The Licorice Scar

I was a child of three in year 1964. I’d like to think that with two older brothers, a normal household would have some level of noise, whether it be laughing, playing, or the running around kind. Not in our house.

My dad worked in a factory doing some sort of repetitive manual labor, which afforded my mother the luxury of being a stay-at-home mom. I’m sure had my father known the craziness of Mom or how she was slowly slipping into mental illness, he would not have left us alone with her.

The boys and I had full run of the hill during daylight hours. Rob, the eldest at 7, kept Rick, 5, and me in line. Our stomping grounds were the barn, the fields, and the old cemetery across the road.

Normal evenings consisted of sitting down to supper and then doing something quiet while Dad, in his T-shirt and boxer shorts, stretched out in the “king’s chair” with the newspaper in his lap and channel 7 news on the TV. Mom stayed in the kitchen, alone, with her coffee --or gin (depending on her mood) -- and after-dinner cigarettes.

It was on one of those normal evenings when the boys and I sat down on the living room floor to play “farm.”

Rick, the middle child, was given a toy barn for Christmas. It was a tin creation, a model, held together by tabs that folded over to secure the structure. The three of us were just hanging out, playing with the sheep, horses, and cows, taking them in and out of the barn. Funny thing about that tin barn, there was no barn door. In order to move the animals from barn to pasture we had to leave the top off.

The boys and I must have been louder than normal because my mother yelled, “Keep it down it there! Don’t you know your father’s trying to watch the news?”

We glanced at Dad. His eyes were closed, the paper draped over his chest; it didn’t seem to us we were bothering him enough to keep him awake. But, for safety sake, we kept our game to a whisper.

Within no time at all, she was pissed again. “If I have to come in there, you’re all gonna get it!”

The next thing I heard was the kitchen chair scraping loudly over the linoleum and my mother’s raging footsteps pounding our way. The boys were older and faster than I. They scattered the toys and ran while I, the youngest, had only enough time to stand up and think about which direction to turn.

My mother’s iron hand grabbed my arm. She yelled something about my being nothing but trouble since the day I was born before yanking me hard enough to send me through the air. I landed atop my brother’s tin barn.

Topless, the thin metal sliced through my leg like a warm knife through butter. I stared wide-eyed at the gaping wound, which was above and just behind my right knee. Clear liquid and thick chunks of meat spilled to the floor. ‘Why doesn’t it hurt?’ I wondered.

My mother backed away, staring, and tapped my father’s leg. “Bob, you’d better take a look at this. I think it needs stitches.”

My father sat forward in the chair. “Get a towel, Shirl.”

My mother obeyed.

Dad slipped on his pants and shoes, then wrapped the towel tightly round my leg. Whatever shock I had moments earlier had worn off. I wanted to scream but was afraid that if I did, I’d get it even worse. So, I kept my mouth shut while my father carried me to the car and drove the three miles to town.

“She didn’t mean to do it, you just made her mad.”

Our family doctor must have received a call from my mother for he met us at the door. Dad set me down gently on a steel table beneath a very bright and very hot lamp.

The doctor’s fingers felt like hot pokers and I screamed out. He told me I’d have to be very quiet and remain still or he’d have to tie me down. I did as I was told and bit my lip, even when he shot me over and over again with the needle.

Everything that touched me leg felt like fire. I was burning from the inside out. I wanted a hand to hold onto and a friendly voice to tell me everything was going to be fine. My father was in the room, just out of view. Once the local anesthetic took hold the doctor worked on me from behind.

Dr. Elton asked me how I’d gotten hurt. My father answered for me. “You know how kids are; they’re always getting into trouble. She was running though the house and fell on her brother’s toy barn,” he lied.

“It’s a good thing she wasn’t cut any deeper, she’d be a gimp.”

I didn’t know what a gimp was but I knew I didn’t want to be one. So, I lay very still while the doctor pulled and stretched my skin together, then stapled it, over and over and over again.

Ten staples. That’s what it took to close the wound.

The drive home was as quiet as the trip to town. The only thing my father had to say was, “It’s a good thing you’re fat. Otherwise, you’d be a gimp.”

I wanted ice cream, something to soothe the hot pain. I hoped my mother was waiting for us with a big dish of chocolate, my favorite. She’d tell me how sorry she was. She’d say she would never hurt me again, no matter what.

We pulled up to a darkened house. Dad carried me inside to my bedroom. “Go to sleep like a good girl. You’ll I’d feel better in the morning.”

It hurt to lie in bed; I could not find a comfortable position. I wanted a mother’s touch, a mother’s love. I wanted hugs and kisses and promises of no more pain. The night seemed to stretch on forever. Finally, I learned that if I lay on my left side, the pillow held tightly against my body like a hug, the throbbing pressure eased.

In the morning I peeled my face from the tear and snot-soaked pillow. It took a few tries to get out of bed, but I had to do it; I had to pee. I hobbled to the bathroom and then made my way to the kitchen, where my mother stood at the counter, nursing a cup of coffee.

The boys were eating breakfast. They took one look at me and the questions flew:

“How many stitches did ya get?”

“Did it hurt?”

“Did ya cry?”

“Are you gonna be OK?”

My mother appeared relaxed in her position at the counter. But the way she stroked her cup and smiled, scared me.

I turned my attention to the boys. “I didn’t get stitches, I got staples.”

“How many?”

I glanced at my mother; she needed to know. “Ten,” I said, proudly. “And I didn’t cry.”

“Can we see it?!”

“No.”

The school bus arrived and the boys ran to catch it. Dad was at work, he always left the house well before sunrise. I would be alone with my mother for the rest of the day. I poured the cereal. When I reached for the milk, she watched me, her eyes daring me to spill. Not one drop hit the tablecloth. Secretly, I smiled.

She stroked her cup. “You know, you wouldn’t have gotten hurt if you hadn’t been in your brother’s room where you know you don’t belong.”

She repeated those words to me so often over the next few days that I began to wonder if my memory of the incident was blurred.

After the staples were removed, the scar resembled a long purple licorice twist, in the shape of a frown. I fought the urge to vomit.

"Don't worry," the doctor told me. "In time, the scar will fade. You're lucky, you know. It could have been much worse.”

I know, I know: I could have been a gimp. I'd been reminded of it many times. But lucky, I didn't think so.

Over the years, the scar did fade -- from purple to red to pink. And now, forty years later, it is still visible as a peach-colored frown -- a long, sad one that matches the one in my heart.