Page 26 of The Scars I Bare
Oh, right…the pep talk.
“Right, indoor voice,” I said, getting back on topic. “Today, we need to use our indoor voices. Do you remember which one that is?”
“Yep! That’s the one Grandmother says should be used all the time, even when outdoors.” As soon as she mentioned her grandmother, her voice took on this formal, snooty quality as she tried to mimic the awful woman who had raised my ex-husband.
I tried not to laugh, but I couldn’t help it. Her impression of her grandmother was spot-on, and it was indeed something the stuck-up old woman would say.
“Right. Well, ignore what Grandmother said, but do me a favor today, and talk quietly when you’re inside that tiny building.”
Like a lightbulb had gone off in her head, she responded, “Oh! Because it’s tiny; that’s why I need to talk tiny.”
“Um, sure. Tiny voice for the tiny building,” I answered, sort of seeing the logic in it, especially if it worked. “You ready?”
“Yep!” she nearly yelled.
I chuckled, grabbing her hand, and we headed for the door.
“God help me,” I whispered under my breath.
“Mommy, we’re not inside,” she reminded me. “You don’t have to whisper yet.”
“You’re right, baby. Just practicing.”
And praying, I thought.Been doing an awful lot of that today.
Hopefully, someone was listening up there today because I had a feeling I would need all the help I could get.
Recovery Journal: Day Seven
This room. It’s too quiet. Every time I hear the shuffling of feet down the hall, I look and wait, wondering if someone will enter. Maybe a nurse or a doctor…anyone to put an end to the stifling silence.
God, I can’t take it.
I never really thought of hospitals before now. I mean, does anyone really?
Not even when my mom spoke of my father’s death did I wonder about all those people mulling about inside. I was so young—barely three, and Taylor had just been born. I know Dad must have been in one, even for a brief while after the aneurysm ruptured in his brain. Mom said he didn’t suffer, and I always remember feeling some sort of comfort from those words.
But I never imagined him here.
Or anyone else.
In the fourth grade, Kyle Keswick had to have his appendix taken out. He was gone for a week. Even then, I just thought of him as being on a sort of vacation—one where he got a cool scar and got to eat a lot of Jell-O.
Maybe no one really does.
Maybe that is how we stay sane—going on with our lives while the sick and dying are tucked away, out of sight.
That is me now. I am the forgotten.
The friend who has gone on vacation and will come back with the wicked cool scar.
But how deep will that scar run?
And will I be worth anything after it heals?
Before the accident, I’d never questioned my purpose in life.
Since then though, finding a reason to even get up in the morning seemed like a struggle. My family had pushed me, encouraging me to find my new niche in the family business now that my brother had expanded it.
