Chapter 3
The metal slammed into the wall with a piercing screech.
"Are you deaf or something? I'm talking to you!
"I told you, throw this junk away!" Mom ordered.
"These are mine." I said.
I held onto the remaining pieces for dear life.
"Yours? Is there anything in this house that wasn't paid for by me?" She snorted in disdain.
"You take my money and blow it on this worthless junk instead of doing something serious.
"Do you really think this is what I work myself to the bone for at St. James General Hospital every day?"
I looked up at her.
"I never asked you to buy me anything," I said.
"I just want to keep it." I added.
"Not a chance." Mom said.
She seized my arm and hauled me up from the floor.
Her grip was so strong, her nails dug into my skin.
"First thing tomorrow, I'm calling the junk collectors to haul all this away." she said.
"If you dare get in the way, I'll sweep you and your junk right out the door." she warned.
She let go of me and brushed off her bathrobe with a look of disgust.
"Go to bed. Tomorrow at eight, you're coming with me to the hospital clinic." she said.
The door slammed shut behind her.
I slumped against the wall, sliding down to the floor.
Staring at the chaos scattered across the floor, my tears finally fell.
Silently.
Like a wounded beast, broken and helpless.
*****
At 7:30 the next morning.
Mom yanked me out of bed.
"Get dressed. Let's go." she said.
I stared at my reflection in the mirror. My eyes were puffy and red, and the port-wine stain on my left cheek looked even more menacing, swollen and angry.
I reached for a mask in the cabinet.
Mom slapped my hand away.
"Why are you putting on a mask? Did my words go in one ear and out the other?" she snapped.
"Mom, please." I pleaded.
My voice came out rough and scratchy.
"I really don't feel well today. Can I just stay home?" I asked.
"Stop pretending." Mom shot me a frosty glare.
"I've seen all your little tricks before. Get moving." Mom ordered.
She didn't give me a chance to protest.
She hauled me straight to the car, slammed the doors shut, and locked them.
The outpatient hall at St. James General Hospital was always packed, like a train station during the holidays.
The place buzzed with voices, and the air was a jumble of disinfectant, sweat, and perfume.
Mom marched me straight to the information desk on the first floor.
"Lucy, get her a chair. She's staying right here." Mom told the nurse at the desk.
The nurse paused, looking confused.
She glanced at me, then at Mom.
"Dr. Shaw, what's this about?" she asked.
"I'm making her face it." Mom said, her tone flat.
"She has severe social anxiety. She needs treatment." Mom added.
Nurse Lucy gave an awkward smile and dragged a chair over, setting it right in the middle of the hallway where everyone could see me.
I was forced to sit down.
The harsh, white incandescent lights glared down from above.
In front of me, patients and their families streamed past, a never-ending flow of faces.
Mom stood about fifteen feet away, watching me like a prison guard.
"Lift your head." she mouthed at me.
I bit my lip, staring hard at my shoes, refusing to look up.
A woman carrying a child walked past me.
The kid pointed right at me and shouted.
"Mom, what's wrong with her face? She looks scary!" the kid cried.
The woman looked me up and down, her eyes full of open disgust.
Without even trying to hide it, she yanked her kid away from me.
"Don't look, or you'll have nightmares tonight." That woman warned.
My hands shook uncontrollably on my knees.
This was just the beginning.
For the whole morning, I was like some kind of freak show exhibit.
People stared, whispered, and talked behind my back as they walked by.
Some even pointed at me.
A few people took out their phones and started taking photos of me.
Every time I tried to turn my face away, Mom would immediately walk over.
"Go ahead, try hiding one more time, I dare you." Mom said.
Mom didn't raise her voice, but she made sure everyone around could hear.
"I busted my ass raising you, and this is how you pay me back? Shrinking away like a coward?" Mom demanded.
At noon.
Michael stepped out of the elevator with a patient file in hand.
He spotted me sitting by the information desk, raised an eyebrow, and walked straight over.
Two interns trailed behind him.
"Mia, how's it going? Getting used to it yet?" Michael asked.
He looked down at me, his voice openly mocking.
"This kind of exposure therapy is rough at first." Michael said.
"But if you stick it out, trust me, nobody actually gives a damn about your face." Michael went on.
He turned to the interns behind him.
"See this? This is a textbook victim mentality.
"She takes ordinary reactions from others and twists them into personal attacks.
"When we encounter patients like this in the clinic, we can't let them retreat into themselves or encourage their avoidance." Michael said.
The interns nodded, quickly pulling out their notebooks to take notes.