Chapter 3 - The appointment I never made
“What is that?”
My voice sounded distant.
Mom's face drained of color.
Margaret handed me the photograph.
The building was unmistakable.
Lowcountry Reconstructive Institute.
I knew it because I'd been a patient there for years.
But I hadn't visited in eight months.
The date printed on the photograph was October 14.
Mom and Emily had gone without me.
“Why do you have my medical folder?”
Neither answered.
Daniel looked furious now.
“Emily?”
She shook her head.
“This has nothing to do with the wedding.”
“That sentence is becoming less convincing every time you say it.”
Mom stepped forward.
“Claire, we can discuss this privately.”
“No.”
It was the first time I'd ever refused her so quickly.
“You wanted privacy when Emily asked me to hide. You don't get it now.”
The guests were silent.
I hated being watched.
But for once, I hated being lied to more.
Margaret handed me the envelope.
Inside was another photograph.
Mom speaking with Dr. Steven Kessler, one of the surgeons who had treated me after the fire.
Then a photocopy of an appointment request.
Patient: Claire Whitmore.
Requested procedure consultation: scar revision.
Requested by: Linda Whitmore.
My stomach tightened.
“I never authorized this.”
Mom lowered her voice.
“We were only asking questions.”
“For what?”
Emily finally snapped.
“For today!”
Daniel turned slowly toward her.
Emily realized too late what she'd admitted.
She squeezed her bouquet.
“The photographer said Claire's scars would dominate the family portraits.”
The church erupted in whispers.
She continued desperately.
“I wanted to know if anything could be done. Makeup, laser treatment, something.”
I stared at her.
“You contacted my surgeon because you wanted my face changed for your wedding?”
“I wanted one day!”
Her voice cracked.
“One day where everything wasn't about what happened to you!”
The words landed harder than her first insult.
I suddenly understood.
My scars weren't simply ugly to Emily.
They were evidence.
Every time she saw me, she saw the price someone else had paid for her survival.
And instead of gratitude, she'd learned resentment.
Daniel removed his boutonniere.
Emily stared.
“What are you doing?”
“I need five minutes.”
“You cannot walk away right now.”
“I can.”
He stepped down from the altar.
But Dad suddenly stood.
“Before anyone ends anything, there's something all of you need to understand.”
Mom whipped around.
“Mark.”
He ignored her.
“The fire wasn't an accident.”
I stopped breathing.
For seven years, every official report had said electrical fault.
May you like
Dad looked at me.
“We lied.”
