The Scars I Bare

by J. L. Berg

  “Mommy has homework.” Lizzie snickered.

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Yep, my teacher sent home a big packet and told us to make sure to give it to Mommy or Daddy for homework. Since Daddy doesn’t live with us anymore, I gave it to Mommy.”

  It was the first time she’d mentioned Blake in days, and every time she had, it had been just like this. A nonchalant, matter-of-fact type of thing. I’d asked her about it one night, and she’d kind of shrugged it off and changed the subject.

  I didn’t know what that meant, and I wasn’t sure if I should be alarmed.

  Like the first day of school, there wasn’t a manual for divorce. I let out an audible huff, focusing on my paperwork, as Molly and Terri chopped away in the kitchen while Lizzie organized her backpack for the tenth time. There were literally three things in there, but she was convinced it was necessary to know exactly where they were at all times.

  How I’d managed to give birth to the female version of Sheldon Cooper was beyond me.

  “So, uh…is that what you were planning on wearing tonight?” Molly asked.

  It took me a second to realize the chopping had stopped—at least, from her corner of the kitchen. I looked up from my paper stack and saw her taking a few steps in my direction, appraising my appearance with a determined eye.

  “Yes,” I said, suddenly feeling on display. “Why?”

  Her gaze roamed over my hair and down to the dark blue scrubs I was still wearing from work. “It’s just…well—” Her hand shot out, grabbing mine, as she wasn’t bothering to wait for an answer. “Come on. Terri?”

  “Yeah, I got it. Little Bit and I can take over from here. Right, Lizzie?”

  As I was dragged off toward my bedroom, I heard a familiar giggle, followed by the old woman talking about the proper way to make a dinner. “If you start it off with bacon, you’re doing it right!”

  Another giggle.

  Molly let me free the moment we crossed the threshold of her old bedroom. Using one of the master keys she still carried, she made herself at home while I took a seat on the bed.

  “You’ve barely moved in!” she commented the second her eyes met the pile of boxes in the corner.

  My cheeks reddened. “I know, but I figured it would be too much of a hassle to unpack everything if I was just going to move again.”

  “Hmm,” was the only response I got from her.

  She checked my closet, rummaging through several dresses I’d taken from my home in Virginia Beach and rounded out her tour at the dresser where I kept the few cosmetics I used. I’d never been much into makeup, only using a dab of concealer and a bit of mascara.

  “I’m not really a makeover kind of girl. My ex-husband tried. More times than you can count. It was like Pretty Woman in our house every other week,” I explained before adding, “minus the hooker part, of course.”

  That made Molly laugh, tiny lines forming around her bright blue eyes. She was a beautiful woman, tall and lean in all the right places. Her blonde hair fell down her back effortlessly. In fact, that was the word I’d use to describe her whole appearance. Effortless. As if she just radiated beauty without batting a single eyelash.

  I felt woefully underwhelming next to her.

  “I don’t want to make you over, Cora,” she explained. “I’m sorry if it came out that way. I just kind of wanted to talk, but I will say, there is something to be said about putting on a lovely dress or top. It can do wonders for the soul—or so my younger sister tells me.”

  A faint smile pulled at the corner of her moth. “Look,” she sighed, “Dean is important to me, and before you start getting nervous, thinking I’m about to give you the ex-fiancée speech, don’t. This is the best-friend speech, so it’s infinitely worse.”

  I let out a laugh that was more like a cough.

  “But, seriously, he is special. Not just to me, but also to everyone he meets. But he’s broken. So broken, I don’t know how to fix him, and I can’t help but feel somewhat responsible.” Her eyes turned away, and she stared out the window. “I should have known, you know? You don’t go through what he went through and bounce back so quickly. I was just so caught up in my own shit, in everything that was going on here, that I wanted to believe so desperately that he was okay. He swore, he was okay.”

  “He made a very convincing argument,” I agreed, remembering those weeks after his surgery in the hospital. I’d thought he’d overcome the loss of his arm incredibly well—too well in fact. But who was I to judge? I hadn’t known the guy, and I was nothing more than a nurse who visited him a few times a day.

