by Nick Lake
—& something in my shin snaps—
pop.
i hit the soft grass-cushioned ground but even so it knocks the breath from me for a second, which is the only moment when i’m not screaming, my screaming otherwise populating the air with sound, tearing it, rending it.
i lie there, & i scream.
i hear Grandpa skidding to a halt beside me, calling my name. i hear Comet barking with frustration, as the calf gets away from him, at least i assume. all i can c is the blue sky above me, a few snowflakes drifting down, landing cold on my face.
i have metaphors now, i think, & my thoughts have the tone & color of screaming.
i have metaphors & i have similes.
i am no longer a space man.
i know what it sounded like when my lower leg broke, pouring lava of pain into the whole limb, seeming to crack not just a part of me but my whole world, & i suppose in the end the world is what i experience, so that makes sense; i exist phenomenologically & now both i & the world have broken—
with the sound—
the exact sound—
of a dry twig, snapping.
it’s 1 of my first nights at the ranch.
Grandpa wakes me—it’s full dark outside, no moon.
“what’s up?” i say.
“come on,” he says. “meteor shower.”
he takes me out onto the porch, then lowers me into the rocking chair. there is a little table & on it he has already put 2 steaming mugs of hot chocolate, with marshmallows floating in them.
he drags over a kitchen chair & sits in it, next to me.
we look up at the sky. as my eyes adjust, stars start to appear in the gaps between brighter stars, until the sky is a milky profusion of millions of stars, shining ice-bright in the darkness.
“there,” says Grandpa. he points.
i look. a streak of light across the sky.
“there.”
another.
another.
little sparking bolts across the darkness, as meteorites burn up in the atmosphere.
“make a wish,” says Grandpa.
i do.
we sit in silence for a while, watching. every few minutes a shooting star gleams into being, the movement making us turn to it. the air is cold: Grandpa gets a blanket & spreads it over my legs. i drink the hot chocolate. it is warm & sweet & the marshmallows have half melted into it: it is 1 of the many wonders of the earth.
so why is it that when i c the planets & stars above me, the glowing firmament, the heavens, it makes me feel something tight in my chest, something that feels like homesickness?
i lean back & rock slightly in the chair. i am looking up at that incalculable expanse of stars.
“u ever wanted to go back up there?” i say to Grandpa.
he shakes his head. “no. & u?”
“no,” i lie.
& i don’t tell him what i wished for.
i don’t know why not.
i just don’t think he’d like it—i don’t think he wants me to do what he & my mom did. i think he wants me to do what he’s doing now—take the ranch, keep it going. he doesn’t want me doing flight training, reading up on astrophysics, entering the air force.
anyway. i think about that night, as i close my eyes & the pain of my broken leg soaks me, immerses me.
because now i’m not going to be learning to fly any time soon, am i?
there’s no point calling an ambulance to the ranch, so Grandpa drives me to the hospital in the pickup.
it goes:
noise of engine
pain from leg
frames of sky thru the window
pain from leg
jolting of ruts & bumps
pain from leg
with always the pain underneath everything: i can feel the bone pressing into my flesh, from the inside. things are not where they are meant to be, within my body, & it is awful.
Comet, barking in alarm.
pain from leg.
i sit a little, & find that i’m lying across the rear bench seat of the truck, not strapped in. i’m still wearing my jeans but i make the mistake of looking down & c that my ankle & foot are jutting up at an obscene angle. i don’t remember getting here. Comet is standing in the footwell below me, scrabbling for balance as the car bounces along the road. Grandpa must have gotten him back from the trail of the calf.
“i’m sorry,” says Grandpa. “i’m so sorry.”
“why?” i gasp.
