I look back to Claire. She’s quiet now, her cries soft, but that’s going to end as soon as I pick her up. My insides twist, seeing my daughter in such pain and knowing that in order to get her help, I’m going to have to make itworse.
“I’m going to pick you up and take you to the hospital. Mommy loves you so much, and I’m going to make everythingbetter.”
Claire’s gaze is frightened, but wide andtrusting.
I’m gentle when I touch her. Gentle when I place one arm under her knees and another under her back. She whimpers the second I shift her. Using her right hand she keeps her left arm locked in place by her side and criesquietly.
With Claire secured to my front, I move through the crowd of concerned parents and children, delivering half-hearted promises to email them when we know the extent of the injury. I nod to the coach as we pass. He gives me a tightsmile.
“Good luck,” he calls out. He jogs back to the center of the field, waving at the other little girls on the team to followhim.
Claire wails with every other step I take. “It hurts,” she says through her tears. Somewhere in the back of my mind I appreciate the childlike ability to communicate pain. There is no holding back, no biting of thetongue.
“I know, baby, I know. I’m so sorry. I wish I had a magic wand so I could take away your pain. You’re going to see a doctor, and he’ll make you allbetter.”
My dad waits on the curb, as close as he can be without driving onto the field. He jumps from the driver’s seat and pulls open the back door. I slide in and keep Claire on my lap. She’s keening, her grip still on her left arm. My dad’s gaze flashes to her car seat, pausing there for a moment, then comes to rest onme.
I thought about it too, but there’s no way to get her in there and buckled. I can’t risk moving her elbow any more than I already have. “Just drive carefully.” I close my eyes and rest my head against the headrest. “It’s only half a mile.” It makes me feel better to say this out loud. Nearly seventy percent of car accidents occur within ten miles of a person’s home. Going in the direction of the hospital puts us roughly thirteen miles away from our house. Statistically, this is an acceptablerisk.
Apparently my dad trusts me, because he runs back to the driver’s seat and throws the car indrive.
Everything is going to be OK. It’s probably a break. It’s not as if something truly horrific happened. She’s safe, she’s not goinganywhere.
When I open my eyes, Claire’s eyes are on my face. Her lower lip quivers. I’m pushing all my love and good thoughts onto her, into those dark eyes that take me back to one hour nearly five years ago. Who knew sixty minutes of time spent with Isaac would produce the one thing I’d been missing my wholelife?
Claire is my salvation. My saving grace. She came along and unknowingly gave me all the love I’d missed from my own mother. She gave me the opportunity to be in a mother/daughter relationship, even if I only know what it’s like to be themother.
My dad sends frequent, worried glances back at us in the rearview mirror. If we were driving any farther, I’d tell him to pay closer attention, but we’re nearly therenow.
I’m so lucky to have him. He’s an incredible grandpa and an even betterdad.
What would Isaac have done differently on that soccer field?I turn away from the thought. Claire has me, and I did mybest.
* * *
The hour-long waitin the emergency room feels like three. Claire stays on my lap and doesn’t move. I haven’t moved either, not since I adjusted myself without thinking and she cried. Since then both my feet have fallen asleep. Now they’renumb.
I’ve never been to the emergency room. I’ve never broken or sprained anything. A cavity has never burrowed into one of my teeth, and not because Dad was vigilant about my oral care. Like most things, he assumed I had thatcovered.
So maybe my lack of experience waiting is why I’m fuming now. When we’re finally taken back, we wait longer. The nurse comes back, I explain what happened, she takes Claire’s vitals without jostling her, then she leaves. We waitagain.It feelsinterminable.
“How much longer before she gets some kind of pain medicine?” My question sails into the space and rustles the curtains hanging all around us. Distress, irritation, indignation, they all saturate myvoice.
Dad has noanswer.
With my free hand, I rub my eyes. Claire is cradled in my other arm, her lower half lying across my own. She’s quiet but alert. It’s only eleven in the morning. This day has already been forever. It might as well be eleven atnight.
“I’m pissed too.” My dad sends me an ironic smile over Claire’s prone form. “Think we’realike?”
“Just a little.” Despite my frustration, I allow a short laugh. When I was younger I’d pretend I was just like my mom. My Dad didn’t put any sweetener in his tea, so I did, because that’s probably what my mom would have done, and I was sure I was just like her. But ever since I became a parent, I see how much I’m like my father. And I also see how that’s not a badthing.
Finally, the nurse returns with adoctor.
“Hi, I’m Dr. Green.” He extends hisarm.
“Aubrey Reynolds.” I do what I can not to jostle Claire while I shake his hand. “This is my dad,John.”
Dr. Green shakes hands with my dad and looks at Claire. “And this is our tiny patient,huh?”
