Chapter 4
The nurse, Ms. Carver, shut the patient room door behind her and started asking me a lot of questions, which I barely knew the answer to. Luckily, most of her questions required a yes or no. After Ma got hooked on drugs, she stopped taking us to the doctor and the dentist. She didn’t go herself either. Too scared to give them any real information about me, I used the name Donna Martin.
“So, Donna, what brings you here at the clinic this morning?” Ms. Carver asked after taking my temperature, heart rate, and blood pressure. This lady was nice to me, but she reeked of smoke and cheap perfume from the dollar store.
“My jaw and stomach are very sore.”
“How did you get so sore?” Pen in hand, Ms. Carver was ready to write down everything I said.
“The next apartment over from us has a huge dog named Baxter. Yesterday, while I was coming out of my apartment, which is on the second floor, he spotted me, started barking, and ran in my direction. I was so scared that I started running, lost my balance, fell down the stairs, and landed on my stomach.”
“Honey, let me take a look at the damage. Please remove your scarf and coat,” she instructed.
“Okay.”
Ms. Carver gave me a dreadful look after I let her look at all of the bruises. She put her trembling hands on her mouth. “Donna, are you sure you received this from a fall down the stairs?”
“Yes. This is what landing on concrete can do to you.”
“Can I ask you something?”
“Yeah.” I started copping an attitude, not knowing what was going to happen next. I just wanted to see if there were any broken bones.
“Did someone do this to you?”
“No,” I blurted out.
“Baby, no fall from the stairs did this to you. It looks as if someone beat the hell out of you. Tell me who did this to you. Donna, you don’t deserve this.”
“No one. Please help me. My stomach is killing me, and my jaw feels as if it’s barely holding on.”
“Donna—if that’s even your name—as a healthcare professional, it’s my duty professionally and ethically to report this to Social Services.” She picked up the phone and began dialing a number.
“Please, Ms. Carver, don’t call Social Services. I have my little sister and Teresa to watch over. I’ll tell you anything you want to know. Please, I’m begging you not to break up my family. We can’t go to foster care.” I got on my hands and knees, with my head at the top of her left shoe.