When his cranial dressing came off, he had refused visitors for two days.
Ellen remembered because his daughter had arrived carrying a ridiculous pale-pink hoodie.
Marcus had stared at it.
“What the hell is that?”
His daughter had replied:
“Your new personality.”
He wore it.
Not because he liked pink.
Because his daughter had cut one side of the hood slightly so it would not rub the incision and had said:
“If you’re going to hide, at least hide obnoxiously.”
Ellen remembered laughing.
More importantly, she remembered Marcus talking months later at a hospital charity ride.
He had told her he had spent weeks wearing caps because strangers stared at the surgical scar.
Then his daughter, Leah, had asked:
“How can you tell me not to judge bikers by how they look while you’re judging yourself by one scar?”
Marcus had apparently hated the question because it was correct.
After recovery, he began volunteering with a regional children’s support program through his motorcycle club.
Not often.
Only when invited.
Mostly older kids recovering from major surgery or trauma.
Ellen put the coffee down.
Janice noticed.
“What?”
“I know someone.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“He looks ominous.”
“Better.”
Ellen left the break room.
Hospital volunteer policy was strict.
She could not simply call a biker and invite him into a child’s room.
She contacted child-life services.
Then social work.
Then Emily.
Emily looked uncertain.
“A biker?”
Ellen smiled.
“That reaction is why I’m asking first.”
“What exactly would he do?”
“Talk.”
“To Lily?”
“If she wants.”
Emily looked through window.
Lily sat under pink hood drawing nothing on a blank sheet of paper.
Ellen explained Marcus’s scar.
His experience.
His volunteer background.
His daughter.
Emily listened.
“Would he show her?”
“Only if she asks or if it helps.”
“He has screening clearance through the hospital foundation, but we’d still go through normal process.”
Emily thought for a long time.
Then:
“Ask Lily.”
Good.
Ellen did.
“Someone might come tomorrow.”
Lily immediately said no.
Ellen nodded.
“He had surgery on his head too.”
Lily’s eye shifted.
“He’s old.”
Ellen laughed.
“I’ll tell him you said that.”
“Is he?”
“He’s fifty-nine.”
“That’s old.”
“Extremely.”
Lily considered.
“Does he have staples?”
“Not anymore.”
“Does he have scar?”
“Yes.”
“Big?”
“Yes.”
“Ugly?”
Ellen paused.
“I don’t think so.”
Lily pulled the hood closer.
“Then it’s not same.”
“He thought it was.”
That mattered.
Lily looked.
“What happened?”
“Something in his head started bleeding.”
“Like tumor?”
“Different.”
“Did they cut his hair?”
“Yes.”
“Did people stare?”
“He says they did.”
Lily’s breathing changed.
“What does he look like?”
Ellen took out phone.
She had a hospital-foundation photo.
Marcus stood beside a motorcycle, black vest, huge gray beard, tattooed arms.
Lily stared.
“He looks mean.”
“He is grumpy.”