The doorbell rings. So does the phone. I choose the door.
I drop the fleece blanket in the living room. Up close to the front door I can see through the edges around the frosted glass design. It’s almost dark, but the porch light is on. It’s two cops, a man and a woman. They’re here to tell me. About the accident. About Mom and Dad.
The woman officer leans over and pushes the doorbell button again. I stand still. I’m in no condition to talk to the police. They wait, rocking on their heels the way cops do. Then the guy says, “Let’s go.”
Mrs. Trent from next door stops them on the sidewalk by their squad car. She wants to know what’s going on. She always has to know everything that happens in the neighborhood. I can’t hear what they’re saying.
My chest feels like someone is squeezing the air out of me. On the way back to the TV room, I pick up the blanket. I sit down at one end of the couch. There’s sweat on my face.
The phone. It’s ringing again, but it sounds far away. I lean over and grab it on the fourth ring, then wait for the answering machine to stop.
“Hello?” It’s still hard to breathe.
“Yes, may I ask who this is?” It’s a woman’s voice. There’s a lot of noise and loud talking around her.
“This is Bobby.” The news guy in the green sport coat is still yelling, so I punch the mute button.
“Bobby, are your parents Emily and David Phillips?”
My throat is tight. I take too long to answer.
“Bobby? Are you Bobby Phillips?”
“…Yes…. Is this about the accident?”
“Yes, it is, Bobby. This is Dr. Fleming, and I’m calling from the emergency room at Presbyterian St. Luke’s Hospital. Your parents were hurt in a car crash, but they’re going to be all right, and you don’t have to worry about them. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”
Nothing to be afraid of. I’m shivering, shaking. Nothing to be afraid of. The lady keeps talking.
“Your mom has a concussion and a broken nose, but she was able to talk with me, and she gave me your name and number so I could call and tell you what’s happened. Your dad is already in the operating room because his left arm and his right wrist were hurt. My guess is that both your parents will be here for at least three days—probably longer for your dad. Bobby, your mother told me that you are fifteen, is that right?”
The whole room is spinning. I hang on to the phone with both hands so I won’t get thrown out against the walls.
The lady is patient. “You’re fifteen, is that right, Bobby?”
“Yes.” The thinking is almost harder than the breathing.
“And you are there alone and you have no one over eighteen other than your parents who live there, right?”
“Yes.”
“Then I want to be sure that you’ve got somewhere to stay for the next few days until one of your parents is well enough to come home. Or some adult could come and stay with you there. Are there any relatives or friends I should call for you? Or would you like to call someone and then get back to me here so I can have your mother approve the arrangements? In a case like this with a child at home, we have to be certain you’re being cared for.”
The room is still spinning, but I’m listening too. And now I have to think. Think and plan. I can’t go visiting, I can’t have a relative or anyone else hanging around. But Mom knows that—or at least she did before that big red Jeep beat her up.
“Could I talk to my mom?”
“No, I’m sorry, not for at least an hour or two. We need to get her comfortable. She’s stable right now, but we need to be sure everything’s all right. And I’m sure it is. Your mother suggested that you might call your aunt Ethel. Does that sound right to you?”
I think a second and then I say, “Yeah…I guess I should make a couple of calls, and then call you back, okay?” Then I say, “My dad? You said he’s going to be all right too?”
“Well, he’s not going to be playing any tennis for a while, but he’ll be up and around, maybe even back at work in a week or two. Both your parents are very fortunate to be alive.” After a quick pause she says, “So let’s review, Bobby. Both your parents are here at Presbyterian St. Luke’s, they’re both going to be fine, and I’m Dr. Sarah Fleming, and you’re going to call me back here as soon as you get something arranged with your aunt Ethel or someone else, right?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have a pencil? I’ll give you my number.”
When I have a pen and paper she says the number.
“It’s six-fifteen now, and I’ll be here until midnight. Try to call me no later than eight o’clock, all right? If I’m not able to get to the phone when you call, leave a message and I’ll call back.” She pauses, then says, “Are you going to be okay about all this, Bobby?” Now her voice sounds more like a mom than a doctor.
The room is slowing down, and I’ve stopped panting. “I’m okay. Tell them that I’m fine, and tell my mom and dad that I’m sorry about…that they’re hurt.”
I put the phone down and struggle to stand up, hugging the blanket around me. I pace up and down in front of the couch a few times. Then I make myself sit down again. To think.
Aunt Ethel. I have to hand it to Mom. Even in an emergency room she knows how to put a good story together. It must be from reading all those novels. Aunt Ethel is real, but having her be my baby-sitter? That’s pure fiction. Aunt Ethel lives in Miami.
And then I remember school, my school. Mom called them this morning and said I was home sick. That was the first lie.
And now I’ve got to pretend to have a baby-sitter. I’ve got to call that doctor back in an hour or so and tell some more lies. And won’t she want to talk with Aunt Ethel?
And what happens if the people at school hear about the accident? Will they send somebody over to my house to make sure I’m okay?
And will the cops keep coming back?
I’ve got to make decisions.
The winter sun is setting and the house is almost dark. There’s only the flickering light from the TV. I’m sweating invisible sweat. I’m sitting on the couch wearing nothing but a blue fleece blanket, and no one is coming home for dinner. Or bedtime. Or breakfast.
On the silent TV a beautiful happy family is sitting around the kitchen table. They’re laughing and smiling as they eat. They’re all in love with oatmeal.
My family’s not on TV. My family’s messed up. And I’m probably the most messed up of all.
I make my first decision: I’ve got to go see Mom and Dad. Because that’s what you do if your family gets in a car wreck, right? You go and see them.
Because they’re your family.