“my fault,” he says. “i wasn’t thinking. just freaked out about the calf. i’m sorry. i’m sorry.”
i’m confused & mixed up & i don’t really understand what he’s apologizing for. i tune it out.
i reach down & get my hands under Comet’s front legs & lift him onto me. he quiets immediately, his barking fading to a low whine, & he presses himself into me.
i hold on to his warmth, his beating heart.
after some unknowable time we arrive, & Grandpa leaves the car to get the paramedics, who come out & lift me onto a gurney. they try to take Comet away but i won’t let them & he won’t either for that matter; he bares his teeth & growls, low.
so Comet rides with me on the gurney, & Grandpa walks beside us, into a low brick building & a succession of cool hallways, uniformly white, smelling of something strong that i presume is for disinfecting, an acrid smell that gets into my nostrils. the men in green push me into a waiting room, lots of green plastic chairs in rows, bolted to the floor.
there are a few people, scattered on the chairs, trying to sit as far away from each other as they can, it seems. some ashen-faced. some with bandages.
there’s a big screen on the wall. a ticker tape runs along the bottom. some kind of news show. i do a double take.
there, on the screen: it looks like Dr. Stearns, in a studio, talking to a man in a suit. on the crawling banner at the bottom the words:
CONSPIRACY THEORISTS CONTINUE TO QU—
but then i hear Grandpa’s voice & notice that he is over at a little counter with a sliding glass partition; there’s a sign next to it saying WAIT HERE FOR TRIAGE. he says something i can’t hear.
i turn back to the screen & it’s off, just black—an image of deep space.
huh.
maybe it wasn’t Dr. Stearns, i think. just someone who looks like him.
yeah, i think. that’s likely. there’s something going on & it increasingly looks like it involves me & Libra & Orion, but the pain in my leg is kind of more in the foreground of my mind right now.
we roll to a room with an x-ray machine & a curtain on rings that they can pull around to give privacy. first the paramedics check me over: they take my blood pressure, my heart rate, my oxygen saturation levels. they make notes on a screen.
then a few minutes later a Dr. in a white coat comes & leans down to me. he is not old but not young, maybe 30.
“i’m Dr. Kohli,” he says. “& u’re Leo, right?”
i nod.
“& this is ur dog?”
another nod.
“he’s cute.”
he’s a cattle dog in training, i think. he’s smart & can turn on a whistle & fetch a wayward calf in from the back field. at least he will be able to.
the Dr. turns to Grandpa. “what happened?”
“the dog bolted after a calf. Leo here ran after him…i made him do it, i guess…& his foot went in a rabbit hole.”
oh. so it was the rabbit hole.
“ouch,” says the Dr. “that’ll do it. any existing medical conditions i should know about? allergies, blood pressure, heart disease?”
“no,” i say.
“he—” starts Grandpa. then he falls silent.
“what’s that?” says the Dr.
“nothing,” says Grandpa.
“ok, well,” says Dr. Kohli. “i’m going to need to do an external examination first, ok?” he doesn’t wait for an answer, just calls for a nurse, & a short woman with a kind smile comes over & they cut open my jeans &
i feel a pressing on my leg as he moves his fingers down it.
i gasp.
“sorry. nearly done.”
he hums to himself. he says things to the nurse like closed fracture; minimal swelling; circulation appears normal. she is making notes all the time on a screen.
Dr. Kohli moves up to my head level again & looks down at me. “i’m going to x-ray ur leg now, ok? it’s pretty clearly fractured but i want to assess the damage accurately so we can identify the next steps.”
“ok,” i say.
“we’re also going to get u some pain relief,” he says.
“that…would be good.”
“i’m sure.”
he instructs the nurse on what amount of painkiller to inject into me & i’m not really paying attention because i just want it & i want it now.
then she leans down & i feel a scratch on my arm & almost immediately warm water seems to flood my body, a bath inside me, filling me to the brim, & the raging pain in my leg lessens, as if by some magic trick. Comet kind of sighs & softens into me: it’s like he has felt the pain go out of me & is glad.
i realize he is snoring.
the Dr. swings the screen of the x-ray around on its white elbowed arm & takes images of my leg, occasionally saying things like oblique fracture, tibia, & fibula to the nurse, who is taking notes.
i notice that he is looking at the screen for quite a long time. he is sucking in air thru his teeth, like people do without knowing, when they’re thinking. he turns to Grandpa.
