or leave our property. I stayed indoors or in our huge backyard under the patio tableâs huge umbrella, carefully shading my scars from sunlight, on doctorâs 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 couldnât bring myself to go out. I knew thereâd be stares and wasnât 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 couldnât get out to Malibu, Dad and I drove up into the Mulholland Hills to watch the night sky. Weâd park at a viewpoint, climb out of the car and stare up at infinity. The air felt good; the sky was a miracle. Iâd have a miracle, too.
Dad would put his arm around my shoulders and call me his old pet name,
âmi estrellaâ
âstar. I quietly thought, âIâll look like Dadâs star again ⦠after my surgery.â
Schoolwork, the beach, the Internet and Mulholland helped the time pass. Mom and I went for a final pre-op doctorâs 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 surgeonâs 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 kitchenâa 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 âfor the roadâ and wheeled out to Momâs 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.
Iâd expected my scars to have evaporated, faded away, slithered right off my face-neck-arms-legs as if theyâd 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 Iâd been before. My healed scars had been opened and ârevised.â Now, I looked different but ugly, nonetheless. A monster girl.
I unlocked my bedroom door and turned on the television. I didnât tell my parents that Iâd 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 âlooking good,â 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 measureup to each of my scars, declaring that heâd reduced the width of both long scars and taken down much of the texture on my face and neck.
He looked happyâa man proud of