SHE WAS STRUCK by the doctor’s youth and beauty. Her magnificent thick hair and coppery skin. Suzette wanted to ask where she was from, unable to pinpoint her ethnicity by her name or coloring. But she knew such a question was impolitic, and would likely yield a truthful but unhelpful answer: Berkeley, California; Newark, New Jersey; Columbus, Ohio. Likely she had parents or grandparents from one or several other parts of the world, but Suzette accepted the irrelevance of her own curiosity. More important, the doctor had a delicate touch and a soothing manner.
The doctor confirmed the wounds above Suzette’s left knee and on her cheek were worse than the burns on her hands. Thankfully, only a tiny piece of fabric had to be separated from her skin. Her hands, swaddled in gel and gauze, barely stung anymore—she’d acquired a worse injury after taking a heavy dish out of the oven with a frayed hot mitt. But she was warned her knee might scar a little. And her cheek. The doctor had tended to it first as Suzette lay on the exam table, fighting a wave of nausea.
“How bad?” Suzette had asked.
The doctor had continued working for a minute, gently cleaning the edges of the wound. “It’ll be fairly symmetrical, about the size of a quarter. I’m glad this black stuff—it’s just charcoal, not dead skin. You might be left with some puckering or a little discoloration after it fully heals. I can refer you to a plastic surgeon, but with a second-degree burn like this, I don’t know if they can help.”
Suzette lost herself for a spell, cataloging her body’s road map of scars. It seemed fortuitous that she’d so recently had her gaping abdominal scar repaired. The new abdominal incision, and the laparoscopic ones, were healing in tidy lines; in combination with whatever would remain on her leg, the collection of them was still less terrible than what the reminder of her fistula had been. But what of the scar now marring her face? How prominent would it be? Would everyone’s eyes go there first? Would they ask what happened, or would they turn their gaze in pity? And what could she ever say if they did ask? Oh, my sweet little girl tried to incinerate me while we were having a picnic.
And what would Alex think? He might say she was still beautiful. But it would forever remind him of sick Hanna and all their parental failings. It was easy to imagine him never looking her in the face again. For the same reason, it was easy to imagine herself avoiding every mirror and reflection. The ugliness aside. Irreparable harm. Internal, external. That’s what Hanna had done: irreparable harm. It was unforgivable. Even if she’d mothered imperfectly. She didn’t deserve to wear her failings like a brand.
It was bandaged for now, in thick gauze that both collected the wound’s watery ooze and kept all the healing ointment from seeping out. Maybe she’d always keep a bandage over it. Pretend it was a new injury in the process of healing. That seemed more acceptable to her: a misfortune that might yet heal, rather than a scar that would remind her forever of the demon she’d given birth to. Would it be better for Alex that way, too? Easier for him to still find her attractive? She’d tried so hard to keep herself beautiful for her husband. Never again would she let Hanna threaten the one relationship that had been strong and true.
As the doctor finished treating her leg, they made light banter about summer plans. The doctor wanted mountains. Suzette couldn’t think of anything beyond her in-laws’ July visit; Tova and Bernt made their house a regular stop on their annual return trip from Europe. Their conversation went silent for a moment.
“So, there are some standard questions we ask everyone who comes in. Have you had any serious falls in the last six months?”
“No.”
“Have you been depressed?”
“No. A little. Not depression exactly.”
“Is anyone hurting you at home?”
“Is that one of the standard questions?” Tendrils of anxiety radiated through Suzette’s gut. Had the pleasant conversation been an attempt to earn her trust, in anticipation of this one inquiry? Her shoulders tightened, alarmed that she’d exposed herself and her family to the type of scrutiny she’d sought to avoid.
The beautiful young doctor smiled at her. “Yes. But in your case, it seemed especially relevant.”
“Because of my feet?” Suzette, needing help onto the exam table, had explained how she’d stumbled by the fire because of her previously damaged feet, which she’d downplayed with a vague “stepped on something.” She’d declined to have the doctor check them.
“You have multiple injuries, some preexisting. And your daughter was brought in as well.”
Suzette frowned, aware of how Alex would feel if he was being put through a similar line of questioning. He didn’t deserve the accusations, but she appreciated why they had to ask, had to make sure. Would Alex get angry and make himself look more suspicious?
“It’s not my husband. He’d never hurt me.”
“Is someone else at home? Hurting you?”
Her adrenaline plummeted; Suzette didn’t want any more of the doctor’s compassion or concern. She wanted to go to their imperfect home and sleep an imperfect sleep. She heard herself trying to explain, in a defeated and distant voice, worried they’d call Child Protective Services or some other agency that would condemn Alex.
