Chapter 34
CHAPTER
THIRTY-FOUR
OWEN
“Move!” I shoulder my way around Everest, who’s now just standing there, frozen. Grabbing some parent’s arm, I yank them back then drop to my knees in their place.
Ivy. It’s Ivy. I knew it was her the second I heard her scream. When the whole party came screeching to a halt and parents started throwing worried and sympathetic looks in our direction.
She’s lying face down on the ground, her beautiful pink dress all rucked up, torn, and stained with grass and dirt. Her sparkling tiara is broken in half, though still stuck in the tangles of her hair. She’s not moving.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, raw terror is circling, prowling, waiting to pounce. It’s bigger, darker, more menacing than the fear I had when I got the call from the hospital that night. If I let it, it could sink its claws into me and rip me apart, it could devour me and consume me whole.
I can’t let that happen. Keep it together, Lambert .
A switch flips inside my brain, kicking me into high gear. The rest of the world evaporates as I zero in on the task before me. Evaluate the situation, create an action plan, then execute.
Mom, Dad, Nell, and Graham are around me now and they all reach out to help Ivy up.
“Don’t touch her!” I yell and they all snatch their hands away. “I need to check for injuries first.”
I hear myself. My voice is steady, sharp, decisive, and in command. It sounds like the voice I use when an animal is brought in for emergency care, or when there’s a complication in the middle of a surgery. It’s detached and cold, which is completely at odds with the panic winding its way through me. But I need to sound that way, I need to compartmentalize and separate my feelings from my logical, rational mind.
“Uncle O?” The word comes out small, unsteady, and frightened.
“I’m here, sweetie. I’m right here. Shh. Don’t move yet. Hold still.” Quickly, I run my hands over Ivy’s skull, looking for any patches of wetness, or any bumps that shouldn’t be there. Nothing—thank god. I move down her neck and find no obvious injuries there either. Okay. Good. “Did you hit your head, Ivy-bear?”
“I— I— don’t know?”
“I don’t think she did,” a parent says from over my shoulder. “At least, she didn’t land on her head. Someone jostled her from behind when she was at the top of the slide and she lost her balance. She came down the slide head first, but I’m pretty sure she caught herself with her hands.”
The description makes my throat close as my imagination paints the scene for me. Everything plays in slow motion: Ivy at the top of the slide, a shadow behind her, the look of surprise on her face as she tips forward, her hands outstretched in front of her as a scream rips from her throat.
I shake my head to wipe the image from my mind. Focus on the now, Lambert, don’t get distracted by things you can’t change.
“Okay, Ivy-bear, let’s try to sit up.” I slide my hands under her armpits and hold my breath as I slowly ease her into a seated position.
Her face is scrunched up, silent tears spilling down her cheeks. I can tell she wants to cry out, but she’s being so brave. My Ivy, beautiful even when she’s all banged up and dirty, injured and in pain. It’s all I can do not to scoop her up and wrap myself around her so nothing can ever hurt her again.
“Oh my god, Ivy,” Everest comes barging in, finally snapping out of his state of shock. He jostles me in his haste to get to Ivy and does what I wanted to do, lifting her into his lap and holding her close.
“Ow!” Ivy yelps, pulling her arm to her chest.
“Sorry! Sorry!” Everest’s face pales as all the blood drains from his face.
I grip the back of his neck and squeeze. The last thing I need right now is for him to pass out on me. “Breathe, babe. Stay calm.” Then I tug his arm out of the way so I can get a better look at Ivy. “What is it, sweetie? Where does it hurt?”
She slowly holds out her arm, her opposite hand wrapped gingerly around her wrist. As carefully as I can, I run my fingers from her elbow down her forearms. When I get to her wrist, she hisses, shoulders shooting up to her ears, and lets out a pained whine.
“I’m sorry, sweetie. It hurts here?”
She nods as fresh tears spill from her eyes.
It’s only been a few minutes since her fall, but I can already see her wrist starting to swell. Best case scenario, she sprained it. Worst case, it’s broken. Broken wrists can be difficult to treat if I remember correctly. They can also lead to a lot of complications. Either way, we’ll need x-rays to know for sure.
I scan the rest of her. There’s a big, ugly scrape across her chin and her lip is split open and bleeding. I’ll need to clean it up to know if she’ll need stitches. Dirt and grass stains cover the front of her dress. Her hands bore the brunt of it, though, with more scrapes and cuts along the heels of her palms and some on her elbows.
“Anyone have a scarf, or a necktie, or something?” I stick my hand out without looking up and when nothing lands in my hand, I finally glance around. The backyard is almost empty with the last of the guests filtering out. The bartenders are packing up, and so are the band. The only people left standing near us are Mom and Nell.
“Your friends are ushering everyone out,” Nell says, nodding at Everest.
“And Mark and Graham are helping them hand out the goodie bags,” Mom adds.
“We told the caterers to leave anything that was already cooked and take the rest with them,” Nell finishes.
This stuns me for a moment. Not only did they know what to do, but they also jumped into action so quickly. Without being asked. Without explicit instructions. Our family, our friends, they saw us in the middle of a crisis and they did what needed to be done so we could focus on Ivy.
