Christopher
Just as I hit send, I hear a loud thud, followed by a commotion.
“Bro! Are you okay?” one of the skater guys asks as I look up.
I look down into the half-pipe and my heart jumps up into my throat. Alexander’s eyes are panicked when they land on mine.
Shit.
21.Alexander
Thursday
“Well, the good news is that your wrist isn’t broken, Christopher,” the doctor says.
I let out a sigh of relief. The bones of my right hand stare back at me from the X-ray screen. I shouldn’t have tried to land a gnarly varial flip earlier—I’m such an idiot.
“Christopher?” The doctor’s hand on my shoulder brings my attention from the X-ray screen back to him. I nod, remembering Christopher put me down under his name rather than mine, so as not to draw any attention to myself.
“The bad news is, it looks like you’ve sprained it. Quite significantly. There’s some pretty severe ligament damage. There will be a looseness in your wrist joint you’ll need to be careful of, and you may experience a loss of function,” the doctor says matter-of-factly. He turns to the cupboard, putting down the clipboard, and removes some items.
Everything sounds more serious here in London, or is it just the accent?
In California I was in the hospital so often with cuts and bruises, a sprained this, a torn that—either from surfing orskateboarding—that the doctors and nurses knew me on a first-name basis. Here it seems extremely clinical.
“You’re going to need to rest your wrist for at least three to five weeks. Ice it regularly with a cool pack and keep it wrapped up with this bandage.” He unravels the bandage, applying it to my wrist.
Three to fiveweeks?
They’re gonna kill me.
The knot in my stomach tightens as the doctor pulls the bandage tight, securing it with the safety clip. A throbbing pulse intensifies in my wrist. But the pain is nothing compared to the tongue-lashing I’m bound to receive from Paul for being so reckless.
The only relief is that Christopher is standing beside me. The fear in his eyes earlier from when he came over to help me up from my fall is still tattooed in my head. The rush to the car, driving at lightning speed to the hospital. The wait to be seen, almost as excruciating as the pain itself. Thankfully, no one here has recognized me. I guess in a large part that’s because the majority of people back in the waiting area were senior citizens.
“I’m going to write you a prescription for some anti-inflammatory tablets,” the doctor says, retrieving his clipboard and removing the pen. “Other than that, you’re good to go.”
“Thanks doc, appreciate your help.”
His pen hovers above the prescription, his brows furrowing at me.
Christopher’s eyes widen as I turn to face him.
Damn.
I slipped back into my own accent. I managed to keep up my British accent the whole time and fell at the last hurdle.
What an idiot.
“Come on, let’s get you out of here,” Christopher says, cutting through the awkward silence. He offers me a hand toslide off the bed as the doctor completes the prescription and hands it to me.
“Thank you for all your help,” Christopher says, turning to the door. He opens it, motioning me forward, as I slide the prescription into the pocket of my hoodie and pull the hood back up over my head. I tighten the drawstrings. Not to hide myself from being recognized, but because the embarrassment is making my whole face blush.
We’ve barely taken ten steps out of the room when a loud voice echoes down the hallway.
“Clear the corridor!” a paramedic shouts.
An emergency unit flies toward us with a stretcher on wheels. A person lies motionless on a gurney in a neck brace, blood splattered across his clothing. Christopher and I jump sideways, backs against the wall, as they charge past us and into the emergency unit.
