I start to speak, but before I can get a full word out Anton cuts in.
“We should go,” Anton says quickly. “And really, I’m feeling better. It’s nothing serious.”
Anton clearly wants to bolt, but I have his keys and I want to hear what Dr. Wilson has to say. I feel even guiltier than when I first let Anton get hit.
“Let me make you some ginger tea,” Dr. Wilson says. “It will help with the nausea.”
He heads to the kitchen.
“Let’s go,” Anton says.
“Don’t be rude,” Ciara says. “Drink some tea. It’s the least you can do.”
We follow Dr. Wilson into the kitchen and sit down at a round oak table.
Dr. Wilson busies himself making tea. He opens a package of cookies and passes them around. I take a few, but Anton shakes his head when I offer him one.
Dr. Wilson hands Anton a steaming mug.
“I don’t feel sick anymore,” Anton insists, looking at the tea as if Dr. Wilson has put poison in it.
Dr. Wilson sits in a chair next to Anton. His face is soft but serious.
“For the time being, you need to rest that brain of yours. No electronics, no screens. No reading. And no football.”
“For how long?” we both say at the same time.
“At least five days. And if you have any sign of a lingering headache, you cannot step on that field. A second impact can cause cerebral edema and herniation. It can lead to permanent brain damage or death.”
My heart feels like it has stopped. I look at Anton and then at Dr. Wilson and interrupt, “This was his second hit to the head. He got hit two days ago and I made him play tonight.”
“You didn’t make me play,” Anton snaps at me. “I played because I wanted to play.”
Dr. Wilson frowns at this. “Did you have a headache after the first hit?”
“No,” Anton lies. I look at Dr. Wilson and want to tell him that, yes, Anton had a headache—he was in a fog until halfway through our game.
“Tell me about the first hit.”
“It wasn’t a big deal,” Anton says. “I don’t know what Busby is even talking about. I just need to get home and get some sleep. I’ll be better in the morning.”
Dr. Wilson looks at me.
“Did you see the hit?”
“He wasn’t even there,” Anton interrupts. “He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”
I sit quietly in my chair, but I was there. I do know. I saw how much pain he was in before he even took the field tonight. Was that hit a concussion too? Did I just let him get his second concussion in three days?
Anton gets up and turns to me. “Give me my keys.” He practically growls at me.
“Multiple head injuries need to be taken seriously,” Dr. Wilson says. “They can be deadly.”
He writes something down on a notepad and gives it to Anton.
“This is a note for your coach. You need to give this to him. And here is my card. I want your parents to call me. Tonight.”
“I’m fine,” Anton says shoving the piece of paper and card into his pocket. He turns to me and holds opens his hand, waiting for me to hand over his keys, but I don’t budge.
“I’ll drive you home,” I say.
“Then let’s go.”
I know he’s upset, but he’s being a real jerk. This doctor has just taken care of him and saved him a trip to the ER. Maybe Anton isn’t taking this seriously, but I am.
“One more thing,” Dr. Wilson says. He scribbles down something else on a pad of paper and hands it to Anton. “Dr. Lydia Anderson is a specialist down in the city. She’s someone I want you to see if your headache worsens, if your vision becomes blurry, or if you have trouble concentrating.”
He hands the second piece of paper to Anton, and Anton shoves it into the same pocket.
“My head doesn’t even hurt anymore,” he says. “I’m feeling good.”
“Why don’t you give me your parent’s number?” Dr. Wilson says. “I can give them a call right now.” But Anton just heads out of the kitchen, and I can hear him open the front door.
“Thank you,” I say to Dr. Wilson. “I’ll make sure he gets home okay.” And then I turn to Ciara and say, “Thanks for everything. I’m sorry he’s acting like this.”
“I hope he really does feel better,” Ciara says. “I hope he’s going to be okay.”
I hope so too.
Dr. Wilson walks me to the door. “That irritability you see is a symptom of a concussion. You need to make sure his parents call me. And you need to keep an eye him. He shouldn’t be going to football practice, and he definitely should not be playing in any games. He should be in a dark room letting his brain recover until the symptoms are gone. If I didn’t have to catch this flight, I’d drive out to his house and talk to his parents tonight, but I don’t think I have enough time.”
“I’ll take care of him,” I say.
Just then a car pulls up.
“My driver is here,” Dr. Wilson says. “Please have Anton’s parents call me. My flight leaves at midnight. I’ll be able to talk while I’m in the airport, but I don’t think I’ll have any reception once I’m in Haiti. Take care of your friend. I’ll check on him when I get back.”
Ciara and I wave to him as he we head down the porch stairs.