And then everything changes in an instant.
I see the boy first, a scrawny skateboarder wearing baggy shorts, Converse high-tops, and an orange helmet. I wonder how he managed to get out of the house without a coat on a day like this. He is no older than twelve and has an adolescent awkwardness about him despite his fluid, confident stunts. He is clearly showing off, but pretending to be oblivious to his few admirers who have tired of the mime. He must be a loner, I think; boys his age usually travel in packs. I watch him surf several stairs and land effortlessly before picking up speed. That’s when I see Zoe running back over to me, directly in his path. I freeze, knowing what’s about to happen, but feeling powerless to stop it. Sort of like watching a scary scene in a movie with a menacing soundtrack. Sure enough, the boy careens toward Zoe, grunting, “Yo! Yo! Watch out!” I can see his body strain to change direction, and I pray for his skills to prevail. But as he pivots, he slips off the board and crashes into her. Zoe is thrown backward like a small doll, making a sickening thud on the sidewalk. The boy is sprawled on the sidewalk next to her, looking more embarrassed than injured.
I hear myself scream, can feel my heart pounding in my ears. Everything seems to move in slow motion as I weave past the crowd and kneel over Zoe. Her skin looks gray, her eyelids are closed, and blood is streaming down the left side of her face onto her white rabbit-fur collar. Fear and terror fill me as I check to see if she’s breathing. She is. Still, I think, What if she dies ? I fiercely tell myself not to be crazy; children do not die from skateboard collisions. It was only a minor accident. But then I think: Concussion; head-and-neck injury; brain damage; paraplegia . I think of other freak accidents, like the young boy I once saw on 60 Minutes who was paralyzed playing a casual game of ice hockey. I have a fleeting image of Zoe going to her senior prom in a wheelchair.
Get a grip , I tell myself. Spring into action and stop being so dramatic ! Yet all I can do is call Zoe’s name and gently shake her shoulders. She does not respond. My mind swirls with first-aid principles I learned long ago, in Girl Scouts and my high-school health class: Never move a person suspected of head or neck injury; check her pupils; exert pressure to stop the blood; call 911; yell for help .
I can feel the stares and concerned hush around me as I find a Kleenex in my purse. As I press it against Zoe’s head, her eyes flutter and open. I say her name in a rush of gratitude. She whimpers and touches her face. When she sees the blood covering her pink-gloved hand, she shrieks. Then she turns to the side and throws up. Somewhere, in a remote place in my brain, I remember that vomiting is a sign of a concussion, but I can’t recall how serious a concussion is. And I have no idea how to treat one.
Zoe sits up and begins to wail for Maura and Scott. “Mommy! Daddy! I want my mom-meee !”
The skateboarder limps over to us and mumbles an apology. “Sorry,” he says. “She got in my way.” He looks afraid that he might get in trouble. I want to blame him, yell at him for skateboarding in a crowd, but I just say, “It’s okay.” He slinks off with his board tucked under his arm, moving on with his afternoon.
As I turn my attention back to Zoe, an older man emerges from nowhere, crouching over us. He is well dressed and has a low, soothing voice. He gently asks me if I am her mother.
“I’m her aunt,” I say guiltily.
This happened on my watch.
“I hailed you a cab,” he says, pointing a few yards away to a cab in the driveway in front of the hotel. “He’s going to take you to the NYU Medical Center. She probably just needs a few stitches.”
Zoe wails at the mention of stitches and then frantically protests as the man tries to lift her from the pavement.