“Collided with the pavement. I’m just going to patch him up,” I tell her, marching quickly through to my office without acknowledging anyone sitting in the waiting room.
“Okay, Maxy, I’m going to set you on the bed,” I say and carefully deposit him on the cold metal surface.
The blood has finally clotted when I remove the napkin, and on first observation, I suspect the blood all over his face makes it look like a far worse injury than it actually is. His nose still appears straight, if a little bruised. With three brothers, I have enough experience to recognize a broken nose.
I go about fetching antibacterial wipes and cotton strips, then fill a small bowl with warm water. I’m not a doctor, so there aren’t the usual implements one would normally find there. If it’s truly broken, we’ll have to make another trip.
“The bleeding has stopped, buddy, so I’m going to clean your face up, and we’ll make sure it doesn’t start again.”
Max gives one sad nod as I get to work. “You know, I fell over once when I was a few years older than you, and I broke my arm. It hurt so much . . .”
Max nods again and tries to sniff, but it’s clearly painful, given the tears that well in his big blue eyes.
“And Auntie Clemmie always used to bang into something. Not to mention Uncle Miles fell off his ponyso many times when he was younger. He still does?—”
“He was in hospital?”
I nod. It’s not that Max would remember what happened because he was too little, but we’ve talked about it enough that he knows Miles was in hospital after a nasty accident. “He sure was. That was so scary.”
Scary is an understatement.
A couple of years ago, during a polo match between England and America, Miles almost died from a dangerous collision. He was placed in an induced coma for twenty-four hours to reduce the swelling in his brain, and I never left his bedside.
Miles, being Miles, made a full recovery, in no small part helped by the army of doctors and nurses who flocked around him, attending to his every need.
It took six months before the doctors would sign him off to ride again, and another six months of hard rehab and training to get him back to the level he had been at. For the past year, Miles has been more focused and determined than I’ve ever seen him. I’m certain heads will roll if he’s not back up to ten in the summer.
Santiago Torres, the American player who caused the accident, was banned from playing polo for two years.
“Did Uncle Miles cry?”
I nod, remembering how I held him while he sobbed on my shoulder after the surgeon told him he’d be in rehab for months. “Yes, he did.”
“Did you cry when you fell over?”
“I also cried, yes.”
“Who made you feel better?”
My memory flits back to the time he’s referringto, playing in the fields above Honeysuckle Lane and rolling down the hill. It’s where we always met up. Racing each other until our lungs were bursting, sweat dripped down our backs, and we cried laughing.
“Probably Granny,” I reply, picking up a fresh cloth and taking a second pass of Max’s face.
I gently clean around his nose and stuff two cotton balls into his nostrils to ensure it’s fully clotted. He winces when I run my finger down the bridge, squeezing gently along the cartilage, but I stand in my assessment.
“It’s not broken, bud. Just a little bruising.”
“Does that mean we can get a hot chocolate?”
Suppressing a smile, I keep my nod as solemn as his tone. “I think we can manage a hot chocolate.”
“And another flapjack?”
“You got it.”
Tidying my office up as quickly as possible, and wiping us both as clean as we’re going to get under the circumstances, we leave as we arrived. Quickly.
And once Max is holding a hot chocolate along with a flapjack, which he dunks inside, it’s like nothing happened.
