I Held Still While He Cut the Bandage That Showed His Handprint

The shears were still cold against my skin. I could feel the rounded tip pressing just under the last bit of gauze that hadn't been cut yet. The surgeon hadn't moved. His gloved hand held my arm steady, not tight, just steady enough that I couldn't pull away without trying.

Behind him the frosted door glowed. The shadow was still there, a little farther back now, but I could see the dark shape through the glass. It didn't move.

The surgeon breathed once, slow, and then he looked back down at my arm.

"I'm going to finish this," he said, quiet. "Just the last bit."

I nodded but I didn't mean it. My other hand was still fisted against my chest. The scissors made a soft snip. Not loud. Just a little click and then the gauze fell open. The air hit the bruise and it stung even though nothing was touching it. The purple was darker than I thought. Four marks up top and a bigger smudge lower down where a palm had been.

He didn't say anything right away. He set the shears down on the metal tray. The clink was sharp under the fluorescent light. That light was too bright. It made everything white — the tile, the sheet under me, his gloves.

"Does it hurt right now?" he asked.

I swallowed. My throat was dry.

"It throbs," I said. "Like when I lift it. And when I sleep on it."

He nodded. "Like pressure? Or sharp?"

"Pressure. And hot. Like a sunburn underneath."

I didn't look at the door when I said it. I didn't want him to look either. He kept his eyes on my arm.

There was a knock, two quick taps on the door frame, and a woman stepped in. She wore blue scrubs too, but hers had a pattern with little flowers on the top, and her hair was pulled back. She had a clipboard and a small camera and a plastic ruler thing.

"Dr. Ellis?" she said.

"Right on time, Jen," he said. He didn't stand up all the way. "We need a witness for documentation."

She looked at me and smiled, but not big. Just small and calm.

"Hey there," she said to me. "I'm Jen. I'm a nurse. I'm going to help check that arm, okay? Is it alright if I look?"

I nodded. My breathing was fast and I tried to slow it down the way my school counselor told me to, but it didn't work.

Jen stepped to the other side of the bed. She didn't touch me at first. She looked, and then she looked at the surgeon.

"Four finger marks," she said quietly. "And the palm. Upper left arm."

"That's what I see," he said. "Can you confirm the color?"

"Dark purple, with some yellow at the edge," she said. She glanced at me. "That usually means a couple days old, honey. Does that sound right? When did it start hurting?"

I stared at the ruler she held. It was clear plastic.

"Two nights ago," I said. "I fell."

Jen didn't say I was lying. She just nodded a little and wrote something down.

"Can you tell me where it hurts most?" the surgeon asked. "You can point with your other hand, you don't have to touch."

I lifted my right hand and hovered it over the biggest mark. I didn't press.

"There," I said. "And there. It hurts if I get bumped in the hall at school. I keep my arm close."

My voice got thin at the end. I put my hand back on my chest.

The surgeon picked up the little camera. It was gray and made a beep when he turned it on.

"We're going to take a picture for your medical record," he said. "So we remember exactly how it looks today. I'll put this ruler next to it, not on it. It won't touch the sore part. Is that okay?"

I said yes. Jen held the ruler a half inch away from my skin. The ruler had numbers on it. The surgeon took two photos. The flash was white and quick. I blinked. He took one more from a slightly different angle, leaning in so the four finger shapes and the palm shape were clear.

"Perfect," Jen said softly. She made a note and then looked at him. "Initials?"

He nodded. He pulled the white gauze that he'd cut off together — the piece that had been over the bruise — and Jen held open a clear plastic bag. It zipped at the top. He dropped the gauze in there with his gloves still on. The bag made a crinkle sound.

Jen wrote on the bag with a black marker: the date, the time, my name, and then she handed it to him to initial. He did. Then she initialed under his letters. She wrote the same thing on the chart. I could see the words from where I sat: white gauze removed from L upper arm, bagged, chain of custody.

The whole time the light hummed. The door stayed frosted. The shadow outside shifted once, like weight moving from one foot to the other, but it didn't leave.

Jen zipped the bag shut and set it on the tray next to the shears. She capped the marker.

"You're doing really well," she said to me. "We're going to keep these safe in your chart so the doctors know what we saw today. Nothing gets thrown away."

The surgeon pulled his gloves off slowly and dropped them in the trash bin. He put on a new pair even though he wasn't going to touch me again right away.

"I'm writing down exactly what we see," he told me. "Hand-shaped bruise, left upper arm. Four finger marks plus palm. Measured. Photographed. That's a fact in your record now. Facts stay."

I didn't answer. The bruise looked bigger now that it was uncovered, purple against my pale skin under that cold light. It didn't look like a fall. I knew that, even at nine.