Chapter 29
CHAPTER 29
OWEN
The game is a good one, if you’re rooting for the Cardinals. The girls have three goals to the Blue Jays’ zero. Betsy even drew first blood with her goal in the first three minutes.
And then she drew actual first blood when she slid in for a kick and took a girl out at the shins. It didn’t seem like a legal move for a nine-year-old athlete, but the ref didn’t blow his whistle, and Archer applauded like she’d just won an Olympic medal.
My job has been mostly slapping on Band-Aids and handing out ice packs, which the girls have needed more and more in the last third of the game. They’re getting hot and tired and sloppy, and the Blue Jays are desperate to avoid a shutout.
I’m reaching for a bottle of water when I hear a dull thud followed by a scream. Out of the corner of my eye I see Betsy go down. Hard.
I react instinctively. I bolt from the bleachers, my brain making sense of what I saw as I run. A Blue Jay going in for a goal. Betsy trying to head the ball away.
Betsy taking a cleat to the forehead.
I sense Archer and Madeline behind me, but I get there first, dropping to my knees beside her in the grass.
Betsy’s eyes are open, and she squints into the sun as she groans and reaches for her forehead. There’s already a goose egg blooming there, red now, but it’ll surely be a festival of colors later.
“Betsy, are you okay?” I say, my training warring with the increasing panic in my chest. I force myself to focus on the fact that she’s conscious.
“Yeah,” she says, and she starts to sit up, but I place my hand on her chest to keep her on the ground.
“One sec, I need to check you out first.” I think my voice sounds steady, the pleasant don’t worry tone I use with kids every day. But in my head it’s too loud. Too forceful. I hold up fingers and ask her how many, which she answers with ease. I ask her what day it is and her mom’s name and watch her eyes as they follow my finger.
She passes every test.
“Betsy, baby, are you okay?” Madeline grabs her daughter’s hand and squeezes.
“Yeah,” she says. “But that really fucking hurt.”
Madeline gasps. “Elizabeth Jane!”
Archer, who’s squatting beside Madeline, chuckles. “She got kicked in the head, Mads. I think she’s allowed an F-bomb.”
“Can I sit up now? This grass is tickling my ears,” Betsy asks, and I help her sit slowly, watching for any dizziness or unsteadiness.
She seems fine.
“Okay, well, you may have a concussion, so you’ll need to be observed,” I tell her, the words transporting me back in time to another exam. Another kid. Another mother.
“Does that mean I can’t go back in?” Betsy asks.
Archer puts his arm around her and helps her up. “There’s only nine minutes left and we’re up by three, killer. I think you can sit the rest out.”
“Nooooo,” Betsy whines, and tears finally gather in her eyes.
“Kicked in the head? Fine. Benched? Tears,” Madeline says with a nervous laugh as she slings her arm around Betsy’s shoulders. The child is sandwiched between Archer and her mother, rolling her eyes and staring forlornly at the scoreboard.
“She’s got the heart of champion,” Archer says. “And the forehead of a heavyweight boxer.”
Everyone is laughing and joking as they lead Betsy off the field, but I’m rooted to the grass. My heart rate is climbing, my chest tightening. My feet and hands begin to tingle. As my breath starts coming in faster gasps, I try to ground myself, trying desperately to remember the techniques my therapist gave me back in residency, but they’re all just out of reach.
I scan the field, my gaze jumping from Betsy to Archer to Madeline to the scoreboard to the parents on the sideline to Wyatt, who is smiling at me, though her brows are knitted together.
But I can’t even manage to focus on Wyatt’s face. Everything feels a little fuzzy at the edges.
“Owen, are you okay?” Archer asks when he realizes I’m not following them.
I lock eyes with him, then look at Madeline. “You should take her to the ER,” I say.
“What?” Archer asks, eyebrows raised.
The smile slips from Madeline’s face. “You think so?”
I nod with enough force that it makes my head hurt. “Yeah. You need to get her a CT scan. To be sure.”
“She seems okay,” Archer says slowly, like he’s trying not to frighten an angry bear. “Just a bump. We can watch her.”
“No. You need to go,” I insist. I feel sweat rolling down my back and gathering at my temples.
“I know concussion protocol, Owen,” Archer says, his voice taking on that superior-big-brother tone.
“You’re not a doctor, Archer,” I say through gritted teeth.
