The Almost Murder and Other Stories by Theresa Saldaña Read Free Book Online

or leave our property. I stayed indoors or in our huge backyard under the patio table’s huge umbrella, carefully shading my scars from sunlight, on doctor’s 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 couldn’t bring myself to go out. I knew there’d be stares and wasn’t 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 couldn’t get out to Malibu, Dad and I drove up into the Mulholland Hills to watch the night sky. We’d park at a viewpoint, climb out of the car and stare up at infinity. The air felt good; the sky was a miracle. I’d have a miracle, too.
    Dad would put his arm around my shoulders and call me his old pet name,
“mi estrella”
—star. I quietly thought, “I’ll look like Dad’s star again … after my surgery.”
    Schoolwork, the beach, the Internet and Mulholland helped the time pass. Mom and I went for a final pre-op doctor’s 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 surgeon’s 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 kitchen—a 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 “for the road” and wheeled out to Mom’s 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.
    I’d expected my scars to have evaporated, faded away, slithered right off my face-neck-arms-legs as if they’d 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 I’d been before. My healed scars had been opened and “revised.” Now, I looked different but ugly, nonetheless. A monster girl.
    I unlocked my bedroom door and turned on the television. I didn’t tell my parents that I’d 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 “looking good,” 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 he’d reduced the width of both long scars and taken down much of the texture on my face and neck.
    He looked happy—a man proud of