Chapter 8 The Flying Knife #2
I gave up on trying to impose peace and let them do as they wished.
Every time I needed something, they vied with each other to help, and whoever was left out threw a fit.
When I asked someone to cut the last batch of vegetables, they both started shoving each other and knocked over a jar of sauce, breaking it.
Then they froze and stood there staring at it like idiots.
“See what you did?” Jack shouted, throwing a rag in his face. “Now clean it up.”
“You’re the one who shoved me, asshole, you should clean it,” Mike responded, hurling it back at him.
“I shoved you because you’re always in the fucking way!”
They went back and forth like this, the rag flying back and forth, as they chased each other around the kitchen. They were out of control, and it shouldn’t have surprised me that just as I was slicing into a carrot, one of them bumped me hard. Ouch.
The pain radiated through my hand, and I looked at my palm, which had a nasty cut running across it. The sight of blood made me weak in the knees, and I dropped the knife on the counter. Jack jerked Mike out of his way and asked, “Shit, Jen, are you OK?”
Since an image is worth a thousand words, I showed him the cut. After a panicky second, Jack dug through a drawer, finding a clean cloth to press into it.
His eyes were wide, and he kept saying, “It’s fine, it’s nothing, You’re OK.” I think those words were more for him than me.
“It’s just a cut,” I told him, but he wasn’t paying attention.
“You’re such a dumbass,” he told Mike. “If you’d just stayed there zoning out to the TV like you always do, this would never have happened.”
“I was here first, Ross. And who are you to talk to me about zoning out? You look like an actual freaking zombie today, you’re the one who should have stayed in the living room.”
They continued arguing, with Jack telling Mike he never knew when he wasn’t wanted and Mike countering that everyone in the house liked him best. “Guys,” I kept shouting, “Guys!” But it was as if I wasn’t there.
Finally, I exploded and said, “Can you stop acting like children? I don’t know if you noticed, but I’m practically bleeding to death over here! ”
The cloth was soaked and dripping. “It’s really bad,” Jack remarked. “Why won’t it stop?”
Mike started to panic and shouted, “You don’t think she’ll bleed to death, do you? I can’t handle having a person’s death on my conscience.”
“Jack, I won’t die, will I?” I asked, suddenly afraid.
“No! Of course not! It’s just a little cut,” Jack replied. “And you, shut up,” he went on, turning to his brother.
“But what if, like, the knife’s infected? With salmonella or something?” Mike asked.
“I said, shut up,” his brother repeated.
Now I was getting scared. What if Jack was playing calm for my sake but knew the situation was critical? That question started to torture me when he recommended we go to the hospital.
“I thought you said it was nothing,” I told him.
“Don’t argue,” he replied, and warned Mike, “you stay here, moron.”
Mike didn’t listen—he never listened to anything—and so, despite Jack’s best efforts, he wound up in the car with us.
In different circumstances, I might have felt some kind of thrill that Jack was driving me somewhere, but I was too worried about whether I’d survive the night.
Not just because of the cut, but because of the way the car was screeching through the streets.
Jack, as always, was driving like a maniac.
I looked down as he blew through a yellow light and realized the sleeve of my sweatshirt was soaked in blood.
Some of it had even gotten onto my pants.
“Shit,” I said.
“What?” Jack asked.
“Nothing, I’ve just ruined my outfit.”
“There’s no way you’re actually worried about your clothes right now.”
“I love this sweatshirt, Jack.”
“Let’s just focus on saving your hand for now, and we’ll worry about your wardrobe later,” he said.
You’d better focus, too, I thought. Jack glanced at his rearview mirror, crossed into the opposite lane, and passed two cars that were already going well over the speed limit.
Then he repeated the feat, blowing through a red light this time, and yelled back at his brother, who had lowered the window and was flipping someone a bird, “Get your damn hand back inside the car!”
“They started it,” Mike said.
We parked in front of the emergency room, and Jack guided me inside with a hand on the small of my back.
Mike followed close behind. At the counter, Jack explained calmly what had happened, and the woman told us someone would be with us shortly.
Then we sat down, with Mike in the middle, uncomfortable.
“So, like, if you die, what happens?” Mike asked. “Not that I’m planning on it, but I’m just wondering who gets to keep your things? And my brother’s old room? Because if you’re considering leaving it to someone in your will, I wouldn’t mind getting first dibs.”
