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D. McGee Roberts
Short Story
06 April 2004
Sweaty Palms
“Dr. Waters! Dr. Waters!”
The sound of her name snaps Hadden back into the moment. She shifts her
attention to the voice calling her. She doesn’t want to be there this evening—and yet she
does. Her palms are sweaty as she shakes hands with Jimmy, the RN that works in her
office.
“Congratulations, Dr. Waters. What a great dress! You look fantastic and you
deserve this award more than anyone else. Are you nervous about your speech?”
“Thank you, Jimmy. I hope it’ll go over okay. If I pull at my earlobe, do me a
favor: create a diversion and get me out of here,” Hadden jokes.
“I’ll do what I can, but you won’t need my help,” Jimmy replies as he walks away
to greet others.
Hadden lets out a nervous laugh. She doesn’t want the award. All she wants is to
be at home, on her couch, with her cat. No, Hadden tells herself, this is the right thing to
do. It’s for the best.
Dr. Paul Spetseris coughs into the microphone on stage. “Good evening, ladies
and gentleman. On behalf of The Good Hearts of Georgia, I welcome all of you. This
evening is very special to me, for a dear friend of mine is being honored for what she
does best: caring for others. I am pleased to introduce to you, Dr. Hadden L. Waters,
receiving the Heart of Gold Award. Dr. Waters, won’t you come up and say a few
words?”
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Hadden approaches the stage. Taking in a deep breath, she frames her thin hands
about the edges of the podium. Looking out into the audience, she sees all of her friends
and colleagues, but mostly strangers. A smile slowly makes its way across her face. I’m
here because they don’t know, don’t understand. I’ve given thousands of speeches
before. I can handle this. They need to understand. I, I need to understand. The
applause brings her to attention and she knows this is her moment. Hadden feels a drop
of sweat working its way down her forehead. Wiping it away with her hand, she begins.
“Good evening. Thank you all for your support and kindness. I have been a
doctor at St. Joseph’s for ten years now. Watching children in pain…well, there is
simply nothing worse. To imagine a child committing suicide because she doesn’t feel
her life is worth living—well, it’s just not right. Or, watching a child practically bleed to
death from slicing his arm just to feel something, anything is heartbreaking. I can’t think
of anything worse. Dr. Steinberg, my first-year professor, always said that what makes a
doctor is personal experience. I would like to share a personal experience with all of you.
In doing so, I hope to expose the importance of taking action while children still have the
chance instead of waiting to heal their cuts and bruises. Breathe.
“One Saturday night twenty years ago, I decided to see this new French film at
one of the local theatres. Before the movie, I ran into the bathroom. I was washing my
hands when I looked up and saw a young lady that looked strangely familiar to me. My
past came flashing back to me and I nearly fainted as I realized who I was looking at. I
was staring at my best childhood friend; in fact, she was my only friend for a long time.
Marie and I did everything together. I was excited to see her; stunned, really. And then,
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as the past threw memory after memory at me of our childhood, I remembered much
more than I ever wanted to recall.
“Marie had, to say the least, a terrible life.
When we were about seven—that’s
when things changed. Her mom was on drugs before Marie was born, but quit when she
found out she was pregnant. When her mom got back together with the old “jailhouse
boyfriend,” she started in again on crack. I’ll never forget how Marie taught me when
she was eight how to smoke a cigarette. ‘Now, Hadden,’ she instructed, ‘you don’t hold
it like a pencil; put it between your index finger and your middle finger.’ As I looked at
her years later, I saw the same sad, but now aged, look in her eyes that I had seen when
we were children. I was the first one she told about finding her mom passed out on the
bed and soaked in blood from slicing her legs. After her mom awoke, she told Marie not
to tell anyone about what happened. ‘Now, Hadden,’ Marie comfortingly told me,
‘Mommy’s a little sick right now, that’s all. She doesn’t want us to tell anyone about her
sleeping for so long because she’s just a little sick. She’ll get better.’ I didn’t question
her judgment.
“My heart sank as I continued to look at her. Though these memories came back
to me within a couple of seconds, I relived each of them just like then. The smell of
whisky, the crying Marie did when she thought no one else could hear…I remember all
of those things. And then I thought how happy I was to see her, to know she was still
alive. I squeezed her hands with all the joy I had in my heart. I must have squeezed too
hard because the look of pain struck her face suddenly and, as she slowly lifted her arm
away from me, I could see a slightly purple bruise between the palm of her hand and the
ending of her sleeve. I pushed up her sleeve in order to really see what I was looking at.
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The cuts, the bruises, the healing wounds and the fresh ones; all of them were now in my
view, clear view. The bruises shined brightly in hues of red, purple, and blue up and
down her arm. As the cuts slivered up her veins, hitting and missing death, they exposed
a painful deepness; the same painful deepness that screamed from behind her eyelids.
“I wanted to say something to her, something to help, but I knew I couldn’t
because I too remembered the pain, the sorrow, which led her on a whirlwind trip through
life.
