Chase
You’d think after all that, I’d get decent treatment—you know, sirens wailing, ambulance racing over curbs, medics rushing out of the ER, saying, What’ve we got here?
But no. The paramedics took their time loading me on a gurney and talking about their own skateboarding days while they pressed the button for the world’s slowest elevator. No siren, and we stopped at every red light. Dad couldn’t even ride in the ambulance with me because we needed the car to drive back to the hotel.
I don’t know how long we wait at the emergency room or even if we wait. A bunch of people talk to Dad and keep saying Hey, buddy to me. I’m thirteen, not five, but whatever. The doctors explain what they’re going to do and I’m all like, Yeah, yeah, yeah, because I’m thinking, Just do it! They decide I don’t have a concussion. Then they give me some kind of shot and I feel it going from my left arm, flowing warmly through my veins, all the way through my body, until it reaches my head.
“Doing okay, buddy?” one of the doctors asks.
When I nod, I feel like I’m moving in slow motion, kind of woozy but good. My head lolls to the side and I watch Dad ask the doctor questions. I grin. He should sit down, relax. Everything’s all right. He’s a good guy, just works too hard, that’s all. He needs a break. Look at him, writing stuff down even now. I snicker.
They turn to me. I flash them a peace sign.
It doesn’t even hurt when, a few minutes later, the doctor manipulates my right arm so that the bones meet the right way. I am floating through space. Then they wrap, wrap, wrap up my arm a few inches past my elbow with long bandages; some are wet with plaster of paris. Cool.
As the cast sets, the doctor rattles off some rules. “No lotion or powder in the cast.”
Check. No girlie stuff.
“Don’t stick objects into the cast to scratch yourself.”
Check. No objects.
“Do not get the cast wet.”
What? I push through layers of puffy clouds. “What about swimming?”
The doctor shakes his head. “No swimming.”
I knife through the clouds. “No swimming? What about the pool?” I glance at Dad, then back to the doctor.
He shakes his head again. “No swimming at all. You’ll even need to be careful in the shower. If the cast gets wet, it’ll break down, or mold or fungus could grow inside.”
My mouth drops open. The clouds flit away. I turn to Dad, hoping he can help me out here. “Dad, the springs! What about snorkeling and all that?”
Dad exhales loudly and shakes his head.
“And you’ll have to stay off that skateboard too. In fact, nothing with wheels,” the doctor says. “We don’t want you breaking the other arm.” He gives what he probably thinks is a good-natured chuckle, then hands Dad a paper. “This goes over how to take care of the cast and what to look out for.”
The last little bit of warm feeling leaves me. I can’t believe this. I’m in Florida, just an hour from the ocean, only I can’t swim in it; I’m stuck in a hotel with a pool I can’t use, and now I can’t even skateboard. What am I supposed to do? Play shuffleboard? Oh, yeah, I can’t do that either—broke my shuffleboard arm.
I’m sitting next to Dad in the Silver Bullet, the Camaro he and Mom bought before she left us. The Rusty Bullet, he should call it. This thing’s a beater, Dad. Why don’t you get rid of it? I’ve asked. Nope. He’d finger the New Hampshire Chevrolet sticker on it—that’s where we lived when she was still with us.
Souvenirs are supposed to remind you of a good time you had somewhere. The Camaro is one big souvenir—it reminds Dad of good times with Mom. I have to look at photos to do that.
The seat belt’s making my arm seriously uncomfortable. I unbuckle it.
“Put it back on.” Dad doesn’t look at me when he says it.
“Too uncomfortable.”
“Just put it on,” he says, sounding tired. Hey, I’m the one with the injury, remember?
I fumble with my left hand, trying to snap the buckle in, but it’s not a one-arm job. Then the belt gets stuck and I try retracting it, which only makes it get stuck higher. I grit my teeth and yank on the belt.
Dad jerks his head at me. “What are you doing?”
“Trying to put on the seat belt like you said!” I pull on it. No go.
He shifts hands on the steering wheel and stretches his right hand over. “Well, let me help you if you can’t get it.”
“I don’t need your help!” I go into crazy mode, retracting the belt and yanking it over and over again until, finally, it comes loose and I pull it down. But I still can’t make the connection; the buckle keeps flopping. My lips smash together as I try and fail one more time. I breathe hard through my nose. A trickle of sweat runs down my right arm and into the cast. Great. My body goes rigid: one arm frozen into a right angle; the other arm frozen in position holding the seat belt.
Dad reaches over and holds the buckle still. I push the seat belt in and it snaps into place.
We ride in silence to the hotel.