“Let him carry you, honey,” I say.
She does. A few seconds later, I slide into the cab. The man hands me Zoe, along with a soft, white handkerchief with his monogrammed initials: WRG . “You’ll be fine, honey,” he says. I’m not sure if he’s talking to me or Zoe, but I want to kiss this kind, silver-haired stranger whose first name starts with a W . The man gives the driver the hospital address and closes the door. As we zip down Fifth, Zoe curls up on the seat next to me and sobs. I hold the handkerchief against the cut on her hairline, which is matted and sticky with blood. At some point, I realize that I left her beret on the sidewalk and feel another stab of guilt. First I let this happen; then I lose her favorite hat. I can only imagine what Maura will think when I tell her what happened: I know you love Ben, but are you sure you’re up to being a mother ?! call her now—both at home and on her cell and am relieved when I get voice mail. I’m not ready to make this confession, nor do I want to upset my sister who is already dealing with so much. I try to comfort Zoe by repeating the man’s words. I tell her that she’s going to be fine, just fine. “I want my Mommy” is all she can say back.
By the time we arrive at the hospital, Zoe’s bleeding has slowed, and I am no longer worried about paralysis or permanent brain damage. Still, her name is called almost immediately after we register at the front desk. Which is in striking contrast to my trip to the ER with Ben when he broke his ankle playing flag football and we sat in the waiting room for seven hours. Or the time I ate bad sushi and literally thought I might die from stomach pains but still had to wait for what seemed like every gang member in New York and a fleet of Hell’s Angels to be seen before me.
So I feel an enormous sense of relief when Zoe is given priority, and we are led to an examining room. A nurse helps her change into a gown and then takes her vitals. One beat later a sunny resident whips through our curtain partition and introduces himself as Dr. Steve. Dr. Steve is a mix between Doogie Howser and George Clooney’s character on ER . He is painfully youthful but still confident and charismatic. I can tell right away that Zoe likes him, and he is able to calm her down as he gathers information about her accident and symptoms while masterfully mixing in other questions about her school and hobbies. After a brief physical examination, he looks at Zoe and says, “Okay, Zoe, you had a pretty bad spill, so here’s what we’re going to do We’re going to order up a little X-ray of your head and give you a few little stitches right behind your ear.”
Zoe freaks at the mention of stitches (they need to come up with a new name, what kid would be okay with the thought of her skin being sewn together with a needle?), but Dr. Steve flashes his dimples and convinces her that not only do his stitches not hurt, but also he will use pink thread that dissolves like magic in a few days. Zoe is sold.
“What are the X-rays for?” I ask, still a bit fearful that there could be some sort of serious head injury.
“Just a precautionary measure,” Dr. Steve says, turning his dimples loose on me. “I’d be very surprised if she had anything other than a superficial injury.”
I nod and thank him. Dr. Steve leaves to order Zoe’s X-rays and collect his pink thread while I find a piece of paper in my purse and initiate a rousing game of hangman.
Two hours and minimal drama later, Zoe’s X-rays confirm Dr. Steve’s prognosis, and she is as good as new with five pink stitches and a major crush on her doctor. He hands her a lollipop, the good kind with a Tootsie Roll inside and says, “So, Zoe, I like you and all, but I really hope I never see you again in here.”
She smiles, becoming uncharacteristically shy.
“So what do you say, Zoe? Do you promise to stay out of the path of speeding skateboarders?”
Zoe says she’ll try, and he high-fives her.
I wonder if Dr. Steve took a class in bedside manner with young children or if all of this just comes naturally to him. Maybe it’s something that requires practice. Maybe I could find a how-to book on the subject: How to Deal with Medical Emergencies and Children in Crisis .
Then I think of Ben. If I am lucky enough to get him back, I won’t have to be perfect. We can figure things out together . I envision our little girl, running to us with a menacing splinter. He will man the tweezers, and I will be at his side, ready with a Garfield Band-Aid. We will be a good team. We were once. We will be again.
And then, just as Zoe and I are headed toward the exit with our discharge papers and backup lollipops in hand, I hear a vaguely familiar voice behind me, saying, “Claudia? Is that you?”
My stomach drops as I place the voice. Then I turn slowly and look straight into Tucker Janssen’s big, green eyes.
* * *