  “But then he came home, and I saw it—remnants. He wasn’t whole anymore. It was like everything he’d been before was scattered all over, and every day since, he’s been roaming around, searching for the missing pieces.” She paused for a moment. “I see that same look in your eyes. Like a wounded animal.”

  “What?” I reacted sharply.

  “Sorry. It wasn’t meant as an insult. Let me explain,” she offered, turning back toward me to take a seat next to me on the bed.

  I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear much more, considering the woman had just compared me to a woodland creature, but I allowed it.

  With my arms firmly planted across my chest and a scowl plastered across my face, I listened as she continued.

  “A year or so ago, I was out on the patio, enjoying a bit of time to myself. About a glass of wine into my solitude, I noticed a funny-looking bird along the shore. Now, it usually takes several glasses of wine before I start seeing things, so naturally, I sat up from the lounge chair and took notice. It was then that I saw the bit of plastic wrapped around its wing.”

  My scowl fell a little as I tried to imagine the poor bird with its impaired wing. I still remembered my mom being so distraught over seeing a photo on TV one night of a bird wrapped in soda can rings that she’d run to the kitchen and begun cutting all of them up before the commercial ended.

  “I knew I should have called someone, but then my night would have been ruined by paperwork and animal control. It was just one tiny bird, right?”

  My gaze briefly traveled up to the ceiling as I began to rise from the bed. “Look, I’m sure this is a lovely story, but I’ve got to—”

  “Sit,” she commanded.

  My eyes widened, and I did as I had been told.

  “Anyway,” she continued without a hitch, “I marched down toward the beach. Well, I didn’t march really, more of a tiptoe.”

  Oh, for the love of God, did this woman have a point?

  “When I reached it, the poor thing put up a fight, wanting no help from me. He…or she—I don’t know which honestly—pretty much tried to claw and peck me to death as I did my best at removing the piece of plastic that was keeping him grounded.”

  As much as I hated to admit it, I was beginning to see her point.

  “I finally had to run back up to the house and grab a towel. The bird tried to peck me to death the entire way there and back. Hindsight, I probably should have left it at the beach and gone by myself, but like I said, I’d had a bit of wine. Anyway, I kept telling it, ‘I’m only trying to help. Just let me help you,’ but it just kept thrashing at me as I wrapped it in the blanket, for both of our sakes. Finally, I was able to loosen the mangled piece of trash and set him free. But, man, he was a fighter.”

  “And you think I’m this bird? Dean and me?”

  She nodded. “Oh, I know you are. You walk around here, licking those wounds of yours, refusing help when you need it.”

  “Dean doesn’t,” I argued, seeing an obvious flaw in her logic. “In fact, he’s just like you, always pointing out how little help I take.”

  She pressed her lips together. “And have you seen Dean take any since you moved here? The man with a company his brother runs? The man who’s been wandering around, doing nothing, for three years? Do you think we haven’t offered to help him a hundred times over?”

  “He’s helping Jake,” I said.
<
br />   “He’s helping you,” she pressed.

  I swallowed hard. “And so, you think I’ve come here to, what? Save him? You’re right; I am wounded. So deep, sometimes, I wonder if I’ll ever recover. That’s why I’m so scared to start anything with Dean. I can’t open myself up to another person. Dean might be searching for his broken pieces on this island, but I’m just looking for a new start. A new beginning with Lizzie. Besides, I’ve been here for only two weeks,” I added. Like an irate child, I wrapped my arms around my middle.

  “Why Ocracoke?” she suddenly asked, her change in subject nearly startling me.

  “What?”

  “Of all the places in all the world, why here?”

  “I, uh,” I fumbled for a moment before answering, “I liked the idea of being remote. Far away from everything. I knew Blake would never come to a place like this.”

  “And who told you about Ocracoke?”

  I sucked in a breath. “Dean.”

