“This four-leaf clover keychain was reflecting terribly off her headlights in the middle of the road. She had to stop to see what it was. When she got out, she heard you wailing.” Officer Calhoun picked up the keychain from the bedside table. “This yours?”
Mac nodded. Words escaped him.
Officer Calhoun examined the four-leaf clover. “I guess these things really are good luck.”
Thank you, Aunt Rita.
“That Justin Weeks needs to go to jail,” his mom said to the cop, full of Norma Rae-type passion that was new for her.
“We’re going to try to make that happen. We have a good case.”
Mac wasn’t buying it. “Bad things don’t happen to the Weeks family, especially if all he did was beat up some gay guy. He’ll probably get a fucking parade for that.”
His parents didn’t try to point out his cursing. They seemed to hate that Mac was right as much as he did.
Officer Calhoun gave Mac a heavy look. “Mac, I know what happened to you years ago. I know the stories going around about you weren’t true. I couldn’t sleep for weeks. I’d lived my life in the closet, but after your attack, I couldn’t stay quiet. No matter how scared I was, I knew by staying quiet, people like them won.
“I came out to my squad six months later. They took it well. Not everyone, but most. I’ve been working with our unit to include LGBT sensitivity training. I’ve gotten guys who used to hurl Bible quotes at me to at least recognize that gay people shouldn’t have to live in fear around here of being attacked. I won’t let what happened to you happen to some other kid.”
Mac was speechless. This guy couldn’t be real. This couldn’t be Kingwood. Mac had spent four years thinking the worst of this town, but maybe there were some decent people here.
“Thank you,” he said quietly to Officer Calhoun. The cop nodded at him in understanding that transcended words.
“Anyway, I’ll let you rest up and spend time with your family.”
“Thank you, officer.” Mac’s dad shook his hand, and the officer walked out, leaving three Dalys.
His mom scanned his body. Mac didn’t want to look.
“You’re really here,” he squeaked out.
“Of course we’re here! It doesn’t matter who you love. You don’t deserve to get attacked!” She burst into a sob against his dad’s shoulder.
“We love you.” His dad kissed his head again. Mac yanked him down into an awkward embrace. It felt so good to hug his father again.
A few minutes later, a tall, black doctor with a shaved head waltzed into the room. Right away, Mac could tell he was a straight shooter who was too busy and tired to feed Mac lies.
“Mac, I’m Dr. Wright.”
“Sounds like I’m in good hands already.”
The doctor managed a polite smile. “Mac, you sustained a number of injuries. Fortunately, we’ve stitched up your cuts and gashes, and did surgery to repair the compound fractures in your legs.”
Panic took over Mac, overrode all of the drugs flowing through his system. “I broke my legs? Will I be able to walk? People break legs all the time and still walk, right? That’s why they say ‘break a leg’ in theater, because it’s not that serious.”
“Your legs should heal, and you’re lucky there was no infection. However, you did suffer a spinal fracture when you fell. That will not heal on its own. I’m recommending you have a vertebroplasty procedure. We inject this special bone cement, and it will form an internal cast around the weakened vertebrae.”
“You’re going to operate on his spine?” Mac’s mom asked.
“Yes, though it’s not as involved as you’re thinking. It’s a minimally invasive procedure. Without the surgery, there’s a strong chance you will have chronic lifelong pain and might need to use a walker to get around.”
Mac pictured himself in a walker at twenty-years-old. “A few days ago, I was cleaning my apartment. I was thinking about finals. That’s what I should be thinking about. What piece of furniture I can buy for my apartment, not if I’ll be able to walk again without pain the rest of my life.”
His mother squeezed his hand. He was scared shitless, but he wasn’t alone.
“That’s why we are recommending the vertebroplasty. Now that you’re up and alert, we would want to get you into surgery as soon as possible,” Dr. Wright said. “The orthopedic surgeon can come in tomorrow morning for it.”
Mac nodded. His body felt like a junk heap, his tower of junk in Gideon’s sun porch. He looked at his parents, and they gave tight nods of solidarity. “I’ll do it. Tomorrow morning.”
