“No.”
If the doctor left the room to get a gown, Uma would lose every last shred of courage she’d built up. It was now or never. She dragged the thick cotton sleeves up to reveal both arms. The breath the doctor sucked in could be felt more than heard.
Oh God. I can’t do this, Uma thought, flinching away, focusing on the ceiling, the floor, the earth poster on the wall—anywhere but at the mess of jagged lines her body had become.
“May I?”
“Okay,” whispered Uma.
Dr. Hadley’s fingers trailed over nearly every inch of Uma’s arms, mapping the pain scrawled there. The woman exuded empathy, a gentle balm, as she catalogued the wrongs done. “This looks fairly recent.”
Uma nodded slightly, swallowed hard on the emotion filling up her throat, and responded, “Six months.”
“All of them?”
“Yes. They were all done on the same night. Except for one.”
For all that time, Uma had avoided them. Months without seeing herself. Months of denial. They looked new in this blinding, white light. Raw. She was nothing but a gaping wound. Her skin festered out in the open.
“Oh no—” She gagged and lurched off the table. A trash can was pressed into her hands, and that day’s green bean casserole made a painful reappearance, scraping against her throat, pushing tears out through her eyes. Funny that the only time she’d managed to cry during the six worst months of her life, it wasn’t even real tears.
The hand on her back was soft and smooth. It tightened on her shoulder, then disappeared before reappearing with a box of tissues.
“I’m so sorry,” Uma managed to say through lips that were stiff with embarrassment.
“Don’t be. Please.” Dr. Hadley’s warm, solid hand held her naked arm—the ugliest skin the woman had probably ever seen. “Please.”
Uma looked in her eyes and cringed at the sheen of tears there.She can cry for me. So why can’t I?
“Have you reported this? Called the police?”
“No. I can’t.” It came out louder than intended.
Rather than argue, Dr. Hadley nodded, then took back the trash can. “Can I put this outside?”
“Thanks.” The moment was mortifying on so many levels.
“Do you have a safe place to stay?”
Uma nodded.
“Are there more?”
“Yes.” She swallowed again. “Yes. A couple more. My belly, my legs, and my…” She waved her hand in front of her chest vaguely, too ashamed to admit to what hid under her bra.
“It’s going to be a long process. Newer tattoos can be a bit more intensive. But we’ll take care of you.”
She nodded, again overwhelmed at the emotion piercing through the embarrassment.
“We’ll need several sessions. Lots of factors are involved, such as how old they are and the color of the ink. Because most of them are new…” She looked a question at Uma, who pointed at her upper back.
“The professional one on my back is older.”
“Okay. Well, this is going to take months. Can you do that? Do you have a place to stay for the next few months?”
Months.Monthshiding out with Ms. Lloyd, enduring her quirks, her bitchiness. “I—Yes… Yes.”
At Uma’s expression, the other woman hurried on. “The treatment is no charge. We’ll take care of you. Could you maybe come evenings? Weekends?”
