Short Story Sunday: Scars in the Making [For Alan Kurdi, who drowned in Turkey]

The man sitting opposite me has a scar that runs from his left nostril to a point under his jaw. I only notice it because his face glints under the neon lights of the children’s play area in the restaurant. It looks like he has fishing line trapped under his skin.

I watch him talking to his son. Alan, he said. Eat all your fries. I think Alan is more interested in making a puddle of ketchup and salad dressing for his potato lunch to drown in. I look at my book where Henry Kissinger is pretending to be frank about his role and involvement in the US government during the 1970s. He may as well have subtitled his account “based on a true story”. It seems only the people in his tale are real, but I am beginning to doubt that because his name isn’t Kissinger.

Alan has run off and left the man staring across the restaurant at the pit of sponges, balls and germs that form the play area. I follow his gaze to a baby with a trail of snot and a girl with a butterfly painted on her face. One father is puncturing the air in front of his twins with a finger glistening with grease. The din is intense. I am struggling to concentrate on Kissinger’s recollection of Gerald Ford. I skim the pages, looking for something juicy or incriminating.

Alan, be careful says the man. The boy is climbing the rope swing to get to the slide. I don’t notice a ring on his hand. Perhaps he is a single father who only gets to see his son at weekends, which would explain why Alan is unresponsive to him. I snap Kissinger shut and look at him for other clues. His fingernails are neat – always a bonus – but his collar is brown along the neck. The contrast in cleanliness makes me think he’s been wearing that shirt for a few days. It’s hard to tell whether the same applies to Alan. His red t-shirt and blue shorts are stained, but that could be from drool, the restaurant or an overexcited bladder.

He catches me staring and smiles. I have no excuse, so I say Noisy, isn’t it? He cups his ear and I repeat myself. He laughs and his scar strains across his cheek.

It’s the only place I can bring Alan, he says. There aren’t many child-friendly restaurants around.

I nod. I don’t have children.

How many of those are yours? 

The question always feels like a knife between my ribs. Only two furry ones, I’m afraid, and restaurant policy says I can’t bring them here.

Ah. It’s a single syllable that carries so much weight.

The waitress tries to take Alan’s plate but he dismisses her with a request for a chocolate milkshake.

I pretend to care about Kissinger.

Are you alone?

He means me. Waiting for a friend.

Mind if I wait with you? His eyes skim the play area and rest on Alan stacking sponge blocks into a tower fit for King Kong.

Only if you’re more interesting than Kissinger. He has a scar. Of course he’s more interesting.

He humours me by laughing and moving to my table. The balloons and child-sized shoes next to a plate of sunken fries on his table signify that he will return. I can see Alan better from here. My name is Mike, by the way.

Laura. We shake hands, although it seems superfluous. Tell me about your scar.

He recoils.

I push up my sleeve to reveal the singed remains of my forearm. Two years ago there was an accident in the kitchen of my father’s restaurant. I think I got close to feeling how Kim Phuc did when she was running down the street and screaming as the napalm burnt her flesh. I look around me, expecting to see the tumble of my words like crumbs on the table.

The unscarred half of his face grins. I don’t think scars show what we’ve overcome; they show where we’ve been.

You mean like roadmaps of pain?

He nods. Alan runs up to the table, his face an imprint of Spider-Man. When he notices me, he smudges paint on Mike’s shirt in his attempt to hide.

Alan, this is Laura. Say hello.

He yanks Mike’s arm. Where’s my balloon? He crawls under the table to look for it.

My scar was a birthday present from Alan’s mother. He tries to soothe the wriggler beside him. She’s a resident at Pollsmoor these days.

I spot Helen and her kids at the door. There is no time to say I am sorry for prying and I think he’s very brave to raise Alan alone and I hope that he doesn’t hate me for being so blunt because I was way out of line to ask in the first place. My friend is here. I wave at Helen.

He nods. Good meeting you, Laura. He picks Alan up and throws him over his shoulder. The boy squeals. All the best.

He does not break eye contact and for a moment I feel as naked as Kim Phuc. Goodbye. I hope... Ronald side-tackles me before I can finish. When I look up, Mike and Alan are gone.

Laura, Laura, Laura, Laura where are our milkshakes? I want strawberry and Barry wants chocolate.

I want to tell them to forget the milkshakes. Instead I hug Helen and scan the restaurant for my new friend, and Alan.