Dr. Wright put the clipboard with the consent forms on the bedside table and left.
Mac’s dad sat in one of the uncomfortable hospital chairs, and his mom rubbed her back. He wondered if they slept in the room with them.
“How are we going to afford all of this?” Mac asked.
The dark cloud of money cast its shadow over the room.
“Now’s not the time to think about that,” his mom said. “We’ll figure it out. What’s most important is getting you healed.”
Mac looked down at his bruised and battered body. The enormity overtook him, and he started crying.
“Now, son.” There was his dad’s firm voice, just as he remembered. “You’re bent, but you’re not broken. You’re going to be okay.”
This moment was almost perfect, except for the bodily injury. It was just missing one important person. “Can one of you hand me my phone?”
His parents traded looks. At some point, they stopped needing to talk each other. They were on some other wavelength.
“Your phone was destroyed. It was crushed by that idiot’s truck.”
“He ran me over. You can call him a fucking piece of shit.”
His dad smirked at that.
“I want to talk to Gideon.”
“I spoke to him yesterday,” his mom said. “I gave him the whole scoop. I don’t have his number with me. Do you remember it offhand?”
Mac shook his head no. He didn’t know anyone’s phone number. It was a scary thought. Damn cell phones.
“We’ll call him tonight and let him know you’re awake,” his dad said. Mac couldn’t imagine his dad and Gideon having a conversation. The thought made him smile a little.
“What day is it?”
“December 26th,” his mom said.
“I missed Christmas?”
“Santa didn’t forget about you.” His mom pulled wrapped gifts off the window sill. “He left these for you under our tree.”
“Santa is so thoughtful,” Mac said with an arched eyebrow. He had trouble keeping his eyes open. Sleep was pulling him down. “I’ll open these later. But I didn’t get you guys anything.”
His dad patted his arm and looked at him the way every son wanted to be looked at. “We got a great gift.”
Φ
Mac was woken up first thing in the morning for surgery, before daybreak. Pieces of wrapping paper lay on his blanket from last night. His parents brought him presents. They ate McDonald’s, while Mac fasted to prepare for surgery. It was a holiday to remember.
The nurse prepped Mac for the operation.
“I’m scared.”
“Mac, think about all you’ve survived,” his dad said. “You’re more of a fighter than anyone I know.”
He shook his head in dissent. “I ran. I ran away from you, from Kingwood. I didn’t fight anything.”
“You didn’t let what happened stop you from living your life. You got yourself into a great school, you’re doing things with your life. And you came back. You didn’t give up on us. If you hadn’t come back to Kingwood, we might never have spoken again.” His dad’s lip trembled again as he fought back emotions. “And I have to live with that. You are more of a fighter than me.”
“Where’d you think I learned it? From watching you run the store day in and day out. I say this as someone on lots of drugs, but maybe it’s time to close up the shop for good. Florida is lovely in the winter.”
