and do that thing you do. And I’m warning you, it’s worse than last time.”
He was confused, worrying immediately she knew about his abilities. “What thing are you talking about, Ma’am?”
“Oh, you know,” she called over her shoulder as she slid through the door into the hallway, “just go talk to her and see if you can get her to spill the beans. People trust you. Maybe you can finally get her to fess up about what’s really been going on, cuz Lord knows she didn’t trip over the cat again.”
Relieved she only considered him a good listener and not a psychic healer, he quickly made his way to room three where he found a very battered looking Andrea Morillo sitting on the evaluation table hunched over her cell phone.
He tapped gently on the door. “Miss Morillo?” he said.
Without lifting her head, she raised her eyes to meet his gaze. Her left eye was almost completely swollen shut and blood had coagulated around a deep gash on her temple. “Yes?” she replied.
He crossed the threshold into the room and left the door open behind him. The last thing he wanted was for her to feel confined with him, not knowing the circumstances surrounding her injuries.
“I was sent in by the nursing staff to find out more about your…” He paused, searching for the right word. He didn’t want her to feel worse than she already did. “Situation,” he finished.
She lowered her face back to the phone screen, burying her chin into her chest. “I told them already, I tripped and fell in the kitchen. That’s it. And I’m only here because…” She hesitated, staring at the blank screen. “Well, because when I woke up this morning I couldn’t see out of my eye, and I checked Google and it said I should go to the doctor.” She lifted her head now for the first time, practically staring him down. She pleaded with him, “Please, I don’t want to lose my sight.”
He could feel the fear emanating from every pore of her body, and he was relatively certain not all the fear was associated with potential vision loss. He ventured across the room.
“May I?” he asked, gesturing to the spot on the table beside her.
Without answering, she slid over to make room for him to sit.
He had seen his fair share of domestic abuse cases in his years at the ER and had learned quite a bit about its victims. More often than not, they felt as if they deserved to be battered - that their behaviors, however benign, warranted reprimanding. Other times, victims put up with being abused because they saw it as the only way to prevent loved ones from becoming victims themselves. Mothers protecting children. Siblings safeguarding siblings. And for many, it was almost as if their abuser was omnipresent, saturating every fiber of their lives. They wouldn’t leave because they couldn’t. There was often nowhere else to go.
He was quite certain this was the case for Andrea Morillo. According to her chart, in less than three months, this was her fifth visit to the ER sporting dubious looking injuries which the staff was convinced were the result of an abusive situation. Unfortunately, without her admission, there was no way to prove their suspicions.
Jose had treated her three times before – dressing a wound on her hand, assisting with stitches to her face, and cleaning up a laceration on her arm. Each time there had been other staff in the room with them. This was the first time they’d ever been alone.
“It’s okay to be afraid,” he said cautiously.
She didn’t respond, but he could feel her body become rigid beside him.
“Love is a complicated thing,” he continued. “It took my aunt Carla six years to leave my uncle Elias. Six years. She loved him so much. I was eleven when she came to live with us. Brought my cousins with her.” He chuckled, remembering how they crowded into his tiny bedroom. Little people everywhere. “The funny thing was,
He was confused, worrying immediately she knew about his abilities. “What thing are you talking about, Ma’am?”
“Oh, you know,” she called over her shoulder as she slid through the door into the hallway, “just go talk to her and see if you can get her to spill the beans. People trust you. Maybe you can finally get her to fess up about what’s really been going on, cuz Lord knows she didn’t trip over the cat again.”
Relieved she only considered him a good listener and not a psychic healer, he quickly made his way to room three where he found a very battered looking Andrea Morillo sitting on the evaluation table hunched over her cell phone.
He tapped gently on the door. “Miss Morillo?” he said.
Without lifting her head, she raised her eyes to meet his gaze. Her left eye was almost completely swollen shut and blood had coagulated around a deep gash on her temple. “Yes?” she replied.
He crossed the threshold into the room and left the door open behind him. The last thing he wanted was for her to feel confined with him, not knowing the circumstances surrounding her injuries.
“I was sent in by the nursing staff to find out more about your…” He paused, searching for the right word. He didn’t want her to feel worse than she already did. “Situation,” he finished.
She lowered her face back to the phone screen, burying her chin into her chest. “I told them already, I tripped and fell in the kitchen. That’s it. And I’m only here because…” She hesitated, staring at the blank screen. “Well, because when I woke up this morning I couldn’t see out of my eye, and I checked Google and it said I should go to the doctor.” She lifted her head now for the first time, practically staring him down. She pleaded with him, “Please, I don’t want to lose my sight.”
He could feel the fear emanating from every pore of her body, and he was relatively certain not all the fear was associated with potential vision loss. He ventured across the room.
“May I?” he asked, gesturing to the spot on the table beside her.
Without answering, she slid over to make room for him to sit.
He had seen his fair share of domestic abuse cases in his years at the ER and had learned quite a bit about its victims. More often than not, they felt as if they deserved to be battered - that their behaviors, however benign, warranted reprimanding. Other times, victims put up with being abused because they saw it as the only way to prevent loved ones from becoming victims themselves. Mothers protecting children. Siblings safeguarding siblings. And for many, it was almost as if their abuser was omnipresent, saturating every fiber of their lives. They wouldn’t leave because they couldn’t. There was often nowhere else to go.
He was quite certain this was the case for Andrea Morillo. According to her chart, in less than three months, this was her fifth visit to the ER sporting dubious looking injuries which the staff was convinced were the result of an abusive situation. Unfortunately, without her admission, there was no way to prove their suspicions.
Jose had treated her three times before – dressing a wound on her hand, assisting with stitches to her face, and cleaning up a laceration on her arm. Each time there had been other staff in the room with them. This was the first time they’d ever been alone.
“It’s okay to be afraid,” he said cautiously.
She didn’t respond, but he could feel her body become rigid beside him.
“Love is a complicated thing,” he continued. “It took my aunt Carla six years to leave my uncle Elias. Six years. She loved him so much. I was eleven when she came to live with us. Brought my cousins with her.” He chuckled, remembering how they crowded into his tiny bedroom. Little people everywhere. “The funny thing was,
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