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1
Sable
The fluorescent lights in the ceiling emit a faint, incessant buzzing that hurts my battered head almost as much as the harsh illumination does. I stare down at Doctor Patil’s shiny black hair as his capable fingers, clad in sapphire blue surgical gloves, prod at my ankle.
He’s already x-rayed my arm and shined his light in my eyes to check my pupils for signs of concussion. He declared me safe from brain damage, but he let out a long, low whistle at the other parts of me that weren’t so lucky.
The doctor presses on a particularly sore spot, and I hiss through my teeth, gripping the paper-covered table beneath me.
“This area hurts?” Doctor Patil asks, pressing the nodule again like a damn sadist.
My jaw tightens as I try to restrain the impulse to yank my leg out of his grasp. “Yes. That area hurts.”
I notice his gaze pause over the crescent-shaped scars above my knee, but he doesn’t say anything. The same suspicious look crossed his face when he saw the scars on my arms. And again when he lifted my shirt to press on my stomach to check for any internal abnormalities, only to find more scars—some of them old and faded, some a fresh, shiny pink.
Doctor Patil steps back and settles onto his little rolling stool. Scooting away from me a little, he dips his head to catch my gaze, his words measured and careful. “Tell me again how it happened. Can you do that, Sable?”
Uncle Clint shifts, the movement so minute that I bet the doctor doesn’t even notice. My uncle is standing against the wall by the door with his blue flannel shirt tucked into his Wranglers, the sleeves rolled to his elbows. He has the darkly tanned skin of a man who’s spent his life beneath the Montana sun—and that particular planetary body has done little to preserve any of the good looks he might have once had. Now, north of fifty with a balding head, he looks like a dried, wrinkled potato with a beer belly.
He glares at me over Doctor Patil’s head, dark eyes promising retribution if I so much as put a toe out of line.
My stomach seems to turn in on itself, an all-too-familiar heaviness settling over me as I look back at the doctor.
“I fell,” I say around the lump in my throat. “Down the stairs. Carrying the laundry to the basement.”
“Are you often clumsy?” Doctor Patil glances down at my chart then back up at me. He has startling gray eyes that seem to be at odds with his dark skin and hair. They also seem to see a lot more than my usual doctor.
I shrug, goosebumps breaking out on my skin as my nerves prickle. The ruthless fluorescents shine too much light on the scars that cover my body. Each thin line of knotted white skin tells a story that my uncle doesn’t want told. After years of visits, years of injuries and bruises and strange ailments, Doctor Jones only sees the dollar signs each of those things ticks off on his final bill. He doesn’t ask questions. But Doctor Jones is out this week, so we got Doctor Patil instead.
Uncle Clint doesn’t bring me to the hospital for every little injury. Only the bad ones, the ones that clearly need extra care. Unfortunately for him, he pushed me too hard tonight.
And unfortunately for us both, Doctor Patil asks questions.
“I have an inner ear abnormality,” I say, parroting the same excuse I’ve used for years. “My balance is awful. Uncle Clint tells me to use the laundry chute, but I’m stubborn.”
I smile, trying to add a bit of warmth behind my last statement, but I’m absolutely certain it looks more pained than affectionate.
Doctor Patil narrows his eyes, then swivels on his stool. “Mr. Maddock? Could you give me and Sable a moment alone?”
Uncle Clint straightens up from the wall but leaves his arms crossed over his barrel chest. “No, sir. You ain’t our usual doctor. I won’t be leaving my precious girl alone with no stranger.”
God, Doctor Patil would have to be a moron to not hear the syrupy false note in my uncle’s voice.
Precious girl. Right. More like punching bag.
Doctor Patil, to his credit, doesn’t seem the least bit intimidated by Clint’s brutish warning. “You understand that at eighteen years old, she’s a grown adult, and she would be well within her right to ask you to leave the room.”
My skin goes cold as I understand what he’s telling me. Say the word, Sable, and I’ll have security remove him from the room so we can really chat. His clipped Indian accent and his deep, melodious voice is a balm to all the aches I’ve ever walked into this building with—even the ones on the inside.