“ur son—”
“grandson,” corrects Grandpa.
“sorry, grandson. u said he had no medical conditions?”
“no,” says Grandpa.
“because this bone density…” he trails off. “i want to do some more tests.”
i am fuzzy from the drugs, & my body is not entirely confined in space. i blur at the edges. but i catch his tone. “what’s wrong with me?” i say.
“i don’t know that there’s anything wrong…” says the Dr. “it’s just…”
Grandpa is standing, staring at him.
“ur bones are more fragile than i would expect in someone ur age…like i say, i would want to do some more tests. bring in a specialist.”
“& the break?” says Grandpa. it’s as if he wants to change the subject.
the Dr. nods. “that’s more straightforward. simple fracture of both bones, should mend pretty easily if we inject stem cells & cell-signaling proteins as well as splinting. the quicker we start & get Leo’s leg stabilized, the better; i don’t want any swelling to damage the muscle.”
“but u’re confident about setting the break?” says Grandpa.
“yes,” says Dr. Kohli. “it’s amazing what the cell injections can do. & without wishing to brag, i’m 1 of the best at this kind of injury.” he smiles. “a lot of skiers in these parts. i’m going to have to be careful given the…weakness…of the bones. but the good news is that we can have him patched up pretty quickly. then…”
“then what?” says Grandpa.
the Dr. kind of inclines his head toward me & then walks a little distance away with Grandpa, twitching aside the curtain that surrounds me so that they leave my little cocoon. i hear Grandpa & the Dr. talking in hushed tones.
“ok,” says the Dr. “let’s go.”
he opens the curtain again. he takes a screen from the nurse & hands it over to my grandpa. “consent form,” he says. “it’s pro forma. the usual risks, painkiller prescriptions, etc.” he indicates some places on the screen. “sign here. & here.”
Grandpa signs.
“the dog is going to have to go with u, Mr. Freeman, i’m afraid,” says the Dr. Comet is still curled up asleep on top of me.
“oh,” i say. “can’t he stay with me?” the words come out a little squished, as if the drugs have softened them inside me, soaked them, & now they are crumbling.
“i’m sorry,” says Dr. Kohli. “it’s a sterile environment.”
i sigh.
Grandpa lifts Comet gently—he wakes, & yips.
“bye, Comet,” i say.
he barks. i know i was chasing him. but it wasn’t his fault.
Dr. Kohli is looking thoughtful. “wait,” he says, turning to Grandpa. “the Robert Freeman?”
Grandpa nods.
“the Robert Freeman who was the last man on the moon? wait. yes. i recognize u! but u had a beard then.”
“yes.”
Dr. Kohli whistles. “i had a photo of u on my wall when i was a kid,” he says. “u were on The Tonight Show! & u signed my book at the stage door. i always wanted to be an astronaut. but i ended up fixing bones instead.”
“well,” says Grandpa. “if u’re as good as u say u are, then i’m glad.”
men in green reappear, & the nurse is alongside me & Dr. Kohli too, & we go down white hallways with a green channel running along the middle of the wall & thru swinging doors & into a very bright room with lights in the ceiling & big white machines & stands with implements on them. the metal smell of disinfectant is even stronger in here.
there’s another Dr. already there, an oldish man with a white beard & piercings all up 1 ear & thru 1 eyebrow. he is wearing green eye shadow that matches his eyes—Dr. Kohli isn’t wearing any makeup at all, i realize.
Dr. Kohli greets the other Dr. & they discuss something together; Dr. Kohli mentions my painkiller, & then the 1 with the beard comes up to the head end of my gurney & smiles down at me. “i’m going to put a mask over ur face, Leo,” he says. “& i want u to count down from 10 for me. can u do that?”
