Chapter 8
I sat on exam bed. Fluorescent light hummed louder than before. Frosted door showed empty hall now. Silhouette gone, but cold stayed in my chest. Curtain pulled halfway around bed. I heard shoes squeaking outside, hushed voices near nurses station. My arm throbbed under gauze. Surgeon stood between bed and door, gloves still on, shears resting on tray beside white gauze pieces.
CPS caseworker came in first. She wore navy sweater, soft shoes, clipboard against side. She knelt so eyes met mine, not looking down. She said her name was Maya, she helped kids when grown-ups made hurt happen. She asked if I understood why she was there. I nodded, breath shallow. She did not touch bruise. She said deputy waited outside, interview would be recorded, caregiver would not be present, I could stop anytime. I felt shoulders loosen fraction, then tighten again.
Maya wheeled small chair close, set recorder on rolling table. Red light blinked. She asked me to show where hurt happened using own words. I stared at dark purple marks on upper arm. I told her hand grabbed me, squeezed hard, fingers dug in. She asked whose hand. I said his hand, broad hand from man behind frosted glass. She asked me to show how. I lifted my own small hand, spread fingers, pressed palm against opposite arm, showed how his fingers wrapped around, thumb on one side, four fingers on other. My hand looked tiny compared to bruise. She nodded, did not correct me, asked if I remembered when. I said yesterday evening, after dinner, when I did not clean room fast enough. Voice cracked halfway, I swallowed, kept going. She thanked me for telling, said I was consistent, brave. Observation window behind her showed surgeon watching with deputy, both silent.
Deputy entered after Maya finished. He wore county sheriff uniform, brown shirt, radio turned low. He asked permission before touching arm. I said yes. He laid small plastic ruler with color scale beside bruise, photographed from three angles, flash soft. He measured four finger marks, palm width, wrote numbers on form. Then he lifted white gauze pieces from tray, sealed them in clear evidence bag, labeled with date, time, my initials. He did same with shears, photographed shears first, then bagged note describing blunt rounded tips used to cut gauze. He asked if bruise hurt now. I said yes, dull ache. He said evidence supported what I described, hand size did not match mine or any kid's hand. I exhaled, tears came without sob.
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While I sat with Maya, silhouetted figure waited in family interview room down hall. I did not see him, heard later what happened. Maya told me afterward, deputy spoke with him separately, door closed, no contact with me. Figure said bruise came from playground fall, said I tumbled off monkey bars, grabbed my arm to catch me. Deputy asked why marks showed distinct finger pressure, why bruise was dark purple handprint not scrape. Figure changed story, said maybe I bruised during roughhousing, could not recall exactly. Deputy wrote his words down verbatim, noted contradiction between fall story and gripping description. Surgeon provided medical note: injury consistent with forceful gripping, inconsistent with fall.
At end, Maya returned to exam bay, sat again at eye level. She said two accounts now on record, physical evidence matched my account, investigation opened, hospital hold remained, I would stay on pediatric floor tonight where figure could not enter unsupervised. She asked if I had questions. I asked if I had to go back with him. She said no, not unsupervised, not tonight, not until safety decided. Deputy added he would file report with county, child advocacy center would follow up next morning. I nodded, clutching blanket, breathing slower. Door stayed open now, hall light steady, no shadow blocking exit. I still stared at door, waiting for silhouette return, but voices outside sounded calm, purposeful, mine counted.