But I can’t do what he’s suggesting. I can’t tell Uncle Clint to leave so that I can confide in this sweet doctor who knows something isn’t right.
“No, that’s okay. I’d prefer that my uncle stay with me.” My voice comes out small. Dejected. I’m sure Doctor Patil can hear that too. Clint and I are putting on a soap opera, and this man sees right through it. Too bad there’s not a damn thing he can do to save me.
Doctor Patil swivels on his stool again, his long white coat swishing. He purses his lips as he looks at me, like he’s trying to solve a puzzle that’s missing key pieces. There’s pity in his gaze, concern etched into the lines that frame his mouth.
“Sable, are you okay?” He speaks slowly, as if willing me to answer with the truth.
Uncle Clint’s gaze is like fire searing my face, and my stomach twists into an even tighter knot.
“Well, doc, I fell down the stairs and broke my arm, so I’d say I’ve had better days,” I joke, forcing levity into my tone. I want to signal to this man—this good man—that I need help. I want to admit to him that my uncle beats me and keeps me locked up in the house like an animal.
But I can’t. I know too well what will happen to me if I even hint at the truth.
I plaster a smile on my face. “Other than the bumps and bruises, I’m fine.”
Doctor Patil gives me a hard look. Acid burns up my throat as nausea bubbles up inside me. I pray that he’ll give up. The harder he fights to get the truth out of me, the worse it will be for me later. Please, please let it go, I urge him silently, keeping that damn lunatic smile on my face.r />
“Excuse me. Doctor?”
We’re interrupted by the nurse arriving with my x-rays, and my muscles unclench a little as Doctor Patil stands to take them from her. Uncle Clint keeps his glare on me as the doctor strides to the viewing box and shoves them into place, hitting a switch to illuminate the images.
My arm fills the white screen. I remember reading once that there are sixty-four bones in the arm, and they’re all just right there on display. A bunch of shades of gray that make up my insides. I wonder if Doctor Patil can see the bones that have been broken before.
Do they grow back harder? More crooked? Like my heart does?
“Ah. Well. Good news, Sable.” Doctor Patil turns around, shoving his hands into the deep pockets of his coat. “No broken bones after all. I’d venture to guess we’ve got a sprained wrist, like I suggested before.”
My smile turns a bit more genuine at that news. I wasn’t looking forward to healing another broken bone. Not that sprained wrists hurt any less, but the downtime for fractures is hell. Plus, my bones have been through enough over the years. I consider this a win.
Doctor Patil finishes up, equipping me with a wrist brace and instructions to give it a rest for the next few weeks. He tells me to rest my ankle too, if possible, and I nod dutifully at his instructions.
And that’s it.
He can’t do anything for all the bruises, and he can’t do anything to save me from a situation he knows in his gut is wrong, so when all is said and done, he sends me on my way.
This is how it will always be. The words slip through my mind like poison as I walk away from Doctor Patil’s kind, concerned gaze. I’ll always live in fear. I’ll always be a prisoner. And no one can help me.
Fear follows me through the maze of hallways as I walk through the medical center in Uncle Clint’s shadow. He grips the keys to his Silverado as if they’re a weapon and anyone who stands in his way might get a key to the eye. There’s mud on his boots, and he leaves a trail of dried flakes on the clean hospital floor.
Electric doors slide open with a whoosh before we step out into the dry, cool evening air. Night fell sometime while Doctor Patil was trying to save my life, and I close my eyes, breathing in the scent of pine and distant snow. The hospital Clint took me to is a good twenty miles away from our small town, but no matter where I go, I can always smell the mountains. The mountains steady me. They stand over my little piece of Montana like sentinels in the distance, proof that the wind can scream and storms can rage, but they will never bend.
The alarm chirps on Uncle Clint’s maroon Chevy Silverado. He’s already in the cab behind the wheel by the time I manage to haul myself into the passenger seat. My limbs are ready to give in, my body ready to crumple into a ball and sleep. Climbing into his ridiculously jacked up truck hurts almost as much as the fall did.
