The arrival of Bob and Sarah brought a reaction a toddler
must feel when parents rescued him from an unpleasant situation. They made a
chair with their hands and carried me to the house.
“I’ll call the police,” Bob said. “They’ll know which
roads are cleared and if I should drive you.”
“My hair. I can’t go to the hospital looking like a refuge
from a food fight.”
“I’ll wash it,” Sarah said. “In the kitchen. We’ll pull
the table to the sink.”
“I do not believe this.” Bob’s hair flopped onto his
forehead. His body moved in concert.
The jerky movement sent knives of pain through my leg. I
bit my lip. “Believe. It’s called vanity.”
“Shock,” he said. “Shouldn’t we make a splint?”
“The boot acts like one. No one not trained in trauma care
was about to touch my leg.
Jamal, Becca, Larry and the two-year-old twins danced
around raising the noise level to cacophony. Jamal’s cries of “Bummer. She gets
all the cake,” lodged in my thoughts.
Forty-five minutes later, escorted by the police I arrived
at the hospital. Before removing the boot, one of my former colleagues gave me
an injection. While drifting between pain and nirvana I wondered if my
beautician made house calls.
My Places
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1 comment:
Interesting combined with a bit of humor. I like it! Nice job.
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