Chapter 2 - THE FRACTURES THAT WERE OLDER THAN THE FALL
The current fall had fractured two ribs.
I had a severe shoulder contusion, a sprained wrist, and bruising along my hip and back.
Painful.
Not catastrophic.
But that was not what concerned Dr. Mercer.
The CT showed something else.
Older rib fractures.
Different sides.
Different stages of healing.
One looked several months old.
Another significantly older.
There was also evidence of an old small fracture near a transverse process in my lower back.
I stared at the images as though they belonged to somebody else.
“I’ve fallen before.”
Dr. Mercer nodded.
“That may explain some of this.”
He did not tell me what happened to my body.
That mattered.
“But when injuries occur at different times,” he continued, “and somebody accompanying a patient is asking her to describe a current injury differently than she remembers it, we ask more questions.”
My mouth went dry.
A nurse closed the curtain.
Dr. Mercer asked:
“Do you feel safe at home?”
I almost answered yes.
The word reached my throat automatically.
Then I remembered Graham standing above me.
Say you slipped.
“No.”
It was the first time I had ever said that.
A hospital social worker named Caroline Price joined us.
No police bursting through curtains.
No one ordering me to leave Graham immediately.
Questions.
Options.
Documentation.
“Has anyone hurt you before?”
I thought about Judith.
Six months earlier, she slammed the pantry door while I was reaching inside.
The edge hit my ribs.
She said she didn’t see me.
Nine months earlier, she jerked a laundry basket from my hands during an argument.
I stumbled into the hallway railing.
A year earlier, she shoved past me in the garage.
I fell against a workbench.
All accidents.
At least that was what we called them.
Then I remembered something else.
Eighteen months earlier.
Before Judith moved in.
A bathroom argument with Graham.
I had hit the vanity hard enough that breathing hurt for nearly two weeks.
I told urgent care I slipped on water.
Graham had been beside me when I said it.
Dr. Mercer asked:
“What happened that night?”
I looked at him.
Then away.
“I don't know what counts.”
Caroline said quietly:
“You can tell us what happened. We don’t need you to label it first.”
So I did.
Graham grabbed my arms during an argument.
I pulled away.
He stepped toward me.
I moved backward.
Then his hands hit my shoulders.
I fell.
He said he had only been trying to stop me from leaving the room.
Afterward, he cried harder than I did.
I had spent eighteen months calling that an accident too.
Dr. Mercer looked back at my scan.
One of the older fractures was consistent with that timeline.
Not proof.
But enough to destroy the comforting story I had been telling myself.
May you like
Judith may have pushed me down the stairs.
She was not necessarily where the story started.
