Rise: How a House Built a Family(83)

“… I believe those laws are in place for a very good reason, and I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. Doctors and patients aren’t supposed to have personal contact. It’s a professional relationship. I believe that, and I support those laws. I really do,” the doctor was saying.

What was his name again? And what in the world was he talking about? Of course I was uncomfortable; he had a buffet-style warming lamp inches from my head and was pinching a deep gash in my head. Laws about personal contact? Something was wrong. A snake of warning slithered down my spine. This was something else. He wasn’t talking about houses, abuse, or wounds anymore. I must have squirmed along with that snake.

“Whoa, now. This is going to sting, but it’s vital that you stay absolutely still for about three minutes. I’ve got to hold this glue in place while it sets. You can’t move.”

I almost nodded, because the warning snake had stolen my tongue, but I caught myself and held still, steadying my breathing and trying to slow my heart. His hand was pressed over my left eye, holding it closed. I wanted to close the right eye to block out his distorted face through the magnifying glass. It had turned him into something surreal and nightmarish.

He leaned in again, worsening the effect. “Now let me know if this makes you uncomfortable,” he whispered. “I’m going to put something in your hand now. I’m letting you know so it doesn’t surprise you. Stay absolutely still.”

I did stay still, but due to fear paralysis rather than obedience or curiosity. I’d seen movies about perverted things that happened in doctors’ offices and nurses who stood by silently. What in the hell was he about to put in my hand? It wasn’t just the nurse, either. The door was open about a foot, and my daughter was in the room.

What is happening?

I felt a scream clawing up my throat. Caroline would scream, but even when a bead of sweat dripped down my temple, leaving a tickle trail, I knew I wouldn’t scream. I knew I would stay frozen in shock and fear.

He shifted his shoulders sideways, expertly keeping the hand holding my face together and perfectly still. My left hand was on the bed beside me, palm up, with an ice pack on the bruised knuckles. The rough edges of a tongue depressor slid across my fingers and they closed around it. A flood of embarrassed heat flooded through me.

“Ignore that if it makes you uncomfortable,” he whispered. “I’d love to talk more about the house though. If I build my retirement cabin, I want to go in with as much information as I can. Do it right.”

My hand throbbed from the grip I had on the tongue depressor, and I wondered if it was one of the grape-flavored ones they used to give my kids when they were cranky. My mind was so tired and bruised that I had slipped into a state of deep distrust that turned this curious doctor’s gentle outreach into something ugly and terrifying. Adam had made some headway in his effort to break my mind along with his own.

I relaxed, this time for real, and had time for two deep breaths before the doctor pulled back and smiled at his handiwork. “I’ll put a little tape on this. Try to keep a neutral expression for a while. No extreme laughter. No crying. Doctor’s orders.”

I smiled, but only on the right, and closed both eyes. Taking control of my mind was not an overnight victory. Two steps forward, one step back.

“Stay still for a few minutes. The discharge nurse will be back with paperwork. It was really a pleasure meeting you.” He put out his hand and shook my good one. “Be careful, now. I don’t want to glue you back together again.”

“Thank you. Next time let’s bump into each other in the plumbing aisle, or selecting carbide drill bits or something.”

He waved at the door, never seeming to notice the roller coaster of confusion and fear I had just traveled over a tongue depressor. As soon as he was gone, I looked at it and found his personal e-mail address in blue ink, scribbled out once and then rewritten below. Of course I would e-mail him some tips about house building when I had a chance, and I would also keep the stick as a reminder that it was okay to relax and trust. Not everyone had something dark and nefarious in mind. Some people reached out for friendship (grape-flavored friendship in this case)—something I had forgotten how to do years ago.

*

Mommy guilt is a powerful monster. I had worried from the start of the project that the kids would wake up one day and refuse to lift a hammer ever again. They weren’t two-year-olds (well, except for the two-year-old), so there was little I could do to force them if they really decided to rebel. The real problem was, they hadn’t.

We were all in as a team from the start. We’d had days when one of them would feel discouraged or so exhausted they cried from muscle pain, but there was never a day when they just up and quit. We catered the day’s music to the downhearted and gave them the easy tasks or the best job on the site—playing with Roman. It never took long for spirits to rise. I respected and admired their strength and determination. But paradox of paradoxes, that’s exactly what bothered me.

They were missing so many of the everyday high-school and middle-school experiences that I had sworn over their cradles they would have. Poverty had robbed me of many things as a teenager, and I hated that my decisions had put my own kids on the outside of normal.

Jada managed to stay on the basketball team through the school year because it was one of her classes at school instead of multiple after-school practices. But she had fallen behind and wasn’t planning to be on the team in the fall. I wondered if part of the reason was the summer ball practice she was missing.