The child’s face was all shock and fear. Nothing that happened in this hospital, nothing that happened to the hurt person she was waiting for, would be worse than this scold from her guardian. They’d tell her, “Daddy is dead” or “Mommy’s very sick,” but it would touch her far less than the other’s scared fury. That was the end of the world as far as she understood it. Standing still, she stuck her thumb in her mouth and looked at me with absolute hatred.
A hand touched my shoulder, and before I turned, a man’s voice said, “Mr. Aaron?” For an instant I knew they’d mistaken me for someone else. Aaron? Then a weird unnatural rustle, like leaves before a storm, went across me when I realized they thought I was Rick Aaron.
Turning, I was about to correct them when it came to me they thought that because I’d brought the boy in and said I was his father.
The doctor’s name was Casey. William Casey. Faced with the moment of truth, I looked at his name tag too long. William Casey.
“Mr. Aaron, everything is going to be all right. You’ve got one lucky boy. The ball hit him on the temple and knocked him out. We’ve got a large hematoma there and he’s going to have a hell of a sore head for a while, but other than that he’s okay. No fracture or serious concussion. He regained consciousness right after you left.”
“YES!” I punched both fists straight up into the air and closed my eyes. “YES!”
“We’d like to keep him here for observation overnight, but that’s only standard procedure. I’m sure nothing is wrong.”
I shook and shook and shook Dr. Casey’s hand until he gently pried himself loose and told me to sit down, take a breather.
“But his head will be all right? There’ll be no aftereffects or—”
“Not from what I can see, and we checked him thoroughly. He’s going to have a bad headache and won’t be able to wear his baseball cap for a while. That’s it. He’s going to be okay.”
“Thank you, Doctor. Thank you so very much—”
“Mr. Aaron, when I was a young doctor and very pleased with myself, a patient would say thank you and I’d accept it as my due. In twenty-five years of medicine I’ve learned to stop taking credit for only doing my best. I’m happy for you. Happy I could give you good news. I must go now.”
I sat down and inadvertently looked directly into the eyes of the woman with the child. She smiled and gestured toward the other room. “They’re okay?”
“Yes. Yes, a very bad hit on the head but he’s going to be okay. It’s my son.” Tears came to my eyes. My son.
“I’m glad it worked out.”
“Thank you. I hope… I hope yours is well too.”
“It’s my daughter in there. This one’s mother. Know why we’re here? Because that Miss Smartso daughter of mine got her fat tongue stuck in a Coca-Cola bottle! It’s the truth. Don’t ask me how. We’re all sittin’ around comfortable and happy at the girl’s birthday party. Her mama’s drinking a Coke and the next thing we know, she’s wavin’ her arms like she’s drowning or something. But no, it’s not that, it’s she can’t get her tongue out of the damned bottle. Can you believe it? We had to take a cab here because my car’s broke and the cabdriver laughed at us the whole way down. What the hell, I was laughing too.”
Whether it was because of the relief I felt, knowing Lincoln was going to be all right, or the way the woman was smiling at the end of her story, whatever, I smiled, then hee-heed, then cackled openly. She did too. Each time we looked at each other we laughed harder.
“How do you get your tongue stuck in a Coke bottle? The opening’s so small!”
“Don’t ask me. My daughter’s always had special talents.”
A doctor bustled by but stopped abruptly when she looked in and saw all of us laughing so hard. Even the finger chewer was going by then. How strange we must have looked. Who laughs in the emergency room? Were we ghouls or madmen? The little girl didn’t understand why we were having such a good time but it was fine with her. She started skipping around the room singing, “Coca-Cola. Coca-Cola.”
And that’s what Lily saw when she flew around the corner with Ibrahim right behind: everyone laughing, skipping child, Party Time.
“Max! Where is he? What’s going on?”
Between the laughter, the surprise at seeing her, and relief still rolling around in my stomach, I only waved and smiled, which was appalling behavior. She didn’t know her son was out of danger. As far as she knew, he might have been dead.
“Max, for Christ’s sake, where’s Lincoln?”
I stood up, still smiling. “Lily, he’s all right. You don’t have to worry.”
“What do you mean? Where is he?”
“In the other room. But the doctor was just here and said he’s all right. He got hit and was knocked out—”
“Knocked out? They didn’t tell me that. They only said he was hit. Knocked out? Oh Christ—”
I took her by both arms. “Lily, listen to me. He was hit on the head and knocked out. But he’s all right. He’ll have a big bruise there and his head’ll hurt for some time, but they did all the tests and he’s all right. He’s all right.”
“Why did you bring him here? Why didn’t you call and tell me?”
“Wait, calm down. He got hit and was knocked out. We were afraid, so we brought him to the hospital. We had to: it could have been very bad.”
“Jesus Christ, you shouldn’t have brought him here.” She broke off angrily and shook her head. “Did you have to fill out papers? What did they make you fill out?”
Ibrahim was standing right behind her. He shrugged as if he didn’t understand what she was ranting about.
“What did you fill out, Max?”
“Papers, Lily. You have to give them general information. It’s normal in a hospital, honey.”
“Normal for who? What did you say on there? What kind of information did you give?”
She was very angry. I slid it off to the pressure of what had happened. I spoke as calmly as I could. “His name, how old he is, our address. And whether he’s allergic to anything.”
“What else?”
“Nothing. Just the standard form.”
“Standard form, huh? Shit on the standard form.”
“Lily, calm down. That’s what you do in the hospital. You gotta give them certain information—”
She grabbed the front of my shirt and pulled me to her very roughly. “You don’t give them anything, Max. Nothing ever.” Her voice shrank down to a gravelly growl.
Ibrahim had his hands on her then, pulling her back, talking quietly, pulling her away from me. It was bizarre and very disturbing. She had every right to be capsized by her son’s accident, but her facial expression, voice, what she was saying all had to do with something else. Something way far away from this situation. What she said next confirmed that.
“Do you think they take fingerprints?”
“Of Lincoln? No! He’s a patient, not a prisoner.”
She listened, then turned to hear what Ibrahim thought.
“Lily, come on, please. Don’t get cuckoo now. They don’t take fingerprints in the hospital!”
“We don’t know for sure, but all right. Now I only want to get him out of here. When can we take him home?”
“Tomorrow. The doctor said they’ll keep him here overnight for observation. He can go home tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow? Where’s this doctor? I have to talk to him. We’re leaving here.”
What she meant by “we” was she wanted her son out of there that instant. We found Dr. Casey, who first tried to calm her, but grew insistent and coldly professional on realizing this distraught woman wanted to take her child home now. He said it was unwise, then not a good idea, then dangerous. There had been cases where—
“I don’t care, Doctor. We’re leaving. I’m his mother and I want to take him home. If there are any problems we’ll come back.”