“… You wouldn’t understand. It’s complicated.”
“You’re safe here. I don’t want you going home if you’re in danger…”
“You don’t understand. It’s my daughter…” There was too much to tell and this wasn’t the place, so she shook her head. Her breathing grew shallow as the walls pressed in. Please, let us go … They’d deal with it with Beatrix, who already knew something about them.
“Your daughter is in danger?” More head-shaking. Suzette couldn’t even look in the doctor’s perplexed face as she tried to piece it together. “Your daughter … hurts you?”
With the words formed in someone else’s mouth, the reality came fully into existence, too. Hanna had dark intentions toward her, maybe even murderous ones. Something inside her burst and crumbled—their precious fortress of denial and hope. Her limbs went loose, her head dropped with the weight of defeat.
“I don’t know why,” she said, the pain of it greater than even her throbbing cheek. “I don’t think I ever did anything that terrible … Not intentionally. We—my husband and I—know there’s something wrong, we’re trying. We have an appointment with her therapist first thing in the morning.”
The doctor nodded, stunned into silence. Suzette read the fear, the newness of such a dilemma, in the doctor’s face.
“Well, if there’s anything we can do to help…” But it was an empty offer, and the doctor was already moving away from her, peeling off her blue nitrile gloves. Her body language changed, closing herself off from the situation. It was all too weird, too foreign, too diabolical.
Suzette brought her trembling fingers to her mouth. It was a mistake to have said anything. She and Alex could never pretend again. Violent children only grow up to be serial killers. It was a fear she couldn’t resolve.
A few minutes later, they wheeled her into the waiting room where Alex sat with Hanna on his lap. On his lap, like nothing happened. They got their aftercare info and Suzette’s referral, and Alex folded the papers and stuffed them into his pants pocket.
Hanna grabbed the wheelchair handles and started pushing.
“Hey, not so fast—you can’t use that hand. It’s not broken, but it’s sprained. You have to let it rest,” Alex told her.
“Just use your right hand and Daddy will get the other side,” Suzette said. Her daughter’s effort to help was sweet—as she could sometimes be—unless Hanna meant to push her in front of a bus.
They maneuvered her into the parking lot. Alex whispered in her left ear, “They thought I was abusing you.”
“I know. They asked me about it too.”
“What did you tell them?”
“The truth.”
* * *
When they got home from Urgent Care, Hanna plodded off to her room. Neither of them thought to follow her up or make sure she brushed her teeth. Alex brought in Suzette’s crutches and the remnants of their feast. The dishes stayed on the counter, spoiling. They collapsed together on the couch, huddled in each other’s arms like refugees.
At dawn, the bells chimed upstairs. Hanna had awakened.
“Go. Take a shower,” Suzette told Alex, stretching out the night’s kinks. He hesitated. “We can’t fall apart.”
Hanna snuck down while Alex was in the shower. After surveying the piled-up dishes in the kitchen, she wrinkled her nose; it stank of fish and onions. Suzette disapproved somewhat of her daughter’s wardrobe choice—a slightly-too-big summer dress and color-coordinated but mismatched yellow knee socks—but at least Hanna appeared to be reasonably clean. Her wrist remained bandaged, but Suzette was relieved that she no longer seemed protective of it.
“Hungry?”
Hanna shrugged.
“Want to get your brush and I’ll fix your hair?”
Her daughter turned and clambered back up the stairs.
Suzette groaned a little, easing herself into a sitting position. She straightened out her shirt. She’d slip on a bra later before they went out. And a loose pair of long pants, which would cover the bandage and discolored marks on her legs. Couldn’t hide her face, though. And probably wouldn’t wear shoes, just slippers. She’d gotten used to clothing that was the equivalent of pajamas over the last few days. It felt good to be comfortable.
She was hobbling back from the powder room after a quick pee when Hanna returned holding a brush and two red hair bands. Suzette limped over to the table and sat down. The puddles from Alex’s efforts to cool her burns had dried. The abandoned dish towels were stiff mounds.
Hanna knew the routine; she stood between Suzette’s legs, facing away from her.
“I’ll just give mine a quick brushing first.” With the purple sparkly brush gripped gingerly between her least-sore fingers, she ran it through her hair a few times. Better than nothing.