“yes,” i say. i notice he has a bolt thru his tongue too.
the Dr. presses, gently, a plastic thing over my face.
i count down.
10.
9.
8.
then i feel sleep fire its rockets & propel me: inverse launch, not into the sky, not into the ceiling but downward; it fires me into the bed. i accelerate down, & i understand for the first time why it is called falling asleep. on the space station, sleep is all around & u can access it in any direction; on earth, sleep is something that is below u.
i fall…
& i’m in the blackness of space.
i have fallen off the earth.
the room coalesces around me.
i c light coming thru windows, slanted, bright, sliced by blinds. the walls are green. on 1 of them is that famous painting of sunflowers. i’m on a bed & there’s a chair in the corner—Grandpa is sitting on it. my mother is standing over him, talking to him. he is moving his hands a lot. i realize it was their voices that woke me.
i don’t move.
“…thought u’d have learned ur lesson about pushing people too hard,” says my mother.
“i said i was sorry,” says Grandpa. “told him that too.”
“anything else u told him?”
“no,” says Grandpa.
“good. i don’t want u going too fast with anything else. rushing anything.”
“u don’t think he should know?” says Grandpa.
“oh, & how do u propose telling him?” replies my mother.
“we won’t need to, if this Dr.—”
then he looks at me, & this is a man whose eyes have been honed by years as a pilot & astronaut, & just as many years scanning distant horizons for cattle. he falls silent & stands, then walks over to my bedside.
“hey, champ,” he says.
“hey,” i say. what am i meant to do, say, what were u just talking about? & why did the Dr. want to know if i have a condition when he examined me? why did he trail off when he mentioned my bone density?
& by the way, what were those flyers about & what happened to Santiago?
but i don’t say any of that. there are things u sense u can’t say.
“u want me to raise the bed so u can sit?” asks Grandpa.
“sure.”
he picks up a remote control & presses a button on it: the end of the bed where my head is rises, pushin
g me into a sitting position. i realize that i haven’t even thought about the gravity yanking me down: i’m really getting used to it. what i am thinking about is my leg, which is dully throbbing.
i look down. my lower leg is covered with a brace or wrapping that looks like it’s made of Kevlar or something.
“i’ll call the Dr.,” says my mother.
“hi,” i say.
she turns. her eyes squint slightly. “yes. hi.”
it’s the best i’m going to get.
she steps out of the room & Grandpa pats my shoulder, & a moment later Dr. Kohli enters with my mother.
he comes to stand by the bed. he has a screen in his hand.
“Leo,” he says. “how are u feeling?”
“bit woozy,” i say. “but fine.”
“great. that’s great. & ur mother’s here. she flew in from Nevada as soon as she heard.”
i look at her. “u did?”
she shrugs.
“2 astronauts,” says Dr. Kohli. “12-year-old me would not believe this. to meet 1 person who’s been in space, that’s incredible. but 2…”
“actually—” i begin.
“—what’s the plan now?” says my mother, cutting me off.
“the plan?” says the Dr.
“with the leg.”
“oh. yes. um.” he unrolls the screen. “basically, Leo,” he says, “we’ve put long nails down ur fibula & tibia. right inside the bone. they’re made of a special fiber with…a sort of honeycomb that ur bone grows into, with the help of the stimulating cells we’ve injected.” he sketches the long bones on his screen, the nails running thru them. “the nails hold ur bones together—they were both split at an angle. then we put screws thru transversally”—he draws the screws, passing at right angles thru the bones & sticking out of my leg on either side.
he taps the shell encasing my leg. “the cast—we call it that even tho it’s not a cast anymore—is ballistic-grade material. actually i think they use it on satellites. that is going to keep ur leg nice & still. u won’t be doing any running for 4, maybe 5 weeks. in the old days that would have been months. & ur bones will knit together nicely.” he glances at my mother & Grandpa. “he really needs to be seen by a specialist tho, about the…more general issue. i’ve encountered osteoporosis in people of all ages, but his bone density is—”
