by Betsy Ashton
“Ready, Max?”
“Yes.”
“Ready, Alex?”
Alex nodded, sucked in a breath, and held it. I followed his lead and held my breath, too. Johnny knelt at Alex’s feet and held the ankle between his large hands. He gently pulled it toward him.
I watched the bone slide under the skin, gulped, and whispered, “Johnny put the bone back in place.”
Blood oozed from the slit in Alex’s shin. Johnny swabbed the wound with more alcohol. Alex barely flinched. Johnny laid a thick gauze pad over the tear, taped it in place, and fashioned a splint out of fallen branches. He wrapped an Ace bandage around the leg and sat back. Sweat ran down his face. He wiped it on his sleeve and scanned the sky.
“Where did you learn to do that?”
“In the Army. I was a medic.”
“A medic? You’re too young to have been in Vietnam. Where were you stationed?”
“Panama. We had lots of stupid kids fall off motorcycles and break legs. Some troops had bullet wounds, too. I learned to set bones, suture gaping wounds, and keep soldiers with concussions quiet.”
How odd that I didn’t know that.
Johnny stood and retrieved his hat. He replaced the depleted first-aid kit in his saddlebags and squinted south, back the way we came, probably watching for dust swirls from the ambulance.
Before long, I heard an unnatural sound. I too looked south. And up.
Thwapita, thwapita, thwapita.
A blue-and-white Medivac helicopter sporting a stylized sun logo flew straight toward us, covering the distance in seconds. It circled once before hovering over our little tableau, and threw up a cloud of grit and debris when it landed a few hundred yards away.
“Figured you could afford the helicopter.” Johnny flashed his lopsided grin. If the situation weren’t so serious, I’d have punched his shoulder. Instead, I smiled and gathered Alex’s boots.
“Don’t forget the fossil I found.” Alex’s voice was breathy, but loud enough for me to hear. He pointed toward a black rock with something embedded in it. His hand fell back on the ground as he gasped.
“This?” I held it up. “It looks like a cockroach.”
“It’s a trilobite,” Johnny said. I tucked the fossil into my pocket. I didn’t care what Johnny called it. It looked like a cockroach.
Two medics ran up. While the younger one fired questions at us, the other took Alex’s blood pressure. He called out numbers; the younger EMT made notes. I turned to Johnny for assurance that they knew what they were doing. He squeezed my shoulder.
Some questions we could answer, others we couldn’t. I didn’t know if Alex hit his head. We knew he couldn’t talk when I first reached him, but that could have been from having the wind knocked out of him. Or he could have been unconscious with a concussion. One medic fastened a neck collar to stabilize his head.
“Just in case, ma’am.”
I nodded. The younger medic unwrapped the Ace bandage and peeked under the gauze. He whistled when he saw Johnny’s work and looked up, questions unasked.
“Army medic,” Johnny said simply. He gave the medics a thorough, professional update on Alex’s condition. The medics fetched a gurney, strapped Alex onto it, and pushed him toward the helicopter.
Johnny put his arm around my shoulders and kissed the top of my head. I leaned into him as we hurried behind Alex. “Go with him, Max. I’ll join you when I can. I have to take the horses home first.”
“Bring my handbag when you come, will you? It has Alex’s insurance card in it.”
“He’ll be all right.” He gave my shoulder another reassuring squeeze and half-lifted me into the helicopter. I grasped the hand of the older EMT, who helped me to a jump seat. The pilot revved the motor. Johnny stepped out of the rotor wash and turned his back, hand on hat, as the younger medic shut the door. The helicopter lifted, a cloud of dust hiding Johnny from sight. The racket of the helicopter and smell of hot engine oil replaced nature’s tranquility, the clean smells of horses and greasewood. The older medic handed me a headset to communicate as he monitored Alex’s vital signs.
Alex lay still, his skin grayish and clammy.
“Is he unconscious?” I asked.
“No, ma’am,” said the older medic.
“I asked because he should be peppering you with a million questions about what’s happening, about the helicopter, and if he’ll have a cast.”
