“Then stop trying to win the argument.”
Emily nodded slowly.
That evening, she did exactly that.
She sat at the edge of Lily’s bed.
The hood remained up.
“I’m sorry.”
Lily did not answer.
Emily continued.
“I told you it wouldn’t look bad because I wanted to make you less scared.”
“That wasn’t fair.”
Lily stared at her.
“You lied.”
“Yes.”
Emily’s voice broke.
“I did.”
“I’m sorry.”
Lily’s eyes filled.
Emily did not say but.
That mattered.
Eventually Lily whispered:
“Do you think it’s ugly?”
There it was.
The trap.
If Emily said no too fast, Lily would not believe her.
If she hesitated, Lily would hear yes.
Emily took a breath.
“I think it looks hard.”
Lily frowned.
“What?”
“It looks like you went through something very hard.”
“That’s not beautiful.”
“Maybe not.”
Lily looked surprised.
Emily continued:
“I think you are beautiful.”
“I also think your scar is new and swollen and scary to you.”
“Both can be true.”
Lily’s lower lip trembled.
Emily moved a little closer.
“Can I sit here?”
“You already are.”
That was the first joke Lily had made all day.
Tiny.
Almost accidental.
Emily laughed through tears.
Lily let her hold one hand.
That night she ate four crackers.
Victory became smaller in hospitals.
Four crackers could feel enormous.
Still, Wednesday was not much better.
Lily wore the pink hoodie through breakfast.
Physical therapy convinced her to walk only from bed to bathroom.
She refused the hallway because she could hear other children and families.
“What if somebody sees me?”
Ellen answered:
“They might.”
Lily retreated immediately.
The hospital psychologist, Dr. Mina Cortez, visited.
Lily refused to talk.
The child-life specialist brought a doll with a fabric scar.
Lily turned it face down.
A volunteer offered art supplies.
No.
Music.
No.
A therapy dog stood outside the door.
Lily wanted the dog but would not let the handler enter.
Emily tried bargaining.
Nothing.
By Wednesday afternoon, Ellen found herself standing in the staff break room holding a cup of coffee she had forgotten to drink.
Another nurse, Janice, walked in.
“You look terrible.”
“Thank you.”
“Room 304?”
Ellen looked up.
“How’d you know?”
“Everybody knows.”
Ellen sat.
“She thinks the scar makes her a monster.”
Janice opened refrigerator.
“Poor baby.”
“Nothing is reaching her.”
“Give it time.”
“We have time.”
“She’ll be here several more days.”
Ellen stared at coffee.
Then something old surfaced.
A memory.
Not of a child.
Of a man.
Seven years earlier.
Neuro step-down unit had been over capacity, and Ellen had picked up overtime outside pediatrics because her daughter was starting college and tuition had transformed overtime into a personality trait.
A fifty-something motorcycle mechanic had arrived after emergency surgery for a ruptured cerebral aneurysm.
Huge man.
Tattooed arms.
Gray beard beginning then but not yet white.
The nurses had expected him to be difficult based purely on appearance and had been embarrassed by how wrong they were.
His name was Marcus Hale.
He had recovered slowly.