Their glamorous days were over. She didn’t care if she showed up at the therapist’s looking like the type of people she used to complain about, who went about in public as if the whole world was their bedroom. Why couldn’t other people be bothered to put on proper clothes? She saw them everywhere. At Starbucks. Rite Aid. The Giant Eagle. People who looked as if they were just going to, or just getting ready for, bed. Now she knew what it took for her to abandon the basics of propriety. Was everyone’s life in such a state of ruin? Were they all just barely going through the motions?
She ran the brush through her daughter’s hair, careful not to cause the slightest bit of discomfort. Hanna held up the hair bands, one in each hand.
“Braids? Pigtails?”
Hanna nodded at the second suggestion. Suzette parted her hair down the back, sweeping one section away.
“You know, I wish I knew what I did. I’d undo it.” She spoke to her softly. “You have to believe me. I don’t want you to be in pain, but you can’t keep hurting me.”
There was nothing else to say. Hanna remained silent.
The pigtails sat high on either side of her head, parallel and perfect. Not a hair out of place. Suzette nudged Hanna’s shoulders, and the girl turned to face her. Suzette gave the bottom of each pigtail a twist, so each settled in a curl. A dread descended; everything was about to change. What would Beatrix say about their daughter’s future? Hanna had laid her own path, but where was she leading them, and could they ever recover? It felt awkward, but Suzette needed to do it: she wrapped her tentative arms around Hanna’s rigid and resisting body.
“I remember,” Suzette whispered. “Being young, and feeling so alone. I promise. It won’t always be this way.”
She kissed her daughter’s rosy, perfect cheek. Sat back and looked at her adorable face. Hanna remained expressionless. Suzette remembered a few mornings when she was little and her mother wanted to snuggle in bed. Suzette lay with her mother’s arm beneath her head, but wouldn’t roll in for a cuddle. Her mother spoke in a babyish voice as Suzette lay stiff as a board, aware of the body beside her as if it were component parts of rotting flesh and unyielding bone, and waited for the affection to be over. Maybe her mother had tried. Maybe Suzette rejected her love. Maybe her mother gave up. They hadn’t bonded well, but she’d needed her mother to keep trying. It was a child’s selfish desire, but mothers were meant to be selfless.
She thrust her arms around Hanna. A genuine embrace, tight and heartfelt.
* * *
Suzette and Alex were both anxious; the pot of coffee, shared in silence at the table, didn’t help. Hanna nibbled on her cereal, so cautious with her spoon that it made no sound against the bowl. Her exaggerated care suited the mood. Suzette couldn’t shake the sense that something was about to break. One of them would speak and the entire room—the house—would splinter into a million pieces, shattering the illusion they inhabited. Suzette and Alex kept glancing at their phones, eager to leave.
They arrived at Dr. Yamamoto’s fifteen minutes early. Hanna ran ahead to the door.
“I guess she likes her. Or the toys.” Suzette kept her arm threaded through Alex’s. The crutches weren’t the fix they’d once been, not with having to put pressure on blistered finger pads and palms. She walked slowly, careful not to step on a stone or a crack, feeling doomed and ridiculous with her gauzy hands and slippered feet. Hanna still wore her mismatched knee socks and opted for ladybug rain boots, in spite of the clear weather. Suzette had her put on a cardigan for the morning chill, but Hanna pushed up the sleeves. Because she was too warm, or eager to show off her bandaged wrist? Even Alex didn’t look as sharp as usual, though he was probably the cleanest of the three of them. He opted for gym pants, with a buttoned shirt worn open over a blue T-shirt. His beard was raggedy, the lines around his eyes more pronounced.
Hanna held her finger over the doorbell, looking to her mother for permission. When Suzette nodded, Hanna pushed the bell. She and Alex weren’t yet to the door when Beatrix opened it. Her welcoming smile melted as she took in the three of them. The limping. The bandages. The rumpled mess.
“Oh dear. Not the best weekend, I take it?” She glanced down at Hanna with a warm smile. “Good morning, Hanna. Do you want to go into the playroom?”
Hanna grinned and skipped inside.
As the adults moved down the hallway, slowly to accommodate Suzette’s hobbling, Hanna disappeared into the playroom.
“These look like new injuries. Is everyone okay?” Beatrix asked.
“We had an accident—”
Suzette cut Alex off. “Hanna’s trying to kill me.”
They hovered in the doorway to Beatrix’s office. Alex and Suzette just looked at each other, wearing matching expressions of wounded, but not angry, acceptance.
“We’ve had so little time together,” said Beatrix. “But I made note during our first session of Hanna’s Callous-Unemotional traits.”
“What does that mean?” Alex asked.
“Perhaps I should speak with her first today, and see if I can uncover a bit more.”