I’ve never liked depending on other people or relying on others. I’ve always thought it would be easier and faster to do everything myself. I like things to be done a particular way and I’m usually better at it than anyone I can ask.
So this phenomenon playing out before my eyes is novel and quite unexpected. An entire support system of people who understand me well enough to know what I need them to do and who love me enough to do it. People who willingly go out of their way to help and who rally around me in my moment of need.
It’s not that I’ve never had those types of people in my life. But I’ve never let any of them in.
Until now. Until Everest.
Tears prickle my eyes and my throat grows tight with an overwhelming sense of gratitude and relief. I used to think it was simpler to do everything on my own, but I didn’t realize how much weight I was carrying on my shoulders. I didn’t realize how much sweeter it is to share the burden with others.
“Thank you,” I say to no one in particular, fighting back the emotions threatening to overtake me. Instead, I turn back to Ivy. “Come on. Let’s go inside.”
I help Everest to his feet while he’s got Ivy in his arms. Together, we head upstairs to the bathroom where we keep the first aid kit.
Mom appears with a scarf and I carefully tie it into a sling for Ivy’s arm. Then I clean up Ivy’s wounds, first with water, then with a cotton swab soaked in alcohol.
“This is going to sting,” I warn her.
She braces herself and lets out a pained whimper, which triggers a fresh round of tears.
“I know it hurts, sweetie. I’m so sorry. You’re being so brave. You’re doing so well.” I keep up the stream of encouraging words, though if I’m honest, I’m not sure whether I’m trying to soothe Ivy, Everest, myself, or all three of us. “I’m going to put on these bandages to keep the booboos clean. And then we’ll go to the hospital so the doctors can take a look at your arm, okay?”
At the mention of the hospital, Ivy’s complexion becomes even paler than it already is. “No! I don’t wanna go to the hospital. I don’t like the hospital.” She shies away from me, turning into Everest instead.
Everest winces at her reaction. “Do we really need to?”
I hesitate, caught between my worry about Ivy’s wrist and the obvious distress she’s in at the mention of the hospital.
“It’s just that you know what happened last time we took her to the hospital.” Everest gives me a meaningful look. “Do you really want to put her through that again?”
The last time we took Ivy to a hospital, she saw her mom lying unconscious, hooked up to a slew of machines. Her dad was already in the morgue. Her mom would follow soon after.
It’s not surprising she doesn’t want to go back there. That huge building with strange noises and weird smells. Doctors and nurses walking around in their scrubs and white coats, faces hidden behind masks. Patients and their loved ones in pain, worried, hurting. I don’t love the idea either.
But a broken wrist is a serious injury. At the very least, she’ll need a cast. If the bones have shifted, she might need surgery. If it’s not treated promptly and properly, Ivy could end up with nerve damage, carpal tunnel, or even lose the use of her hand. We need to know the extent of the injury. We need a doctor to diagnose and treat. It’s for her own good. We would be negligent if we didn’t. Sometimes, being a good parent means making an unpopular decision. Sometimes, being a good parent means being the bad guy.
My stomach twists as I psyche myself up to put my foot down.
“Owen, what if…” Everest looks like he’s just thought of a brilliant, yet horrifying idea. I already know I’m not going to like what comes out of his mouth next.
“What if we take her to your hospital? You can do the x-ray.”
“My—” It takes several beats for my brain to process what Everest is suggesting. “What? You want me to take her to the animal hospital?!”
“It’s perfect! You have x-ray machines there, don’t you? And you’re a doctor, you know how to treat broken bones.”
I push to my feet and back away so I don’t physically shake Everest for suggesting such a ridiculous, asinine thing. “Yeah, I’m a doctor for animals . You know, like cats and dogs. Not humans!”
“What’s the difference? Bones are bones!”
My jaw drops as I gape at him. He can’t be serious, can he? Of course there’s a fucking difference! It’s so blatantly obvious that I have no idea how to explain it to him. “No. What? No!”
“Oh come on. You’re always going on about how you’re Doctor Owen Lambert. This is your chance to show off your skills!”
“I’m not trying to impress my friends with how much I can bench press!” I yell, throwing my hands in the air. “This is our little girl you’re talking about! We should be seeking out the best medical care we can find—for humans .”
“Boys.”
My head snaps around at the sound of my mom’s voice. I completely forgot she was standing by the bathroom door. Nell is right behind her, hand over her face, shaking her head. See? Even she knows how absurd her son is being.
“Lower your voices. You’re scaring her,” Mom says, eyes stern with warning.
My head snaps around again to find Ivy’s face buried against Everest’s chest. Her shoulders heave as she cries with her arm cradled against her body. Crap.
I drop to my knees and rummage around in the first aid kit for the bottle of children’s Advil. The medication should take the edge off the pain until we can get her in to see a doctor—a doctor trained to treat humans .
I shake out two tablets and coach Ivy through chewing and swallowing, then washing it down with a glass of water.
Mom puts a hand on my shoulder. “Alright boys, how about we find a compromise between a scary emergency room and an animal hospital?”