident victim, but a young woman scarred for life. For life. Tiny, dreadful words that meant forever.
Depression ruled. I was fed up with being brave.
I no longer cared who saw me. Since I was to be a monster forever, I finally allowed my cousins to visit. Before they came, I scanned photos of myself, my first “after” photos, shot by my dad. Then, I e-mailed them to the Ts, so they’d be forewarned.
My cousins came and weren’t too freaked out by my face. Their hugs felt good. We played cards and board games, watched DVDs, listened to pop and rap. I didn’t blame them for glancing over at me when they thought I didn’t notice. I’d have done the same if things were reversed.
My Aunt Tilda came over with her kids one day and innocently said, “Time heals all.” I met the remark with sullen silence. Who was she, with skin that covered her body like seamless hose—not a rip, mark or jagged edge in sight—to venture an opinion?
The curse of my forever-deformity tortured me in a way I couldn’t explain to my parents. I believed I’d never marry, adjust or reenter the normal world. Refusing to return to Fairview, I finished high school at home and didn’t attend my own graduation ceremony or let my parents throw me a party.
Mom and Dad kept trying to convince me to start therapy. I told them it was pointless: n
o shrink could take away my scars. They couldn’t argue that point and didn’t force me. I knew I was acting like a brat, but felt I had the right to it.
I returned to the hospital for surgery to remove and biopsy a growth under my armpit. One more thing to add to my list of negatives. The doctors felt it was benign, but had me stay for two nights, to await results.
My procedure was swift. I awoke briefly in the recovery room, flinched, watched a nurse push meds into my IV, and went under again. When I next opened my eyes, I was in a private room. Mom and Dad were there, one on each side of me, looking relieved. Mom exclaimed that all had gone well. They put the TV on and I tried to watch with them, but mainly dozed, still half-sedated.
The next morning, I barely stirred as nurses checked my vitals. The doctor came by very early, inspected my wound and ordered lab work. My parents dropped by, then went off to work. Nothing life-threatening was going on. I even dozed when a lab tech came and expertly drew three vials of blood. I didn’t really wake up until after 11:00 a.m.—very late for a hospital patient.
I got out of bed, used the restroom, showered, and pulled on a blue sweat-shirt and jeans. Stiffly, rolling my shoulders I walked to the tray table to check out my Get Well cards. Delgado strode in, shook her head and snapped, “Guess you never felt like callin’!”
I shrugged.
As Delgado checked my vitals, I kept my head down, trying to hide hot, unexpected tears.
“Still feel sorry for yourself?” she asked. There was no edge in her voice.
I sniffled, “Yep. So would you.”
She was silent.
A nurse’s aide dropped off my food tray just then. Delgado picked it up and moved toward the door, beckoning me to come along.
“We’re eating with friends,” she said.
I followed her pink-uniformed, chunky frame into the elevator. She pinned a “Volunteer” button on my T-shirt and said, “There’s your title. Try living up to it.”
I read the words “Burn Unit” over the archway of a door. Delgado led me through it and down a gleaming corridor. We took a right turn and walked into a small cafeteria. Delgado whispered that this place was nicknamed “The Burn Café” by residents of the ward and their families.
The Almost Murder and Other Stories Page 4
