Chapter 12
The waiting room didn't smell the same. Last time the air had been cold and that lemon cleaner smell made my nose sting. This time someone had left a box of crayons on the low table and the heat was on enough that my legs didn't stick to the chair. I sat next to Grandma on the vinyl chairs and watched the aquarium bubbler in the corner. My appointment was at 3:40. I checked the clock four times.
I had asked for Ruiz. Grandma had called that morning and said, "She's requesting Elena Ruiz if she's available," and the receptionist said she was. When the door opened it was her, not a nurse I didn't know. She wore the same blue scrubs but no gloves this time, and her hair was pulled back the same way. She smiled at me first before she looked at Grandma.
"Hey, kiddo," she said. "Thanks for coming back in. Same building, different room if that's okay? This one's got a window."
I nodded. My pink t-shirt was clean this time, no dirt at the collar. Grandma squeezed my hand once and let go.
The new room was down the hall from the old one. The walls were still that green-gray color but the overhead light was warmer, not the buzzing white from before. There was a window high up that let in afternoon sun and made a square on the floor. No metal tray on a stand. Just a low exam table with paper and a rolling stool and a little lamp on the counter that wasn't on yet.
Ruiz didn't tell me to get up on the table right away. She sat on the stool so we were at the same height.
"How's your cheek feeling?" she asked.
"Okay," I said. "It itches."
"That's healing," she said. She held up a small clear ruler and a penlight that was still off. "I need to look close and measure where the scratches are now. No bright light in your eyes unless you want it. You control the lamp. You tell me when to turn it on and when to turn it off. Deal?"
I looked at the lamp. It was a swing-arm lamp with a round head, not the harsh penlight from before.
"Deal," I said.
She let me touch the switch first. I clicked it on. The light was soft and yellow, not white. She angled it so it lit my left cheek from the side, not straight into my eyes. She didn't put on gloves.
"May I?" she asked, and held her hand a few inches from my face.
I nodded and she looked, not touching, breathing steady so I could hear her breathe.
"Good," she murmured. "Three lines, left cheek. Scabs have fallen off. Pink skin underneath, no open areas. About two centimeters each, parallel. Does it hurt if I just look?"
"No," I said.
She measured with the ruler held in the air beside my cheek, not pressing. "Two centimeters, same as last week, but now healed, not scabbed. You're taking good care of it." She clicked the lamp off when I reached for the switch. "You did that perfect. You turned it off when you wanted. See how you stayed in charge of the light?"
My shoulders dropped. I hadn't realized I'd been holding them up.
We sat quiet a second. The bubbler from the waiting room hummed faintly through the wall.
"Can I ask something?" I said.
"Always."
"Can I hold the key again? Just to see it."
Ruiz didn't pause or look surprised. She opened the bottom drawer of the counter and took out a clear plastic bag with a white label. Inside was the brass skeleton key with the circular bow. It looked smaller than I remembered, duller without the gloves and forceps holding it up.
"I brought it from the evidence locker so you could see it," she said. She held the bag flat on her palm toward me, not handing it over. "This is how it stays for now. Sealed, labeled, safe. The investigator keeps it until the judge says it can be released. That means no one can lose it or say it got switched. That includes you and me."
I stared at the bow, the little circle with the hole in it.
"So I can't take it home?" I asked.
"Not yet," she said. "It stays evidence while the case is open. When they release it, you get to decide what happens to it. Keep it, throw it away, whatever you want. But right now holding the bag is as close as we can get, and I won't open the bag. Is it okay to look like this?"
I wanted to touch the cold brass. My fingers twitched. Then I pulled my hands into my lap.
"Yeah," I said. "Can you put it back? I don't want to stare at it the whole time."
"Good call," she said, and slipped the bag back in the drawer and closed it soft. She didn't make it a big moment.
Later she scooted the stool back a little. "You want to practice the thing we talked about? The pause?"
Last time the social worker had said I could say stop or pause any time and the adults had to stop. I hadn't really believed it.
Ruiz said, "I'll ask you a simple question, and you try using pause, even if you don't need it. Just to feel how it works. Like a muscle."
"Okay," I said.
"What did you have for lunch?" she asked.
My breath got shallow for a second, the old habit. I caught it. In through my nose, out through my mouth, the way she'd shown me.
"Pause," I said. My voice was small but it came out.
She put her hands flat on her knees and waited. She didn't fill the silence.
I breathed again. "Turkey sandwich," I said. "Grandma made it."
"Thanks for unpausing when you were ready," she said. "And thanks for trying pause when you didn't even need to. That's how you know it'll be there when you do need it."
I tried it again, without her asking. "No," I said, just to hear it. "Pause. No."
She nodded like I'd said something important. "Steady breathing the whole time. Did you notice?"
I had. My chest didn't hurt and my eyes didn't sting. I looked around the room and it didn't feel like the room from that first night. The light was warm. The door was cracked open two inches and I could hear Grandma's shoes in the hall, not a silhouette behind glass. I was still on the exam table but my feet could touch the step stool, and I wasn't crying.
Ruiz wrote on her clipboard. "Healing as expected, no infection, no penlight needed, patient controlled lighting and used pause and no effectively."
She read it back to me. "Sound right?"
"Yeah," I said.
May you like
"You did a lot of hard work today," she said. "Same room next time if you want it."
I slid off the table and my sneakers hit the floor solid. I wasn't fixed, but I wasn't scared of the clinic anymore.
