Page 7 of Wildflowers and Wide Receivers

“What kind of shoes were you wearing?”

“White tennis shoes. Those.” She points at the pair on the floor.

Moving to the small desk next to the sink, I lean against the edge to put as much distance from Jonah and me as possible. Glancing down at the chart details, I look at her extracurricular activities. “It says here that you’re a dancer.”

“I am.” She sits a little taller and tilts her head, almost in defiance.

Interesting. Most little girls by this age tend to be in dance because their parents tell them they should be. It’s routine more than a passion, but I see that’s not the case here.

“Did you perhaps roll your ankle or injure a leg muscle this week that might have contributed to falling?”

“No,” she says, her back now arching in defeat.

Jonah’s head is yo-yoing back and forth between the two of us. His blond hair curls out from under the edge of the hat. I hate that I notice that detail.

“Okay. So just a freak random trip, then?” I ask her.

She nods her head. “Yes.”

“Hmm.” Sitting at the desk, I pull up her X-ray films, which she had taken before I came in, and review the radiologist’s notes even though I already know what they are going to say. There’s a monitor for the patients to see the images, but I don’t take the time to explain anything. Instead, this gives me a minute to breathe and collect myself even though I know both of them are staring at the back of me.

Taking a deep breath, I move back to the examination table. The poor little girl is so tense, I think about how to best explain what is going on in words she’ll understand. I glance at Jonah, who’s intently watching me, and look away as quickly as possible. Butterflies awaken inside me and stretch their wings.

I hate that I react this way to him.

“Currently, which I think you’re probably hoping for, your ankle presents as a sprain. But do you see the swelling here?” I point toward the bottom of her leg. “This bone is the fibula or the calf bone, and right here, where the tenderness and the bruising is, is a growth plate. Often, fractures of the growth plate don’t show up on an X-ray, but given the location, the bruise coming in, and the symptoms, it’s safe to assume there is a fracture, so we’ll treat it as such. We can do advanced imaging if you’d like, but the course of treatment and therapy will be the same.”

“And what is that?” Vivi asks; her hands are clenched tight into fists by her side.

“I’m thinking you look pretty responsible and can be trusted to use a walking boot instead of being placed in a cast.”

“But I don’t want to wear that!” She turns to Jonah, panicked.

He steps closer to her, which means closer to me. Internally, I’m reeling. Then he places a hand on her good leg, and flashbacks of those hands on me flip through my mind: on my lower back when we danced, on my stomach as he slid it across my bare skin, and how he gently wrapped them around my head as he brought his mouth to mine.

Another blush burns through my cheeks, and I blink to clear the images and bring myself back into this room.

“Vivi,” I call to get her attention. She looks at me, and big tears are floating in her eyes. “If we don’t treat it and it gets worse, there could be long-term damage, such as growth arrest, where the bone stops growing.”

“What does that mean?” she asks.

“What do you think it means?” In school, we are taught that with adults, it’s easiest if you just state the obvious, but with kids, the outcome is easier to absorb if they tell you what is happening. It makes them feel more in control of the situation and the diagnosis easier to swallow.

“One leg would be longer than the other?”

“It’s possible.” I nod.

She frowns and looks down at her legs. Jonah and I both watch as she wiggles her hips, stretching her legs as far as they will go, and she points her toes on her uninjured leg.

“Do either of you have any questions?” I ask.

Jonah shakes his head, but Vivi asks, “How long will I have to wear it?”

“Six weeks,” I tell her, and those large tears start to drop.

Jonah, sensing her distress, moves closer to her, wraps her in his arms, and she turns to bury her face in his chest. I hate it when they cry, and this little girl is breaking my heart. At this moment, any looks he might have been giving me stop. He is fully committed to consoling the broken child in his arms.

“Well, someone will be right in to get her fitted. If you think of any questions, if her ankle gets worse, or if you need anything, please don’t hesitate to call the office. Otherwise, I’ll see you in six weeks.”