Page 47 of The Girl He Loves

Chapter 17

Tuesday Night

Adheringto the mundane but necessary laws of operating a vehicle and using the roadways -- stopping at red lights, not tailgating, and parking in a legal spot -- is a certain form of torture.

My kid is in the emergency room, and having to be law-abiding is asking too much from me. I speed as I cross over from the peninsula to the mainland. And in my haste in taking a corner, I cut it sharply and jump a curb.

Finally, I arrive. I park in the first spot I find then sprint to the emergency department. I pause just inside the sliding doors and scan the room. I spot Dax leaning against the counter of the nurse’s station, chatting with a guy in a long white lab coat and a stethoscope around his neck, and two nurses in teal scrubs. They’re laughing at whatever he’s telling them.

My blood pressure shoots through the roof, and I see red. Literally. A red overlay of color, brought on by my fury, tints the world in front of me. All I can hear is the sound of my breathing combined with my rapidly thumping heartbeat.

I stomp toward Dax. When he sees me,] he smiles and waves.

“Where is he?” My voice quivers from pent up anger and fear. My volume louder than normal.

“He’s with Doug.” Dax looks confused.

The nurses’ station separates us. I slap my hand on the laminate surface. “You said you’d take care of him. You said he’d be okay. Someone take me to my child,” I fairly scream.

From behind me, Tyler says, “I’m right here, Mom.”

I turn, bracing myself, because I have no idea what I’ll see.

My son is riding my brother’s shoulders. He’s holding a balloon that says Get well soon. He looks fine. He looks healthy. There’s a streak of dirt on his cheek, but nothing else amiss.

I sag with relief. “What happened?”

Doug lifts Tyler off his shoulders and sets him on the ground. “If you hadn’t hung up on me, I would’ve told you.”

Tyler skirts around me and runs to Dax. “This is for you.” He hands him the balloon.

I’m confused. I try to put the pieces of this puzzle together, only it seems I’ve grabbed the wrong ones. Dax hops from around the counter to get closer to Tyler.

“I love balloons,” Dax says.

On his right lower leg is a brace acting as a temporary cast that goes from his ankle to slightly above his knee. The brace's slight bend at the knee keeps Dax's foot from touching the ground.

I gasp. “You? You’re the one that’s hurt? Not Tyler?” My question is rhetorical, yet affirmation would go a long way. Even though I can see Tyler is fine, my brain hasn’t made the switch to accepting it yet.

“Yeah, ding-dong,” Doug says. “Dax has a tibial fracture.”

I gasp again and cover my mouth. Between my fingers, I say, “Didn’t you break your tibia junior year of college?” We hadn’t been dating, but I remember the story and how he’d rehabbed for so long, afraid an injury would keep him from the draft.

“Yep, this one’s not in the same spot, though. This fracture is on the tibial shaft.” He nods to the doctor. “This guy called it a toddler fracture. That makes me feel big and strong.”

He takes the balloon from Tyler. “Thanks, buddy, you were such a good friend when I stepped in that hole. Means a lot to me that you were with me the whole time.” He wraps Tyler in a hug.

I face Doug and give him a look that tells him to fill me in.

Doug shrugs. “Tyler got the ball and was running it in. First touchdown of the game and for Tyler. Dax was running down the field on the sidelines with him, cheering him along.”

Dax laughs. “Yeah, only I was running backward and not watching where I was going.”

Doug says, “Stepped right into a hole and fell back.”

“Snap,” Tyler says. “We all heard it.”

Dax adds, “I think it’s the beginning of a sinkhole. Sucked me right in and wouldn’t let go.”

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