“Oh, he’ll have a cast. It’s better if he doesn’t talk. Don’t worry. He’s in good hands.”
“Where are we going?’
“Our base is the hospital on the San Felipe reservation. It’s the nearest emergency room.”
“Is it any good? I mean, can’t you take us as far as Albuquerque?”
“Ma’am, we may be Native Americans, but our health care is top notch,” he answered.
“I didn’t mean it like that. I’m a city girl, so I thought a bigger hospital might be better equipped. That’s why I asked.” My face flamed from embarrassment.
“Well, ma’am, your tax dollars built the Indian Health Service to provide health care to Native Americans. San Felipe is state of the art. Your son—”
“Thank you, but he’s my grandson.”
“Your grandson will be fine. I take my kids there. So does Bill, here. And Martin, our pilot.”
Bill, the younger medic grinned. “We fix broken legs all the time. We’ve even been known to fix a couple of horses with broken legs. Your grandson’s will be a piece of cake. After all, he can’t kick us like horses can.”
I wanted to feel better about going to the local hospital, but I couldn’t. I tried to keep my tone light. “I’ve known Captain Chaos to hit, but I’ve never seen him kick anyone. You should be safe.”
“Good. Rumor has it that some of our doctors actually went to medical school.” Bill smiled wickedly at me. I nodded and shut up.
I sat in the jump seat and tried to force some tension from my back and shoulders. I could do nothing for the moment except mentally prepare for Alex’s next steps. He seemed to be in good hands.
Below, the land rolled away, leaving Johnny and the horses far behind. In less than half an hour, the roar of the rotors changed. The pilot checked our airspeed and circled. With a tiny bump, he set us down at a heliport adjacent to the hospital we’d passed on the way to Navajo Springs. I was going to see the inside whether I liked it or not.
The EMTs offloaded the gurney, and nurses and orderlies wheeled Alex through the desert heat and double doors marked Emergency. I followed them at a slightly slower pace. My back ached from the uncomfortable jump seat, and my butt was sore from hours in a saddle. A blast of air-conditioning hit me. The team moved Alex into the examination area, where they closed the curtains. In seconds, the EMTs were pushing the empty gurney out of the emergency room and waving at me. I nodded and mouthed “Thank you.” I’d call Whip once we were inside.
The pocket of my jacket vibrated. Two text messages.
One from Ducks, our so-very-British home-school teacher: What happened to Alex?
One from Emilie: He’ll be all right.
I sent twin texts before sagging in relief. My two spooky watchdogs were on duty.
CHAPTER FOUR
A HOSPITAL ADMINISTRATOR approached. “Right this way. We’ll take care of your son.”
“Grandson.” Son! Do I really look young enough to have a thirteen-year-old son? No way. Perhaps the administrator was being polite.
“I’m sorry. I assumed. At any rate, you need to meet with our admissions clerk to get him registered.”
She led me to one chair beside of an opaque, plexiglass partition. The clerk asked about as many questions as Alex did. I recited every detail of his health for the three years I’d been a daily part of his life.
No, no previous broken bones.
Yes, he’s current on his vaccinations.
Yes, even tetanus. We made certain he was protected when he, his father, and his sister went to Peru a couple of y
ears back.
No, no known serious illnesses.
Yes, he’d run the gamut of childhood illnesses: measles, mumps, and chickenpox. No, no chronic illness like asthma.
No, no family history of cancer, heart disease, pulmonary problems.
And then came the tricky part. The clerk asked for Alex’s insurance card, which was in my handbag. On the sofa in the living room at the ranch.
“I didn’t take our ID with us on the trail ride, so I don’t have it. My friend Johnny will bring it as soon as he gets back to his brother’s ranch. Will that be acceptable?” I asked.
“Don’t worry. People come in all the time without their insurance cards. When do you think your friend will get here?”
I explained about the horses, how far up the trail we were, how far we drove from the ranch. “Johnny will have to walk the horses down that trail, so he said he’ll need two hours just to get back to the trailer.”
I stared at the clerk when she laughed.
“I live out that way,” she explained. “I’ve ridden that trail since I was a kid. I can judge times and distances like birds can find their navigation routes. He’ll need more time than he estimated if he’s leading a pair of horses. What’s the rest of your friend’s name?”
“Johnny Medina.”
“Richie Medina’s younger brother?”
“Yes.”
“I used to have the biggest crush on him in high school. He was the cutest guy.”
“He still is,” I said.
“We never dated, but hey, a girl can dream, can’t she?” The woman, who was no longer a girl, grinned and winked. “Let’s give him three hours. That, plus rush hour traffic, and he should get here around seven, maybe eight.”
“Rush hour?”
“There’s a plant about seven miles south. It lets out at four-thirty, so he’ll get caught in the backup, likely as not.” She clicked her mouse a few times. “Come back to me when Johnny arrives. I’d like to see him again.”
“Can I go to my grandson now?”
“Down the hall and to your right. Follow the red arrows to the emergency room.”
In the examination area, a nurse pulled the curtain aside when I approached.
“Mrs. Pugh?”
Mrs. Pugh? Alex must have told them his name.
“No, I’m Mrs. Davies, Alex’s grandmother. How’s he doing?”
His face washed clean, his wiry, gawky body in a hospital gown, and a tent over his broken leg to support the blankets, he was pale but no longer gray-tinged.
“I’m okay, Mad Max. I’m not cold anymore.”
I touched the oven-warmed blankets. Merry had similar ones during her coma. I held Alex’s hand. Sure enough, his normal body temperature had returned.
“Now that you’re here, we can take him to surgery. You can have a few minutes.”
“Did you check him for a concussion?” I didn’t worry about the bones, but after Merry’s brain injury, I prayed—to a god I was no longer sure I believed in—that Alex had no such problem.
“The emergency room doctor doesn’t think he has one. Alex passed all the tests and doesn’t remember hitting his head. He hit his chest when he fell off the ledge. He thinks he hit the ground flat on his face and knocked the wind out.”
“I didn’t see him land, but from what I observed when I found him, he’s probably right.”
“He was lucky. A concussion could have complicated the operation. Follow me. You can stay in the waiting room outside of surgery until Dr. Running Bear comes out.”
“What kind of a doctor is he?” I put my hand on the nurse’s arm. I wanted an orthopedic surgeon.
“He happens to be a really good doctor who will fix your grandson.” The nurse grinned before she left the curtained-off area.
Alex beckoned me over. He smiled through the pain. “What’s going to happen to my vacation?”
I smoothed his hair. “Let’s get that leg fixed. We’ll ask Uncle Johnny for a rain check.”
Alex stuck his tongue out. I laughed and stuck mine out too.
“When did he last eat?” the nurse asked as she returned with an orderly, who moved to the bed and unlocked the wheels.
I glanced at my watch. “About three hours ago. Why?”
“If he gets sick, we don’t want him aspirating vomit into his lungs.”
Yuck!
“Let’s see. He had a sandwich around twelve-thirty, along with a bottle of water and an apple. Nothing else.”
“I ate three cookies,” Alex corrected me.
“Three?” I demanded.
Alex grinned. “Yup.”
“He should be all right. I’ll call up to let the anesthesiologist know,” the nurse said.
So many moving parts. I’d had no reason to think about the risk of surgery on a full stomach for a long time.
“You didn’t answer my question about Dr. Running Bear,” I said.
“Why don’t you ask him when you meet him?”
The orderly pushed the bed along a tiled corridor, adobe-tan walls painted with colorful murals of children playing against a sweeping panorama. They served their purpose; they soothed me as I followed Alex’s bed to the elevator.
We exited the elevator into the surgical area. No peaceful paintings here. Nothing but plain, tan walls and a pair of heavy doors marked Surgery in red. The squeak of one off-kilter wheel brought back an unpleasant memory of the first time I saw Merry after her accident. She too was on a gurney, but so heavily bandaged that I didn’t recognize her.
“Why don’t you wait in there?” the orderly suggested, nodding toward the surgical waiting room. He swung his hip at a pad on the wall. “You can’t go any further.”
