![]() ![]() Norman knew he had been lucky, however, and after that he was more careful. She told the falling downstairs story for the second time in three months and didn’t think even the intern who’d been there observing the examination and the treatment believed it this time, but no one asked any uncomfortable questions they just fixed her up and sent her home. He took her there because the EMTs had taken her to City General following the “miscarriage.” It turned out she had a broken rib that was poking at her lung. He held off taking her for three days, hoping it would stop, but when it started getting worse instead, he told her just what to say (he always told her just what to say) and then took her to St. September of that year had seen her second and last trip to the hospital as a result of Norman’s ministrations. In 1985-the year of Wendy Yarrow, the year of the official reprimand, the year of the “miscarriage”-it had happened almost a dozen times. ![]() This idea came to her most often after he had beaten her so badly that she had to go to bed for awhile in order to recover. For most of those years she existed in a daze so deep it was like death, and on more than one occasion she found herself almost certain that her life wasn’t really happening, that she would eventually awaken, yawning and stretching as prettily as the heroine in a Walt Disney animated cartoon. It was fourteen years of hell, all told, but she hardly knew it. ![]()
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |