Chapter 8 - The Bruises
The geriatric specialist examined my mother.
Bruises along one forearm.
Upper arm.
One hip.
No fractures.
No severe malnutrition.
Mild dehydration.
Some weight loss over three months.
Nothing dramatic enough to make abuse obvious from medicine alone.
Mom told the physician:
“Chloe grabs me.”
“How?”
“By the arm when she moves me.”
“Does she hit you?”
“Sometimes.”
I closed my eyes.
“How many times?”
Mom looked embarrassed.
“Not like today.”
That sentence nearly broke me.
Not like today.
Meaning:
Other times.
The physician asked privately whether I had ever harmed her.
“No.”
Whether Maya had.
“No. Maya protects me.”
Whether anyone else had.
“No.”
Then:
“Why didn’t you tell your son?”
My mother looked through the glass toward me.
“I did.”
I remembered.
Once.
She said:
“Your wife is cruel when you leave.”
I answered:
“You two have never gotten along.”
May you like
I had heard the words.
I simply translated them into a version that demanded less from me.
