Page 3 of The Scars I Bare
I was given a thumbs-up by a county official, my go-ahead to step forward. With my good arm, I pulled the drape off. Not too quick and not too slow. When the statue was uncovered, even my breath was taken away a little.
Two people, hand in hand, faced the waterfront, as if waiting for something.
Or someone.
The artist had left their faces and features neutral, leaving your imagination to fill in the blanks. It could be a husband and wife, a mother and daughter, or two friends.
But what lingered in my mind far after the ceremony was the subtle way their bodies leaned forward.
The anticipation.
The nerves.
The fear.
It was all there.
I hadn’t expected a stupid statue to affect me as much as it did, but I found myself lurking about long after most had gone home. I stood next to the statue, staring out onto the water as the faceless figures did, wondering what they were waiting for.
A family member? A second chance?
A purpose?
It was something I’d been grappling with for nearly three years.
What did I do now? Now that life had moved on, seemingly without me, who was I?
After all this time, I still didn’t know the answer.
Maybe like this bronze statue forever cemented into the ground, I never would.
“It was a lovely ceremony, wasn’t it?” my mother said as I stared out at the subtle waves lapping in the bay outside her kitchen window.
“Dean?”
“Sorry. What?” I replied, turning my head in her direction.
She was fluttering around the kitchen, cooking a dinner big enough for an army even though it was just the two of us. Taylor, my younger brother, had once again gotten out of Sunday dinner, stating he had important business to attend to. A twinge of guilt gnawed at my gut.
“The dedication, it was lovely. Very well done.”
I nodded my head, the haunting memory of it all still clinging to me like a second skin.
“It was nice,” I agreed, swallowing deeply, trying to avoid my mother’s sharp gaze.
“But?” she said, leaving the stove to plop down beside me at the small table where, every morning of my childhood, my brother and I had gathered around, fighting over cereal and action figures.
“There is nobut,” I insisted. “The county and town did a good job. It is a fine tribute to the families and loved ones.”
“You know better than to lie to your mama, young man. You might have grown up and no longer live under this roof, but I can still tell when you’re lying—”
“Okay,” I replied, holding up my hands in surrender.
And that was when it happened. She didn’t mean to. No one did, but it never failed. The involuntary eye jerk whenever attention was brought to my right side.
The startling fact that it did not match the left.
Even though my family had been living with it for three years now and had grown used to the loss of my dominant arm, nearly all the way up to my shoulder, it still didn’t keep the mind from noticing it each and every time I moved. None of them meant anything by it; I knew that. But, whenever it happened, I could see a quick moment of grief sweep across their features where it was almost like they were reliving those horrific events all in the span of a few seconds.