Alex disappeared. I carried his now-scuffed boots and a plastic bag with his clothes into the waiting room. A man in sky-blue surgical scrubs stood at a window, watching the lowering sun, his hands clasped behind his back.
“I love sunrises and sunsets. Don’t you?” he asked.
“Yes, the promise of a new day and the promise fulfilled at day’s end have special power.” I dropped the bag and boots before standing next to him. The slanting rays tinted my face pinky-orange and his, a deeper, golden tan.
“I never tire of this view. The mountains hold such mystery.” He didn’t turn his head.
“I just got here, and already I’m in love with the land.”
“Once it takes hold of you, it doesn’t easily let go.” The man finally turned and held out a hand. “I’m Dr. Running Bear.”
“Maxine Davies.”
Tall and lean, with high cheekbones and a hawk-like nose, he wore blue booties and a cap over his hair. He walked me through what he was going to do.
“All routine, Mrs. Davies. The procedure would take roughly two, maybe two and a half hours.”
“I asked the nurse about your specialty, but she said to ask you. I know you’re going to operate on Alex, but with all due respect, I need to be assured that you’re the best, not just the best on duty.” As soon as the words left my mouth, red replaced pinky-orange. Even though I had a right to question the man operating on Captain Chaos, I could have been more tactful. I started to apologize when Dr. Running Bear held up a hand.
“If it will make you feel more comfortable, Mrs. Davies, I studied pre-med at the University of New Mexico, medicine at University of Arizona, and trained in general surgery at UCLA. I’ve fixed over a thousand broken legs, so you have nothing to worry about.”
“Thank you. I didn’t mean to sound like I was vetting you.”
“You were, though. I’d do the same if I had a child in a strange hospital. Anyway, he should be in recovery in a couple of hours. Are you going to wait here?”
I nodded. I had no place to go and no means of getting anywhere, and nothing could drag me away from Alex. The doctor gave me a reassuring smile, slapped the door pad, and walked into the surgical unit. I decided to go downstairs to find the cafeteria and get coffee, much as I had when Merry was critically
injured. At least I wasn’t worried about Alex’s chances of survival.
I asked a passing orderly for directions to the cafeteria.
“Follow the green feet decals.”
I did as instructed and entered a quiet, nearly empty room filled with brightly-colored chairs and tables. Wrapped food items lay on trays or were stacked in refrigerators. I saw healthy snacks, drinks, and the all-important, never-empty pot of coffee. No one was on duty at the cash register, but a couple of nurses came in and told me how the cafeteria worked outside mealtime.
“We’re on the honor system. Everything has a price on it. Just toss money in the jar next to the register.”
I picked out a carton of raspberry yogurt (seventy-five cents) and a cup of coffee (one dollar). I reached for my handbag, only to remember I didn’t have it. Oh well. I’d feed the jar after Johnny returned. I sat beside a window. The sun filled the room with warmth and light. For several minutes, I stared out at the landscape and emptied my mind. Then I closed my eyes and listened.
Every hospital had its own rhythms, its own voice, and yet all hospitals were essentially the same. People came to get treated. Some were born; others died. Hospitals encapsulated the cycle of life within their walls.
This one felt safe. Nurses and orderlies squished in and out on rubber soles; snippets of conversation floated my way; sudden bursts of laughter rang out; refrigerator compressors clicked on and off; overhead lights whispered in their own secret language.
But I couldn’t sit idly when I had calls to make. I finished my yogurt, topped off my coffee, and called Whip, who answered on the first buzz.
He and Emilie were home in their Richmond townhouse, on a break from the construction project in Mississippi, now approaching its third year. It took me a few minutes to fill him on the fall, the break, and the surgery.
“I knew something was wrong, because Em’s in her secret place.”
Whip had finally accepted Emilie’s special gift, even though he didn’t understand it. Neither did I. When she was tuning in on someone’s feelings, when she was putting her empathic gift to work, we called it going to her “secret”—or “special”—place. She retreated into herself, meditated, and invited what she was feeling from others to tell her what was going on.
