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

a job well done. I tried not to cry or glare at him. It was pointless.
    The doctor volunteered that if my keloids started to grow back again he could inject them with cortisone. If that didn’t work, there were other options. Mom thanked him. I nodded.
    Dr. Katz took a few polaroids, then showed us my “before” photos. He considered the improvement to be significant and said that now the scars would be much easier to cover with makeup.
    I was buying none of this. I stared at Dr. Katz, still silent. I knew he sensed my disappointment, which, from the look on her face, Mom seemed to share.
    As far as I was concerned, the surgery had been a failure. I felt foolish for deluding myself. If this was as good as I’d ever look, I was a monster for life.
    Dr. Katz asked me not to look in a mirror for a week. I agreed, no longer expecting magic, anyway. At home, I watched television day and night: soap operas, movies, MTV—it didn’t matter.
    A week later, to the day, I again sat at my vanity table and lifted the bandages. There was less redness and swelling, but to me the scars looked as grisly as they’d been before.
    Post-op days became weeks and months. My scars were red, but not as thick and ropy. They were prominent, though, and dominated my face and neck.
    I saw the truth: there was no magic wand. I wasn’t just a badly injured accident victim, but a young woman scarred for life. For life. Tiny, dreadful words that meant forever.
    Depression ruled. I was fed up with being brave.
    I no longer cared who saw me. Since I was to be a monster forever, I finally allowed my cousins to visit. Before they came, I scanned photos of myself, my first “after” photos, shot by my dad. Then, I e-mailed them to the Ts, so they’d be forewarned.
    My cousins came and weren’t too freaked out by my face. Their hugs felt good. We played cards and board games, watched DVDs, listened to pop and rap. I didn’t blame them for glancing over at me when they thought I didn’t notice. I’d have done the same if things were reversed.
    My Aunt Tilda came over with her kids one day and innocently said, “Time heals all.” I met the remark with sullen silence. Who was she, with skin that covered her body like seamless hose—not a rip, mark or jagged edge in sight—to venture an opinion?
    The curse of my forever-deformity tortured me in a way I couldn’t explain to my parents. I believed I’d never marry, adjust or reenter the normal world. Refusing to return to Fairview, I finished high school at home and didn’t attend my own graduation ceremony or let my parents throw me a party.
    Mom and Dad kept trying to convince me to start therapy. I told them it was pointless: no shrink could take away my scars. They couldn’t argue that point and didn’t force me. I knew I was acting like a brat, but felt I had the right to it.
    I returned to the hospital for surgery to remove and biopsy a growth under my armpit. One more thing to add to my list of negatives. The doctors felt it was benign, but had me stay for two nights, to await results.
    My procedure was swift. I awoke briefly in the recovery room, flinched, watched a nurse push meds into my IV, and went under again. When I next opened my eyes, I was in a private room. Mom and Dad were there, one oneach side of me, looking relieved. Mom exclaimed that all had gone well. They put the TV on and I tried to watch with them, but mainly dozed, still half-sedated.
    The next morning, I barely stirred as nurses checked my vitals. The doctor came by very early, inspected my wound and ordered lab work. My parents dropped by, then went off to work. Nothing life-threatening was going on. I even dozed when a lab tech came and expertly drew three vials of blood. I didn’t really wake up until after 11:00 a.m.—very late for a hospital patient.
    I got out of bed, used the restroom, showered, and pulled on a blue sweat-shirt and