“We need to go to the hospital,” Michael said. “That arm doesn’t look right.”
“I’ll get the car,” I said. My voice sounded calm, almost detached, but my hands were shaking. “Can you carry him?”
Michael nodded, slipping his arms under Rome. My son bit his lip hard, letting out a small, sharp whimper that tore straight through me. “I’ll stay with the others,” Michael added. “Shelly’s on her way home.”
The next ten minutes were a blur of adrenaline. I grabbed my purse, car keys, and Rome’s favorite stuffed dinosaur from his bed. Michael settled Rome in the backseat buckling him in with extreme care.
“It’s going to be okay,” I told Rome, meeting his frightened eyes in the rearview mirror as I backed out of the driveway. “We’ll get you fixed up.”
“I’m sorry, Mom,” he whispered. He looked so young, huddled over. “I was just trying to make it throw farther. Dad would have thought it was cool.”
“Your dad would’ve loved it,” I admitted, my voice catching as Marco’s face flashed through my mind. “Remember when he built a rocket in our garage? Nearly burned the house down.”
A ghost of a smile appeared on Rome’s pale face. “It blew up the trash can.”
“And singed his eyebrows clean off.” The image of Marco, shocked and laughing, eyebrows completely gone, stood vivid in my mind.
The traffic light ahead turned red. I stopped, gripping the steering wheel until my knuckles turned white. I needed help. I needed... him.
I grabbed the car phone and punched in Patrick’s number, not letting myself think about whether it was appropriate or if I was interrupting him.
He answered on the second ring. “Theresa?”
“I need you.” My voice cracked, the calm facade finally slipping. “Rome’s hurt. We’re heading to San Jose Regional. His arm—I think it’s broken.”
There wasn’t a moment’s hesitation. No questions about how or why. Just four simple words.
“I’m on my way.”
I hung up, oddly steadied. As the light turned green, I glanced back at Rome, who was staring out the window, tears silently tracking down his cheeks.
“Patrick’s going to meet us there,” I said.
Rome sniffled, wiping his nose on his sleeve. “He tells funny jokes. Maybe he’ll make the doctor laugh, so they won’t stick me with the needle.”
The hospital emergency room was mercifully quiet for a Thursday afternoon. The triage nurse took one look at Rome’s arm and his pale, clammy face and moved us straight to an examination room.
I filled out paperwork—insurance, medical history, emergency contacts—while a young doctor with kind eyes examined Rome. He talked to Rome, not just about him, asking about school and favorite colors while he manipulated the arm.
“Fractured radius,” the doctor confirmed after the X-rays came back. He pointed to the ghostly white line on the black film. “And I’m concerned about a possible concussion. The good news is it’s a clean break. We’ll set it, cast it, and he’ll be good as new in six to eight weeks.”
“But I need both arms for my catapult,” Rome protested weakly.
The doctor smiled. “Well, we’ll have to design you a special cast for siege engineering, won’t we? I’m more concerned about that bump on your head. We’d like to keep you overnight for observation.”
Rome’s eyes widened, panic flaring. “Stay here? By myself?”
“I’ll stay with you,” I promised, squeezing his good hand. “The whole time. I’m not going anywhere.”
As they prepared to set Rome’s arm, a nurse administered pain medication that made his eyelids droop. I stepped into the hallway to call Michael while Rome dozed, waiting for the orthopedist.
The hospital corridor felt too cold, too bright. I leaned against the wall, closing my eyes. The weight of everything—the board meeting, Arthur, the catapult, Rome’s pain—crashed down on me at once.
Rome was hurt. My seven-year-old son was hurt while I was buried in paperwork, fighting a battle that suddenly seemed abstract and distant compared to the immediate reality of my child in pain.
What kind of mother was I? What kind of CEO was I, for that matter, if six days before the most important board meeting of my life, I still had no solid plan to counter Arthur?
I was failing at everything.
