Scar Tissue

Lana Cullis

From Library of Congress. An escaped slave, 1863.

Word Count 897

The man paced, clenching his hands open and shut. I could not tell if he was anxious or angry. When I called him by name, he gave me a tentative smile that disappeared as quickly as it had formed. I led him away from the reception area, winding through long, unremarkable corridors to my office. He leaned forward in the chair, rested his elbows on his thighs, hands folded, tucked under his chin, and watched intently as I readied my notebook and pen. I leaned in, sought eye contact, and held his gaze gently.

He began by telling me about his recent employment. It was my job to help patients find and keep work. I listened closely, trying hard to understand his accent. He talked about coming here, to Vancouver, working for two brothers, always getting angry, and getting fired “for no reason.” He shifted back in his chair and gripped the armrests tightly in each hand. His knuckles whitened. His telling was direct, the details scant. He truly looked puzzled about having lost his place in the business. When I asked him what he did before coming to Canada, his demeanor changed. Squaring his shoulders, he breathed out in a rush as his story tumbled out.

He had two countries before this one. Releasing the chair from his tight grip, his hands flowed in tandem with his words, as if painting the memory for me. During a war, when he was a young child, his father had been shot in front of him. He did not pause for empathy or effect. He did not leave space for me to respond. He simply continued. His older brothers had been taken to serve in an army, while he was left behind with his mother and his sisters. At some point in that war, his brothers returned and gathered what was left of the family and took them across a neighboring border, to be safe. In that country he attended school, briefly, and worked as a dishwasher before being conscripted into their army for a new conflict.

In this war, he said, he was tortured. At this point, he stood up.

I watched in shock as he lifted his shirt. There were scars on his stomach and chest. He slid his hands farther along the bottom of his T-shirt, and slowly turned his back to me. Lifting his shirt awkwardly, he leaned away ever so slightly, so I could see the brutalized skin on his back. When he turned towards me again, our eyes met. His hand went to the button on his jeans. Quietly, he said, “I have more. I show you my legs.”

I shook my head. “Please no,” I thought, willing him not to take down his jeans. My chest tightened. Apprehension echoed with my heartbeat.

“But I was shot. I show you.” He traced the outline of the scar on his thigh with his left hand. His deep brown eyes gazed down into my own.

“I am sorry you were shot,” I said. “I am so sorry you were tortured. Please do not take down your pants.”

He stood looking at me, one hand on his button, the other on his leg.

I felt all stirred up inside. My mind played out getting caught with a client undressed in my office. Yet I knew he needed a witness to see, really see, what had happened to him. What was still happening for him. I felt my eyes well up and an irresistible calling to stand and cross the floor to where he stood. An urge to take his hands in mine. Really though, what crossed my mind was to kiss him. I longed to bring a woman’s healing to his pain. I ached to pronounce a silent blessing. To heal his wounds with gentleness. To pray, move, sway, and beg God to release this man from the past.

What I did was nothing. Time passed, he sat of his own accord. I remained professional, respectful. Restrained. I did nothing wrong, and yet I failed to do the kindest thing, as a human being. I did not touch him.

He came twice more to see me. He did not find a job. He was still using heroin, still seeing each of us at the care team and following through on respective treatment plans the best he could. He was working with his case manager and psychiatrist to get into a treatment center for veterans with PTSD and addictions. He was allowed into one of their support groups with other ex-service men while he waited for the start of the full-time program. He said he felt accepted by the other veterans. They understood being war-torn. Which is why he let himself begin to hope- why we, his care team let ourselves hope too. And it was at that point that he was rejected for services. The program administrators deemed him ineligible for care. He had failed to serve in the same wars as a Canadian soldier.

A week later his roommate found him in his bed. Dead from an apparent accidental overdose. Perhaps the coroner did not see the connection between war, torture, PTSD, heroin addiction, unemployment, and being rejected for specialized treatment. At the mental health team, we longed to understand his lost life. We debriefed his death as a suicide.

Lana lives, writes, and plays in the city of Powell River, q̓at ̓ᶿət (qathet Regional District) on lands traditionally stewarded by the Tla’Amin First Nation on the West Coast of British Columbia, Canada. Lana's writing draws on waking dreams, voices, and visions that reveal the tender places where human truth, individuality, and courage intersect. You will find her work at CBC, The Globe and Mail, Truck Logger BC Magazine, and on the BC Writer’s 2022 Literary Contest Longlist. Lana is a regular contributor with The Powell River Peak, guest hosts Life Story Writing online (based in Waterloo, Ontario), and teaches Writing into the Sacred to community groups.