  Her eyebrow arched, and then she once again made her way to the closet, picking out a floral summer dress. She neatly set it down on the bed. “Dean? The handsome patient who happened to fall in love with you right before your marriage came crashing down around you? How’s that for coincidence? There’s nothing wrong with a new beginning, Cora,” she said. “Just don’t close yourself off to the possibility of whom it might include.”

  She didn’t say another word. She simply sauntered out of the room, leaving me in a sort of daze.

  I’d never really considered Dean’s part in my move to Ocracoke. Sure, he’d mentioned his hometown when we talked during his stay in the hospital, but I’d heard of it before. Everyone had. You couldn’t live in Virginia or anywhere near it without knowing of the Outer Banks and the tiny little island at the end.

  Had Dean been in my thoughts when I made my decision to make Ocracoke our home? Had his face lingered in my thoughts all those years after, like Molly had suggested, reminding me there was hope outside of my hellish life, if I chose to find it?

  Looking at the end of the bed, I saw the floral dress Molly had left me. The one she’d promised would give me confidence and do wonders for my soul.

  Hell, I could use all the help I could get.

  Recovery Journal: Day Seventeen

  I saw the ocean today.

  I saw the ocean today, and I cried.

  I cried so hard, my throat burned, and my ribs ached. I cried for everything it had taken from me—the lazy days, the working days, and every moment in between.

  It had once been my home.

  My solace.

  My peace.

  And, in one night, all that had been stripped away.

  I was moved today to a rehab facility. Moved like a piece of furniture or a box of junk.

  I was no longer a person. Just a job.

  The rehab facility is closer to home by a couple of hours. I’m in North Carolina, but home is still a world away.

  Driving down the highway in the van the rehab team had sent up felt like I was being thrust into live-action role-play where everyone knew the game but me. I’d been holed up in that hospital room for so long, I’d almost forgotten what life was like on the outside. I’d almost forgotten there were people out here, going on with their daily lives with no real thought to the ferry or how it’d impacted them.

  Because it hadn’t.

  It’s an odd feeling, realizing how your life can be so utterly altered by a single event while the world is completely unaffected.

  I sat back in the van while the rehab team talked about their weekend, laughing about the movies they had seen and the restaurants they had gone to, as I stared out the window, coming face-to-face with the monster of my nightmares.

  The taker of all my hopes and dreams.

  No doubt, I’ll be thrown in some sort of psych ward now after my mental breakdown in the van. I’m not even sure they have those in this place.

  Whatever. I don’t care.

  I don’t care about any of this.

  Oh, and in case you’re wondering, Cora shot me down. She’s happily married. With a young daughter.

  Happily. She used the word a lot when she told me. Like she was afraid I’d forgotten the meaning of it.

  Not quite, Cora, but I have a feeling I’m about to.

  By the time I arrived at the inn for dinner, I was a goddamn mess. Sweat was running down my back from the heat, even after changing my shirt twice. I’d changed my mind three times on whether to bring flowers for Cora, doubling back to the house at the last minute to grab them after I firmly decided to leave them at home.

  When I finally arrived, I was a solid twenty minutes late and probably looked like a psychopath from all the sweat and the mangled flowers in my hand.

  But all of this was forgotten the moment the door opened, and Cora greeted me.

  “Jesus,” I cursed, giving her a once-over before she even had the chance to say hi. “You look insane.”

  “Insane is good?” she asked, pink staining her cheeks.

  I’d never seen her in anything beyond scrubs and shorts. Granted, this woman could wear a paper bag and be the hottest woman in the room. Tonight though, she’d dressed up, wearing a short, strappy number with tiny pink flowers dotting the fabric.

  “Insane is really good,” I clarified.

  Her cheeks reddened even more. The shade of them was now quite possibly my new favorite color.

  “You two gonna stand there, ogling each other all night, or are you gonna invite the boy in?”

  My eyes widened as I recognized the voice inside. “Is that Terri?”

