Page 52 of Endless Summer: Stories
Tiger drops them off at the emergency room with a terse “Good luck.” He’s angry or upset—maybe because George broke into the house like a common burglar (the cut is what he deserves) or maybe because George and Sallie are together or maybe because Sallie demanded a ride rather than asked for one.
“Thank you,” George says meekly.
It’s not yet nine in the morning on a Saturday but the emergency room is busy. The two people who George makes eye contact with are an exhausted-looking woman holding a whimpering toddler and a girl about George’s age who has road rash down the length of one bare leg. Sallie marches to the triage desk while barking, “Hold your hand over your head, George, how many times do I have to tell you?”
Obediently, George raises his hand wrapped in the towel. He really, really wants to lie down but instead he hides behind Sallie as she berates the poor nurse, an older woman with hair dyed coal black, rimless glasses, and an underbite. Her name tag saysMARCIA.
“George needs to be seenrightaway,” Sallie says. “Look at the blood!”
“It’s head trauma?” Marcia asks, because in his exhaustion, George has rested his bad hand on top of his head.
“It’s his hand,” Sallie snaps. “He’s cut his hand and he needs a surgeon!”
George has never heard Sallie sound anything but charming and sassy; this abrasive, nearly rude side of her is new to him, and he’s afraid the nurse will take offense, but Marcia just chuckles. “The only surgeons on Nantucket today are on the golf course.” She hands Sallie a clipboard. “You and your son can have a seat. Fill this form out and return it to me when you’ve finished.”
Sallie mutters under her breath, “He’s not my son,” and George feels the same mortification he always feels when people assume Sallie is his mother, but it’s worse now because of what happened back at All’s Fair. Tiger and Magee handled the surprise of Sallie… badly. Magee was kneeling over George when he regained consciousness, and right after she realized he was okay, she whispered, “You should be ashamed of yourself, George. What will my boys think? They look up to you.”
George tries to take the clipboard but Sallie won’t relinquish it. “I’ll fill it out,” she says. “I’ve known you since you were born.”
Marcia calls out, “Lopez,” and the woman with the toddler stands. George rests his head against the back of the chair and closes his eyes.
“What’s your Social Security number?” Sallie asks. As George is mumbling the digits—the last four are either 6304 or 6403, he can’t seem to remember which—Marcia says, “Dewberry!” George snaps to attention, confused. Dewberry is Raymond’s last name and therefore the last name on George’s fake ID and he’s trained himself to respond to it. The girl with road rash pushes herself out of her chair and limps after Marcia.
Sallie calls out, “We’d better be next!”
They are not next. A man cradling his arm goes in, followed by a kid with a beesting who is blowing up like the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man.
Sallie huffs out a stream of frustrated air and falls into her chair. “I don’t understand what your family’s problem is. You’re anadult. You’re plenty old enough. You’re turning twenty tomorrow.”
George can barely nod. His arm is falling asleep from holding his hand over his head.
“I’m sure they want me to leave,” Sallie says. “But I’m not going anywhere. They’ll just have to deal with me. Withus,as acouple.”
George isn’t sure what Sallie expected. Did she really believe his family was going to embrace the idea of George dating a woman twenty-three years his senior? It didn’t matter that Sallie was Blair’s friend and they’d all known her for decades—that made it worse! George groans as he wonders if anyone has called his mother in Paris. Why had he let Sallie talk him into bringing her here? Why hadn’t she been content to leave it a secret? Things had been so perfect.
“Whalen?” Marcia calls out.
Sallie rises and helps George to his feet. “You could have told me you didn’t have a key,” she says. “I would have paid for a locksmith or we could have gotten a hotel. At the very least, you could have told me last night that you cut your hand. You need to work on your decision-making, George. There are times you act like a child.”
Marcia clears her throat impatiently as George and Sallie make their way toward her. “Parents of adult children need to stay in the waiting room,” she says to Sallie.
“I’mnothis mother!” Sallie says.
“Well, then, you really need to stay in the waiting room,” Marcia says, and she takes George by the arm.
In the exam room, George climbs up onto the table and promptly lies down. The towel around his hand is a soggy red mess but he’s happy to be alone. This isn’t how the weekend was supposed to go, he thinks. He and Sallie should be up in bed, drinking champagne, eating organic strawberries.
But who was he kidding? That was never going to happen. It’s a family reunion.
“I’m here for a family reunion,” George says to the girl with road rash. Road Rash and George have both been treated and are waiting in a room to be billed and released. George is, finally, feeling no pain. They gave him a local anesthetic when they cleaned up his hand as well as a Vicodin. Road Rash had her leg cleaned up, the gravel embedded in her skin removed (their exam rooms had been separated by just a curtain, so George heard her yipping with pain and the physician assistant urging her to keep still), and her wound dressed. She might have been given pain meds as well because she seems pretty chipper for someone who fell off a moped. “My grandmother owns a house in town and one out at the beach and tomorrow is my twin sister’s and my birthday, so basically my whole family is showing up. Well, I mean, except for our mother.”
Road Rash draws back. “Isn’t the woman with you in the waiting room your mother?”
“No,” George says. “That’s my lady friend.”
Road Rash, who is sitting in a vinyl chair across from George, gives another yip and then a big, silly smile crosses her face. Here, then, is the mirth George has been dreading. She sings out,“You know I like my girls a little bit older.”
George and the Vicodin laugh. “I’m George,” he says. “George Whalen.”