“Sorry to disappoint you,” I responded, “but dying isn’t on my agenda this evening.”
“Mike, I’ve got an idea,” Jack said. “There’s some vending machines down that hall. Why don’t you go buy something you can stuff in your mouth.”
“I’m not hungry,” Mike told him.
“I didn’t say you were, I said you need to block the hole all those stupid ideas are coming out of,” Jack replied.
Mike informed his brother that he didn’t have any money, and Jack rolled his eyes before handing him a five.
Mike snatched it and skipped off happily.
A moment later, he was back with two chocolate bars and a Coke.
I thought he’d share—you usually got a cookie when you gave blood, and I had to assume my blood sugar was out of whack after losing what felt like two gallons of blood—but no, he dumped everything down his gullet as if neither his brother nor I existed.
The woman at the desk called Jack over again.
I overheard her say we’d left a box on the form blank.
It surprised me how perfectly he remembered all my information.
And that reminded me of something: I had a birthday around the corner.
Less than a week away. Jack checked the box, handed the form back to the woman, and nodded as she smiled at him.
“Does it hurt?” he asked when he sat back down.
“Not much. Maybe we didn’t need to come all the way here.”
“Maybe we did,” he replied with a raised eyebrow. “It’s pretty deep. I’m surprised to see you acting so chill.”
I shrugged and said, “Sorry, Dad.” Jack complained that having a bit of common sense didn’t mean he was acting like my father. Mike nudged me and said, “Hey, do you think that chick’s making eyes at me?”
He was referring to a cute girl who was typing away on her phone. She looked up every now and again and took a glance at one of my companions. Alas, it wasn’t Mike, but his brother. Grrr.
Jack didn’t notice. All his attention was turned to my hand. He seemed to be genuinely worried about it. As for Mike, I guess he was seeing what he wanted to see. And who was I to stop him?
“Yeah,” I responded. “I’m pretty sure she’s digging you. You should go for it.”
Now that’s what I call strategy.
“Don’t touch my Coke,” he said, “there’s still a little bit left. I’m going in for the kill.”
“Good luck, soldier,” I egged him on.
He stood and walked over to the girl with a smile, then sat down, ready to work his, ahem, magic. To my surprise, she quickly turned her attention away from my boyfriend and toward him. Sorry, not my boyfriend—just Jack, I keep forgetting.
“He’s got one thing going for him,” Jack murmured in my ear. “He’s always had a talent for getting people to do what he wants.”
“Must run in the family,” I said after a moment’s hesitation.
Before he could respond, the nurse called me over the speaker.
She sent me to a doctor’s office down the hall, and twenty minutes later, my hand was wrapped in bandages like a boxing glove and I had a tube of ointment and a bottle of pills stapled into a paper bag.
All that over a stupid cut. I wanted to complain, but what was the point?
At least it was my left hand, so it wouldn’t interrupt my schoolwork.
The doctor had made a nasty comment about how I should be more careful in the kitchen, like I was a dumb girl and had cut myself on purpose.
He went on about nerve damage, and what if I’d severed a tendon, and so on, and when I couldn’t hold it in any longer, I told him, “Look, doctor, I don’t need any advice.
Accidents happen. And I’d like to go home. ”
This only angered him, and he started talking about infections and tetanus and staph and how dangerous it can be if it gets into your bloodstream.
He sounded a little bit psycho and wouldn’t shut up about my antibiotics.
When I decided to storm out, Jack stopped me and said, “Don’t worry, doctor, she’ll do as you say. ”
“Excuse me,” I tried to respond, but he stopped me: “Jen, you’ll do it and that’s that.”
Carefully, Jack went back over every one of the instructions I’d received as I took my seat in his car and stared at my bandaged hand.
It would take two weeks before I could use it again.
It was sealed with Steri-Strips, which would come off in ten days, but for caution’s sake, the doctor wanted me to keep my hand wrapped longer.
Two whole weeks! That felt like forever.
On the way home, Mike was in a bad mood because the girl he had flirted with had told him to leave her alone. When we parked, he stomped off to the elevator, crossed his arms, and rode it up before Jack even took off his seatbelt.