Chapter 11
They'd cleared the room the way my mom had asked. That was what the deputy said, that it was at her request and with her consent, even though she wasn't there.
It was just the three of us now in exam room 1. The woman in the white coat stood by the sink with her hands folded. The deputy stood back by the closed door, far enough that I couldn't hear him breathing. My mom's voice was still on the phone on speaker, thin and small on the counter.
"I'm here, baby," she said. "I'm right here. You do it when you're ready. Nobody's gonna grab."
My hands were on my zipper. The pull was cold. The fleece under my fingers was damp where I'd been holding it so long. I could see the black watch on the woman's wrist and the light blue cuff under her coat, but she wasn't reaching anymore.
"Can you hear me okay?" she asked me, not my mom.
I nodded. My hood was still up. I hadn't taken it down.
"Whenever you're ready," she said. "You hold it. You move it. I'll just watch until you say it's okay to look closer."
The deputy by the door didn't move. He had gloves in his hand but he wasn't putting them on yet.
I took hold of the zipper between my thumb and forefinger. I pulled it down.
It went one inch. Just at the collar, the teeth came apart with a soft click and a line of my t-shirt showed. Then my breath stopped.
I didn't mean to stop it. It just caught in my chest and stayed there. My shoulders went up and my hands froze on the zipper.
The woman in the white coat didn't reach. She did what I did. I saw her chest rise and then hold. She mirrored my breathing, paused exactly as long as I did, her hands still folded.
"That's good," she said quietly on an exhale when I finally let air out. "That's exactly good. One inch is good."
On the phone, my mom breathed too, loud. "You're doing good, hon. Take your time."
I stared at that one inch of open zipper. Cool air hit the skin on my throat and I shivered. Under the edge of the fleece I could see the dull silver. It wasn't clothing. It had been pressing against me for hours and now the top edge showed.
"Ready for more when you are," the woman said. "You count, okay? You tell us when."
I swallowed. My voice came out smaller than I wanted it to. "One, two, three."
On three I pulled.
I didn't yank it. I dragged it down slow, all the way to my belly, and the front of my jacket fell open but stayed draped over my shoulders like a blanket. And then there it was, all at once, not abstract at all.
Pressed flat against my stomach, held tight by the zippered fleece, was the muffler heat shield. It was a small car part, stamped metal, about the size of a paperback, the edges bent a little where hands had tried to make it fit. It was silver-gray with black soot on one side and two bolt holes at the top. Underneath it, where it had sat against my skin, was the burn.
It was red. Bright, angry red in the shape of the shield, an imprint that went from just under my ribs to my belly button. The skin was raised and shiny and wet at the edge where it had blistered. It was the exact shape of the thing on top of it.
I hadn't realized I was crying again until a tear hit the metal.
The woman in the white coat made a small sound in her throat and then stopped herself. She didn't touch. Her hands stayed together.
"Thank you for showing me," she said, and her voice was lower now, careful. "I see it. I won't touch until you say."
The deputy by the door took a half step forward and then stopped at her look. He pulled the gloves on, one and then the other, snapping them at his wrists.
On the phone, my mom said, "Oh, baby. Oh, honey," but she didn't scream. She held it together. "Is he— can you tell me what you see, ma'am?"
"It's a thermal burn, consistent with contact with a heated metal part," the woman said, speaking clearly but not taking her eyes off me. "About five inches, rectangular with rounded corners, matching the object the child has against his torso. The object appears to be an automotive heat shield. I have not touched the area. I'm going to document now if that's okay."
She reached for a small camera on the counter, not her phone, a real camera with a flash that didn't flash, just clicked. She held it up where I could see it.
"I'm going to take a photo without touching you or the object," she said to me. "The light will stay cool and even, just like it is now. Okay?"
I nodded. My hands were still on the edges of my jacket, holding it open like curtains. I didn't want to let go.
She leaned in just enough to get the frame, the pale bluish-gray wall behind me, the white floor, the fluorescent light overhead that made everything look flat and true. Click. She checked the screen, then took another from a little higher.
"Can you tell me, on a scale of zero to ten, how much it hurts right now?" she asked.
I had to think. It hurt all the time but it hurt more now that air was on it.
"Seven," I said. My voice cracked. "When it moves, it's eight."
She wrote that down on her chart, her pen making a soft scratch. "Seven at rest, eight with movement," she repeated as she wrote. "Thank you for telling me. That's important."
The deputy came closer now, slow, his gloved hands empty and open so I could see them. He crouched a little so he wasn't towering.
"Buddy, I need to take that metal piece for evidence so nobody can say you took it or you shouldn't have it, okay?" he said. "I'll bag it without touching your skin. I'm going to use the gloves. The doctor will keep that burn safe."
He looked at the woman for permission, and she nodded once.
"Can you lift it just enough with your fingertips?" she said to me. "Just tilt it forward and he'll slide the bag under. You stay in charge of it."
I pinched the top edge of the heat shield where it was coolest. It was lighter than it looked. I tilted it out. The skin underneath pulled and I hissed, but I didn't drop it. The deputy held open a clear evidence bag and slid it under the metal, and the shield clanked softly into the plastic. He sealed it and wrote on the label with a marker, still crouched down.
The woman in the white coat still hadn't touched me.
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"You can let the jacket close a little if you want," she said. "Leave it draped open, not zipped. We'll cold-pack the burn without pressing."
I let the fleece fall back against my sides, open but covering me again. The burn was still there, in the air now, but hidden enough that I didn't feel so bare. The evidence bag with the muffler piece sat on the counter, silver through plastic, and my burn was finally seen and written down without anyone having grabbed me.
