Chapter 12
The child advocacy center didn't look like the hospital. It was a low brick building off the county road with a wooden sign and a parking lot that smelled like fresh mulch. Inside, the walls were painted light blue and there were kids' drawings taped in the hallway. My mom held my hand in the waiting room and I could feel her thumb rubbing the back of my knuckle over and over. She hadn't let go since we walked in.
A woman in a soft cardigan came out and knelt down so her face was even with mine. She wasn't wearing scrubs. She said her name was Dr. Reyes and she was a special kind of doctor who only looked at kids' injuries. She asked if it was okay to look at my arm again, and I nodded. My mom sat in the chair next to the exam table this time, not across the room. The caseworker from CPS sat by the door with a notebook she didn't write in right away.
Dr. Reyes washed her hands and put on gloves. She didn't have shears. She just lifted my sleeve very slowly. The gauze was gone already, and the bruise was still there, darker in the middle and kind of purple-green at the edges. She measured it with a little paper ruler and touched the skin around it lightly with two fingers.
"Does this hurt when I press here?" she asked.
I shook my head. It ached, but not sharp.
She looked at my mom, then back at me. "This mark is about a day or two old," she said in a calm voice. "Twenty-four to forty-eight hours. And the shape tells us something important. See these four oval marks here, and the palm here? That's gripping pressure. Fingers squeezing and holding. A fall doesn't make a handprint like this. A fall makes a scrape or a wide blotch, not five distinct points from a hand."
I breathed out. I hadn't realized I'd been holding my breath. My mom's eyes got wet again but she didn't make a sound. She just nodded.
After that Dr. Reyes brought out a big sheet of paper. It was an outline of a boy, front and back, like a paper doll but empty. She gave me a purple crayon.
"Can you show me exactly where it hurts? Color in where his hand was," she said.
I stared at the paper. My hand was shaking a little. I made a small circle on the upper arm where my bruise was. Then I pressed harder and added four little fingers on top and a palm underneath. It looked like my arm now. Dr. Reyes didn't say "are you sure?" She just said, "Thank you for showing me so clearly."
Next to me, my mom was practicing. The caseworker had given her a card with words on it and told her to try them out loud. My mom read them slowly, looking right at me, not at the doctor.
"I believe you," she said, her voice cracking on the second word. "It wasn't your fault. I'm proud of you for telling. I'm going to keep you safe."
She said it again, quieter, like she was memorizing it. "I believe you."
I felt my shoulders drop a little. No one had said it that plain before.
We were sitting in the little play area after, and I was putting together a puzzle of the United States, when a deputy walked past the glass window to the lobby. I saw him through the half-open door. He was talking to someone by the front desk, holding a paper with a county seal. I heard my mom's name, and then a man's voice getting louder.
The caseworker touched my mom's shoulder and whispered, "That's the no-contact order. He was served."
The broad shape I remembered from behind the frosted glass was standing in the waiting area in a clean shirt, trying to talk over the deputy. I couldn't hear the words, just his hand moving flat like he was explaining something. The deputy didn't step back. He pointed to the door.
Two minutes later the man was gone, and the glass door clicked shut behind him. The receptionist locked it. The deputy handed my mom a pink copy of the paper.
May you like
"He's legally separated from you both until court," the caseworker said softly. "He can't come near the house, the school, or this building. If he does, you call us right away."
My mom folded the paper and slid it into her purse with both hands. She looked at me and didn't ask me to explain anything else. She just reached out and I climbed into the chair next to her. The bruise throbbed under my sleeve, but now it was written down, measured, drawn on in purple crayon, and named for what it was. It wasn't a fall. It wasn't my fault. And the door wasn't blocked anymore.