  She nodded. “Molly insisted on making dinner from scratch tonight, and Terri stuck around to make sure I wouldn’t ruin it.”

  I laughed. “How very Terri of her.”

  She motioned for me to come in, and as I crossed the threshold, she leaned in toward me, the smell of her hair instantly hitting me. “How do I get rid of her?” she whispered.

  Smiling, I whispered back, “I have no idea. She’s never been overly fond of me. I tend to just duck out when she’s around.”

  “I might be old, Dean Sutherland, but I can still hear you jabbering on in there.”

  “Come on,” she said, as both of us tried not to laugh. “Before she scolds us.”

  She took my hand just then, pulling me behind her. It was such an innocent gesture but felt monumental for so many reasons. It was only the second time she’d willingly touched me, and unlike so many others who shied away from it, she’d grabbed my right hand—boldly, unapologetically, and without hesitation.

  I missed feeling the warmth of her skin under mine as she held onto my prosthetic hand, but the gesture sent reverberations through my whole body, and it took the entire walk to the kitchen for me to process it.

  “Nice flowers,” Terri said, glancing in my direction as she grabbed her purse from the counter. “They for me?”

  I looked down at the pathetic excuse for flowers I’d brought with me, the ones I held in my left hand.

  Was that why she’d grabbed my right hand? Maybe it hadn’t been on purpose? Maybe she hadn’t realized it?

  “Um, no,” I said, fumbling for words. But then I looked into Cora’s eyes, and for a single moment, everything disappeared.

  “What do you do when you have a crush on a girl? You bring her flowers.”

  “They’re for Cora,” I said softly.

  Terri gave me a quick wink before heading for the door. “You kids have fun. Everything is ready, and there are rolls in the oven.”

  “Thank you, Terri. This is more than I could have asked for.”

  “Ah, well, I don’t get to cook for a family much. Henry, my husband, owns a restaurant in town, so we mostly eat there. And, before that, when I was single, I was cooking for one. So, this is nice.”

  “…cook for a family…”

  I knew she’d said it on purpose. I didn’t know Terri as well as Molly and Jake did, but I knew one thing about the old broad. She didn�
�t say anything by accident. The thought stuck in my mind after she let herself out, so much so that I didn’t hear Lizzie ask about the flowers until she came bursting into the kitchen.

  “Flowers again?”

  “What? Oh, uh, actually, these are for your mom,” I said. “Maybe you can put them next to yours?”

  She made a sour face. “But then they’ll be in my room, so technically, they’d be mine. I’ll let her keep them.”

  I smiled. “Seems fair. So, how’d your first day go?”

  Cora made a chuckle, taking the flowers from my hand, and then she looked around for a vase. Clearly, I’d asked the wrong question because, suddenly, I was reliving the day in vivid details only Lizzie could provide.

  “Ms. Haley took my crayons.”

  “What now?” I asked, immediately sorry I had.

  I caught Cora dishing up whatever was on the stove onto plates. I couldn’t help but notice the way her hips swayed back and forth as she hummed to herself.

  “And I told her, communal crayons just didn’t make sense.”

  “Huh?”

  Clearly, I’d missed something while I was checking out Cora.

  “They make us share crayons. Isn’t that ridiculous?”

  I looked to Cora for guidance. Her eyes widened, and she made a nodding gesture. Apparently, I was to agree.

  “Yes, totally absurd.”

  “What if the kid next to me presses too hard or, for heaven’s sake, eats the crayons? That kind of improper use should not affect me, should it?”

  “I should think not?” I said, almost phrasing it as a question because, really, I had no clue what the rules were when it came to Crayola rights.

  My eyes drifted back to Cora and the short dress. Her legs seemed to go on forever. What I wouldn’t do to—

  “So, you’ll speak to my teacher then?”

  “Um, what?”

  “About having my own crayons. We haven’t moved on to using colored pencils or markers, but I’m guessing it will involve the same kind of stuff. Better if you include them in your discussion.”

  My face went blank as I found Cora’s.