Just Scars

I have quite a few scars.  Lots of them, actually.  Most are small, almost unidentifiable.  A couple are noteworthy.  Like the eight-inch scar on my left knee.  I used to refer to it as my “mark of Zorro” because of its shape. I’d gone in for knee surgery years ago, having been told to expect a two-inch incision.  I woke up with an eight-inch mark of Zorro.  It’s a story.  But, it’s just a scar.

Periodically, when I’m wearing shorts, people will comment on it.

“Oh wow. What happened there?”

And I’ll tell the story.  That I woke up to it after a successful knee surgery.  Yes, I put vitamin E oil on it when it was healing.  No, I wasn’t mad when I saw it.  It’s just a scar.  Just  a story to tell.

Brandin was 15 when he moved into our home.  Older than four of our biological kids.  Brandin had blown out of his previous foster home.  His little brother already lived with us, so it was only logical for Brandin to be placed with us.

We’d been told a few things about him before he came.  Things which had made me somewhat skeptical.  We knew he was a runner, meaning he had a history of running away from foster placements.  We’d been told he was defiant.  Smoked a little.  Was an angry teenager.

When his caseworker brought him over to the house Brandin had all of his stuff crammed into garbage bags.  We’d shown him where his bedroom was, and where he could put his things.  Then we visited with him for a little bit before explaining our rules.

He had sat on the couch that evening while we talked, not saying more than was required.  Listening with a blank face.  Nodding every once in a while.  He was listening.  But he was pretty clearly not going to let his guard down.

The next day was a beautiful, warm, summer day.  By lunchtime I decided to pack up all the kids and take them to the beach for the afternoon.  We loaded up beach towels, a few blow-up toys, a couple buckets and shovels for the little ones, and everybody piled in the car.

Brandin seemed to be enjoying himself.  The kids were all asking him to help blow up the floaties, and he actually looked happy to be helping.  He ran down to the water and splashed in the waves with the younger ones, and even paddled around in the inflatable raft until a humpback whale came and chased everybody back to the beach.

I sat up higher on the beach, keeping an eye on everybody.  Keeping an eye on Brandin.  We didn’t really know what to expect from him.  But from what I could see so far he seemed like a nice kid.

After a bit, he came trudging up the beach and laid out a beach towel next to mine. I asked if he was tired out from all the activity of our family.

“Nah,” he said, smiling.  “That whale got pretty close to me and Ben, though,” and he laughed.

His little brother ran up to him.  “Brandin, isn’t this place better than that last place?” he asked enthusiastically.

That our family was being compared in that instant to another foster family, was strange for me.  That this was apparently a commonplace thing for the two of them to compare and rank foster homes, was an equally strange realization.  And though I was relieved that in this instant we ranked as “better,” the idea of being ranked in and of itself was still uncomfortable.

I waited a second, watching for the response.

“Yeah,” Brandin said quietly.

“I told you,” his little brother grinned, and took off back toward the water with the other kids.

Brandin sat quietly for a few minutes.  I asked a question or two.  Nothing difficult.  Just visiting.  What subject does he like the most at school?  How are his grades?  What activities does he enjoy in his free time?

He answered my questions but didn’t volunteer anything extra.  I tried to walk that line between being interested, but not slipping into being intrusive.

And while we visited I noticed that he had quite a few scars on his back and chest. Lots of them, actually.  Most of them small, almost unidentifiable.  But there was one, midway down on his side, that was more than a couple inches long.

“That’s quite a scar,” I said, motioning to his side.  “Not as impressive as mine, though,” and I referenced my surgical scar on my knee.

He looked at my knee.

“Yeah, I saw that earlier.  What happened?” he asked.

I told him the story.  How I went into surgery expecting a two- inch incision and woke up with this.  I smiled, saying that the surgery had been successful, so the scar was just a scar.

He nodded, continuing to squint out at the water.

“My dad stabbed me.  I don’t really know why,” he said.

A heaviness settled on me.  I waited a minute or two, debating whether or not to intrude.  Whether to grant him privacy, and risk he would interpret it as me not caring.  Or whether to intrude and risk that he’d resent it.

“How old were you?” I finally asked, keeping my gaze out toward the water.

He shrugged.  “Not very old.”

“Did you have to get it stitched up?”

He shook his head.  “Nah, I don’t know why they didn’t take me to the doctor, though.  I prob’ly shoulda had stitches for it.”

I nodded.

We sat, both staring out at the water.  Watching the kids splash each other and try to flip each other off the blow up toys.  Neither of us really paying much attention anymore though to the water or the kids.

Nothing more was said about the scar.  We just sat there, side by side on our beach towels, enjoying the peacefulness of the day.  And I sat there thinking about scars.

I thought about all the different types of scars people carry.  Especially the scars that come from violence.  Those scars are often the deepest.  Whether we can actually see them on someone’s skin or not probably doesn’t matter.  Those scars exist.  The scar whose very presence is a constant reminder of a survived assault; whose raised, thickened skin still carries the pain of emotional trauma.  The scars which represent terror. Victimization. Vulnerability.  Abuse.  Whether we see them or not.  Those scars are ever present.  And theirs are the stories which often don’t get told.

I have quite a few scars.  But mine are just scars.  Just another story to tell.  Other scars are different.  Deeper. There’s a story to those scars, too. But those stories are harder to tell. I don’t know, maybe some scars aren’t just scars.

B – Thanks for letting me tell your story.  Love, Mom