“More memories rushed into my mind. I remembered the time when we were ten
and Marie’s mom wanted to make a quick stop at Fenny’s, a local bar. After a few hours
at the bar, the bartender finally asked Marie’s mom if he needed to get a ride for us. She
snapped back at him, “Go on, and get them a ride. Get them out of here. I don’t care.”
That’s when a man sitting a few stools over from her offered to take us home. I didn’t
want him to take us home. Thankfully, the bartender arranged for a cab to take us home.
“As the years went by, Marie trailed evermore so the same horrible course her
mom had taken. It started off with drinking and smoking; innocent enough. It wasn’t
until that night at the theatre that I found out she had gone beyond drinking and
cigarettes. It hit me like a pile of bricks when I saw, saw with my own eyes, what she
had done to herself. I never thought she would go as far as mutilating her own body. But
she had.
“I was too young then to realize the extent of the dreadfulness that became
normal for Marie. I became so furious at the movie theatre. I felt I had been tricked.
Marie had fallen into the same cycle her mom had…the same one. There is no way that
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the selfishness that Marie’s mother had owned for so long could be acceptable or even
fair; it’s just not right.
“Even though that was twenty years ago, I constantly call to mind the deep ridges
of sadness that molded her face. As I went through medical school, I found myself
questioning why Marie had to deal with such misery. About six years ago, I came to a
conclusion for my musing—what a difference a parent can make.
“Parents have the opportunity to be like parents should be. The very essence of
love. The seekers of right. The unselfish individuals for the sake of their children. If
only parents would release their selfish tendencies and take hold of their responsibilities.
If only they would try. I still hear Marie mumbling, “I just don’t feel anything. I’ve
gotta feel something. That’s why I do it.” If parents would just try to show a little love
and concern while the child is young, maybe Marie and so many like her would not have
to suffer, would not have to slice their wrists or burn their legs ‘just to feel something.’
“What hurts the most is that if only her mother had given a little instead of taken
so much, Marie would not have been so crushed. I still see clearly those eyes in my mind
and I remember what a wonderful person she was. She just wasn’t given a chance. I
wish somehow to remove that pain. That’s why I’m here. To tell what I know and why
it’s so important that we seek change.
“Parents need to be there for their children. If they are not, the common result is
that the child thinks his or her life is not worth living. That is a risk not worth taking.
Yes, if parents would give their child attention and give their child love, maybe not so
many would feel the need to find a way, such as self-mutilation or even suicide, to take
away their misery. If you are a parent, the experience I gained from my dear friend’s life
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moves me to urge you to pay attention to your children. Listen to them. Be there for
them. And for goodness sakes, love them.
“May the care and love we feel for the children right now, in this moment, carry
on into our professions! Doctors have a voice. We don’t always get the opportunity to
win back a life. In fact, often we lose—I lose. That doesn’t mean that the situation is
hopeless. Let this award be a stepping-stone for helping the future of tomorrow. Thank
you for this award.”
It was over. She said it. They know. Did they know what it meant to me,
though? There is applause all around. Smiling faces greet her with such tenderness. I’m
content, for now. It is just the beginning, a long struggle ahead of her to make right, but
she will do it.
She wants to evaporate now that the program is over. She longs to climb into
those flannel pajamas and hide herself beneath the down comforter. Nonetheless, there
are still people to greet.
“Hadden!” Janie Fox, one of the main sponsors of St. Joseph’s, calls over to her.
“Hey, Janie. Wasn’t the dinner great?”
“Oh, you know me, I like to go anywhere if I can eat. You did such a nice job on
your speech. I wanted to ask you something. What ever happened to Marie?”
***
Hadden stands in front of the mirror in her bathroom. What did ever happen to
Marie? She didn’t know how to respond to Janie. She didn’t even know how to respond
to herself. As she stares at the mirror, she remembered those eyes. Those eyes that were
so sad. No matter what she tries to do, those eyes haunt her to this day.
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Hadden slides her arms free of the gown she was wearing. Grabbing a washcloth
off of the rack, she coats the cloth in warm water and soap. Taking the cloth, she rubs the
makeup off of her arms. As she does, the old circular cigarette burns reveal themselves.
The long scar up her forearm makes its way into view. Hadden never forgot the months
she spent at the Wellness center for that one. The doctor said if she was a fraction closer
to her vein she would never have breathed again. At the time, she was disappointed she
had miscalculated.
She rubs away the thick foundation along her leg. That is a good memory for her.
It reminds her of the one time her mom stood up for her. That is to be cherished. When
Kenny, her mom’s boyfriend, attacked her, her mom kicked him out of the house. She
was never angry with Kenny for attacking her. She definitely wasn’t happy about it. She
just couldn’t feel. But I could bleed. I could always feel that.
Hadden reflects on the moment she received her degree. She had made something
of herself—she is making something of herself. She was going to make sure she helped
others do the same. Whenever she felt herself losing the joy of her job, she could always
look in the mirror. Somehow that dark sadness would make its way to the front of her
eyes. She guides her eyes away from the mirror and massages her hands into one
another. They aren’t sweaty anymore.