“Are you really sure?” Madeline asks, looking from Betsy to me and back again. “The ER is?—”
“Yes.” I hear my voice getting tight. I squeeze my fists at my sides like I can hold back the rush of anxiety with brute force. “You never know. Okay? You just…you never know.”
There’s a beat of silence, and I’m not totally sure what’s happening around me. Everyone is just standing there. There’s not listening. They should be going to the emergency room. They’re not going .
“Please,” I say, or maybe the word gets caught in my throat. I can’t tell, because there’s a ringing in my ears that’s overpowering everything else.
“Okay,” Madeline says with a short nod, her voice shaking slightly. She pulls Betsy closer to her. “Okay. I’ll take her.”
It should make me feel better, but I take one look at the fear on her face—fear I put there—and all I can see is the terror of another mother three years ago.
She’s going , I tell myself. I repeat it like a mantra. She’s going . If there’s a problem, they’ll catch it. Betsy will be fine.
She’ll be fine .
“Owen?”
A hand falls on my arm, and I feel Wyatt at my side. Archer says something, but I don’t hear it. I’m focusing on my breathing, chasing the panic away with all my might.
“Owen, let’s go sit down, okay?”
Wyatt hooks her arm through mine and steers me over to the sideline. As we walk, I hear a whistle blow, and red and blue jerseys streak past me.
“That was really scary,” she says.
“Yeah,” I say, the word grinding past the lump in my throat. I try to breathe out, but it feels like all my air is trapped in my chest.
“Can I get you anything?”
I watch Madeline gather her bag and walk with Betsy toward the parking lot. She’s going , I repeat again, and watch to make sure.
“Owen? How about a drink of water? You’re sweating,” Wyatt says.
“Yeah, it’s really hot,” I say, turning my focus to her. She’s smiling at me like she’s trying to comfort a kid who just woke from a nightmare, but she’s also chewing on her bottom lip. I can feel myself coming apart, but I summon everything I have and try to smile back at her. “Water would be good.”
Wyatt pulls a dripping bottle from the cooler. I take it from her, but I know as soon as it’s in my hand that this isn’t going to help me. It’s not going to give me enough air or slow down my heart or make my thoughts stop racing, and it’s not going to take the worry off Wyatt’s face. I need to relax. I need to calm the fuck down.
I glance around and see people trying to avoid looking at me. I’m freaking everyone out.
Fuck, I need to get hold of myself.
I need to get hold of my myself.
About fifty yards off the field, I spot the little brick park bathroom. “I’ll be right back,” I tell Wyatt, and uncap the water bottle. I take a long pull and swallow hard to get it past the boulder in my throat. “I just need to wash my hands.”
Her brows knit together. “Do you want me to come?—”
“I’ll be right back,” I tell her again, already striding away. Everything is whirling around inside me, screwing up tight. I’m scared that if I let go, I’ll spin out like a top.
And I can’t let her see that.
I stride toward the bathrooms as fast as I can without actually breaking into a run. I bypass the door and head around to the back of the building where no one can see me but the trees. I lean forward, pressing my palms to the warm brick. I drop my head.
And I breathe.
In for four.
Hold for four.
Out for four.
Hold for four.
It takes a few rounds before I’m actually able to hold any breath at all. Another couple of rounds before I feel like my heart isn’t trying to take flight. A few rounds after that before my vision clears and my ears stop ringing.
I keep breathing in the box pattern and feel the tension begin to recede a little. I breathe and count until it no longer feels like my heart is trying to Hulk out of my chest, until the world stops vibrating, until I’m sure I’m not going to throw up.
I breathe until the face of Dylan Anders and his mother’s screams recede back into the dark corners of my memory.
I haven’t had a panic attack like this in years. Not since I worked in the emergency room. I haven’t even felt the tight grip of extreme stress since Wyatt came storming into my life.
I thought everything was good.
But seeing Betsy get kicked, seeing her go down like that—it triggered all those memories.
But I breathed , I remind myself before the knot of tension can tighten again.
And I fixed it.
When I stand back up, I am exhausted, like I could take a ten-year nap. My body feels like it’s filled with wet sand, and it takes a herculean effort to walk. Every part of me wants to get into my truck, drive straight home, crawl into bed, and stay there until tomorrow.
Instead, I pick up the water bottle and chug. I run my hands through my hair. I roll out my shoulders. I practice smiling.
And then I head back to the field.