Shit.
Guess he’s onto me about the arm thing.
He marches me inside, lifts me under my arms, and plonks me down on the kitchen counter. He pulls my sweater off and carefully examines the damage. I crane my head and twist my arm enough to see a big graze and a small cut just above my elbow. Half an inch at worst.
“Just needs a Band-Aid,” I say. “One of those big rectangular ones.”
Stuart ignores that and gets a massive first aid kit out. He doesn’t charge around looking for it in a blind panic like my mom always used to when I hurt myself as a kid. He knows exactly where it is—in the little cupboard above the fridge. The tin looks new, white with a big red cross on it. I can tell at a glance it’s a fully stocked kit with nary a dried-out
Band-Aid or crusty, expired tube of ointment to be found.
It’s the nerdiest, dad-est thing I’ve ever seen, and God help me, I love it.
He lifts my arm gently and blows on my cut as he sprays three different kinds of disinfectant on it before winding a bandage tightly around my arm from just under my armpit all the way down to my wrist.
“We’re goingstraightto urgent care,” he says.
I grumble as he bundles me into the car and try to argue as he puts my seat belt on for me. “I’mfiiine,” I say several times. He doesn’t reply and keeps driving, exceeding the speed limit by two miles an hour. A record for him. “Look, Stuart, I’ve fallen a lot. I can tell the difference between a cut that heals on its own and one that needs stitches.”
“Thought you said you have excellent balance,” he says dryly.
“I do,” I reply calmly. “When I’m sober.”
He keeps his eyes on the road and lifts his left hand, a rare departure from the usual ten and two position, and pinches the bridge of his nose hard.
Nerves start to flutter and grow unpleasant when we get to urgent care. It’s one of those overly square buildings with too few windows. Blockish and ugly, painted a horrible peach color. I hate it, and before I even step inside, I know I’m going to hate the way it smells too. Too clean. Too impersonal. Like sticky hand sanitizer and blue latex gloves.
Stuart takes my good hand firmly and leads me inside. It smells exactly how I thought it would, but worse. Everything’s blue-white with hints of gray, and there are large fake plants all over the place. No idea why. It doesn’t make it feel any better. It’s not like anyone’s going to turn up here bleeding and sick and see a bunch of plastic plants and be fooled into thinking they’re on a tropical island.
I cower behind Stuart as we approach the woman at reception. This is exactly the kind of shit I hate. She’s going to have a fuckton of questions, I know it, and I’m not going to know most of the answers.
As it turns out, I don’t need to worry. Stuart answers all her questions for me, right down to my insurance details and social security number. Say what you will about him, but when the man does an audit of a person’s finances, he’s thorough. When he’s filled in reams of forms and gotten me to sign the last page, he hands them back to the receptionist and says, “Do you know how long it will be before someone can see him? He’s in a lot of pain.”
“Oh, the poor thing,” she says, clearly well and truly charmed by Stuart, and I can’t say I blame her. “Let me see what I can do for you.”
With that, she’s gone and back less than a minute later with a bespectacled doctor in tow. I’m flat on my back on a rock-hard gurney before I have time to run for the door.
“As you can see, it’s a nasty cut,” says Stuart. “I think he needs stitches.”
“I’m fine, really. It’s one of those things that will easily heal on its own,” I say. “I can tell. Definitely don’t think it needs stitches. I’m kind of an expert on things that need stitches. I’ve had a lot. Got some on my knee and some under my chin. Actually, got them under my chin twice. Look, here and here.” I tilt my head back and point. “I was what the stay-at-home moms in Carmel used to call a frequent flier in the ER when I was a kid.”
Yes, yes, I know I’m oversharing. No need to tell me. I’m well aware, thanks.
This is Oversharing Gould, in case you can’t piece it together.
Still, the point is I definitely don’t need stitches.
I’d bet my life on it.
“Hmm,” says the doctor. “It’s a small cut, but it’s deep. Three or four stiches, and you’ll be right as rain.”
Of course she’s going to side with Stuart. Have you seen the man?
I haven’t been in urgent care in a while on account of avoiding the place with my life, but the familiar churn of dread reminds me that I haven’t missed it at all. The doctor leaves the room to fetch something else to add to her tray of torture equipment, and before I have time to beg Stuart to take me home, he leans over and brushes my hair out of my face. He strokes my cheek with the back of his hand.
“Don’t be scared, baby,” he whispers. “Daddy’s here.”
We’re back home, and I’m on the sofa propped up on so many pillows I can barely move. I have two throw blankets over my legs. Sadie is curled up beside me, and Stuart has pulled a small table up to the sofa, right near my good hand. It’s laden with chocolates and chips, a glass of water, and a half-empty smoothie cup from Tumeric.
