Page 247 - A Little Life: A Novel

deny it; they called for your chart. I didn’t send it. Please don’t do this,
Jude. I’m serious. The last thing you need are open wounds on your back as
well as your legs.” And then, when he didn’t say anything, “Talk to me.”

He shook his head. Andy was right: he had been saving for this as well.
Like his annual bonuses and most of his savings, all the money he’d made
long ago from tutoring Felix had been given over to the apartment, but in
recent months, as it was clear he was closing in on his final payments, he
had begun saving anew for the surgery. He had it all worked out: he’d have
the surgery and then he’d finish saving for the renovation. He had visions of
it—his back made as smooth as the floors themselves, the thick,

unbudgeable worm trail of scars vaporized in seconds, and with it, all
evidence of his time in the home and in Philadelphia, the documentation of
those years erased from his body. He tried so hard to forget, he tried every
day, but as much as he tried, there it was to remind him, proof that what he
pretended hadn’t happened, actually had.
“Jude,” Andy said, sitting next to him on the examining table. “I know

you’re disappointed. And I promise you that when there’s a treatment
available that’s both effective and safe, I’ll let you know. I know it bothers
you; I’m always looking out for something for you. But right now there
isn’t anything, and I can’t in good conscience let you do this to yourself.”
He was quiet; they both were. “I suppose I should have asked you this more
frequently, Jude, but—do they hurt you? Do they cause you any
discomfort? Does the skin feel tight?”

He nodded. “Look, Jude,” Andy said after a pause. “There are some
creams I can give you that’ll help with that, but you’re going to need
someone to help massage them in nightly, or it’s not going to be effective.
Would you let someone do this for you? Willem? Richard?”
“I can’t,” he said, speaking to the magazine article in his hands.
“Well,” said Andy. “I’ll write you a scrip anyway, and I’ll show you how

to do it—don’t worry, I asked an actual dermatologist, this isn’t some
method I’ve made up—but I can’t say how efficacious it’s going to be on
your own.” He slid off the table. “Will you open your gown for me and turn
toward the wall?”
He did, and felt Andy’s hands on his shoulders, and then moving slowly
across his back. He thought Andy might say, as he sometimes did, “It’s not
so bad, Jude,” or “You don’t have anything to be self-conscious about,” but

this time he didn’t, just trailed his hands across him, as if his palms were