Rushing her into an examination room, I laid my daughter on the table as a nurse hustled in, followed a moment later by a doctor.
I struggled to explain what had happened while the doctor lifted her eyelids and shone a light at her pupils. His movements were efficient as he barked commands to the nurses.
“I think she was unconscious,” I said, feeling helpless, to which the doctor responded tersely with some medical jargon that I couldn’t hope to comprehend. The blood was wiped from London’s face and her wrist briefly examined.
“Is she going to be okay?” I finally asked.
“She needs a CAT scan,” he replied, “but I’ve got to staunch the bleeding first.” Time seemed to slow down as I watched the nurse clean London’s face more thoroughly with an antiseptic pad, revealing a half-inch gash directly above her eyebrow. “We can stitch this, but I’d recommend that we get a plastic surgeon in here to do it so we can minimize the scarring. I’ll see who’s available unless you prefer to call a surgeon you know.”
My new client.
I mentioned the doctor’s name and the ER doctor nodded. “He’s very good,” he said before turning to one of the nurses. “See if he can make it here. If not, find out who’s on call.”
As two more nurses entered with a gurney, London stirred and began to whimper. In an instant, I was at her side, murmuring to her, but her gaze seemed unfocused and she didn’t seem to know where she was. Everything was happening so fast…
As the doctor started to question her gently, all I could think was that I’d convinced her to ride down the hill.
What kind of father was I?
What kind of father would urge his child into such a risky situation?
I was sure that the doctor was asking himself the same questions when he looked at me. I watched as gauze pads and bandages were plastered on my daughter’s head.
“We’re going to need to take her now,” he said, and without waiting for my response, London was wheeled from the room.
I filled out the insurance paperwork and used the hospital phone to call Marge. She agreed to swing by my house and grab my phone before coming to the hospital; she also said she would call Liz and my parents.
In the waiting room, I sat with hands together and head bowed, praying for the first time in years, praying that my little girl would recover and hating myself for what I’d done.
My dad was the first to arrive; he’d been working a job just a few blocks away, and he strode into the waiting room, his face tight with worry. When I filled him in, he didn’t offer or expect a hug; instead, he took a seat in the chair beside me. Or rather, he nearly collapsed into it. I watched as he closed his eyes and when he finally opened them, he couldn’t meet my eyes.
I realized then that he was as terrified as I was.
Liz arrived next, then my mom, and finally Marge, who looked paler than usual. Unlike my dad, they all wanted and needed to be held after I shared what I knew. My mom cried. Liz clasped her hands together, as if praying. Marge wheezed and coughed and took a puff of her inhaler.
My dad finally spoke.
“She’ll be all right,” he said.
But I knew he said it because he wanted to believe it, not because he actually thought it was true.
My client, the plastic surgeon, arrived soon thereafter and I rose from my seat.
“Thank you for coming,” I said. “I can’t tell you how much this means to me.”
“You’re welcome. I have kids, too, so I understand. Let me head back and see what I can do.”
He disappeared through the double doors.
We waited.
Then waited some more, an agonizing limbo.
In time, the doctors finally appeared.
I tried and failed to read their expressions as they motioned for us to follow them back. Leading us into one of the patient rooms, they closed the door behind us.
“I’m pretty certain she’s going to be all right,” the ER doctor said without preamble. “The CAT scan showed no signs of any subdural hematomas or other brain injuries. London is fully conscious now and was able to answer questions. She knew where she was and what had happened to her. Those are all good signs.”
It felt as though my entire body released a breath I hadn’t known it was holding. “That said, she was unconscious for a while, so we’re going to keep her overnight for observation. It’s just a precaution. In rare cases, swelling can occur later, but I’m not expecting to see that. We just want to make sure. And, of course, she’ll have to take it very easy for the next few days. She can probably go back to school on Wednesday, but no physical activity for at least a week.”
“How about the gash on her head?”
My client answered. “It was a clean gash. I stitched it on the inside and the outside. There’s going to a light scar that may last for a few years, but it should fade over time.”
I nodded. “And her arm?”
“It was her wrist,” the ER doc answered. “The X-ray didn’t show a break, but there’s so much swelling we can’t be sure. There are a number of small bones in the wrist so there’s no way to tell right now whether anything is broken. Right now, we’re thinking that it’s just a nasty sprain, but you’ll have to bring her in for another X-ray in a week or two to be sure. The splint is fine until then.”
Unconscious. Scarred. A wrist that may be sprained or worse. The information left me feeling depleted.
“May I see her?”
“Of course,” he said. “She’s getting a splint put on her wrist right now and will be moved to a private room, but that shouldn’t take long. All in all, considering what happened, she was lucky. It’s a good thing she was wearing a helmet. It could have been a lot worse.”
Thank God Vivian had insisted that I make London wear a helmet, I thought.
Vivian.
I’d completely forgotten to call her.
“How are you feeling, sweetheart?” I asked.
London looked better than when I brought her into the emergency room, but she certainly wasn’t the little girl who’d hopped on her bike earlier that afternoon. A large white bandage obscured her forehead and her wrist looked tiny in its bulky splint. Pale and fragile, she appeared as though she were being swallowed by her bed.
My mom and dad, along with Liz and Marge, had crowded into the room, and after the hugs and kisses and tales of worry, I’d taken a seat on the bed beside London. I reached for her good hand and felt her squeeze it.
“My head hurts,” she said. “And my wrist hurts, too.”
“I know,” I said. “I’m sorry, baby girl.”
“I don’t like sunscreen,” she protested, her voice weak. “It made my handlebars slippery.”
I flashed on the image of her scratching at the bites on her arms. “I didn’t think about that,” I said. “We probably don’t need too much sunscreen anyway now that the summer is done.”
“Is my bike okay?”
I realized I’d left both bikes where they lay. I wondered if someone had removed mine from the road, suspecting that someone had. Maybe even the driver. I was also pretty sure that the bikes would be there until I returned to pick them up; it was that kind of neighborhood.
“I’m sure it is, but if it isn’t, we can fix it. Or get a new one.”
“Is Mommy coming?”
I really, really need to make that call, I thought.
“I’ll find out, okay? I’m sure she’ll want to talk to you.”
“Okay, Daddy.”
I kissed the top of her head. “I’ll be right back, okay?”
The rest of my family crowded around the bed while I stepped into the hallway. I made for the elevators, seeking privacy. What I hadn’t wanted was anyone in my family—London especially—listening in on a conversation that I was dreading. When I checked my phone, I noticed that Vivian had already called twice, no doubt wanting to speak with London. I connected the call, and felt my stomach begin to clench.
“London?” she asked, picking up.
“No, it’s me, Russ,” I said. “I wanted to let you know right off the bat that London is fine. I’ll put her on the phone in a few minutes, but you should know that she’s okay first.”