Oh, god. What if…
A quick sprint across the hospital roundabout led me straight to the emergency room, where I nearly spun a hospital doc around like a revolving door.
“Whoa, slow down, young lady,” he called to my back. There would be no slowing down. Not until I got to him, until I could see with my own eyes that my flesh and blood had survived.
Coming to a sliding stop at the triage desk in the middle of the lobby, I slapped my hand down on the counter. Through bated breath, I gasped, “Noah Ledger. Where is he?”
The woman put her palm up to slow me down. “First, I’m going to need some information.”
“He was brought in here about an hour ago. Eight years old. Brown hair. Blue eyes. He fell and might have broken something.”
“Yes, I remember him,” she said. “And who are you?”
I straightened, standing strong and proud. That little boy in there was my one all-encompassing truth.
“I’m his mother.”
* * *
The soothing elevator music made me want to crawl out of my skin. My kid was in the hospital. My injured kid. The least they could do was have a little “Crazy Train” blaring out of the speakers. The other three people in the elevator must have sensed my instability because they moved to the side, away from the fidgety mess I’d become. But there would be no apologies or excuses from me. I had reason to be anxious. Noah was all I had. The love of my life. My pride and joy. If I didn’t have him, I didn’t have anyone.
The elevator door opened on floor four, and I came face-to-face with the camp counselor, the man who’d promised me safety but had delivered me back a broken kid.
“Tell me,” I insisted, resisting the urge to slap him across the face.
“Miss Bello,” he said, “Please come sit down.”
Resisting stomping my foot in protest, I replied, “Tell me here.”
He appeared slightly taken aback, but he’d created the situation we were in, so why should he be comfortable? “Of course. First, let me say, I’ve spoken to Noah’s doctor and have been assured he’s going to be all right. Your son fell and broke his arm. They’re keeping him here overnight to monitor him.”
“For a broken arm?”
“No, for a concussion. He hit his head on the ground. And because Noah was complaining of pain and soreness in the upper left part of his belly, the doctors are worried he might have bruised his spleen.”
This kept getting worse and worse, like he was starting with the least horrifying injury and working his way up.
“His spleen? I don’t…I don’t even know what that is.”
“No one does,” the camp director said, and as if responding to a joke, the corner end of a smile threatened to break free. If it made landfall, I’d punch him.
No doubt catching my murderous expression, the man cleared his throat. “Anyway, they don’t think it’s ruptured because his blood pressure is normal and there is no sign of bleeding.”
“Okay. That’s good, right?”
“Yes. Very good.”
I let out the painful breath I’d been holding. And now that I had some assurance my little boy would be okay, the focus shifted to placing blame.
“How could this have happened? Wasn’t anyone watching him?”
“Oh, I assure you, your son was being watched,” the man said with the slightest inflection of amusement in his tone. “But as you know, Noah has a mischievous streak and can be quite the showman. He broke away from the pack during rope-making class, climbed the equipment shed, and told the other boys he could fly…”
My eyes widened. “He didn’t…”
The director nodded. “I’m afraid he did.”
Noah had done this—to himself. Embarrassment spread all the way up through my cheeks.
