Chapter 6 #2
He tries to nod, but I’m holding his nose, so all he lets out is a little grunt and a sniffle. My chest lurches from how brave he’s trying to be.
As I stand, I see Birgitta’s pale, beige hoodie is covered in blood. “I’m so sorry. Tell me where it came from, and I’ll get another one ordered for you.”
But she brushes me off with a wave of her hand. “Don’t worry about it. It happens. I should have caught him, but he came running out so fast.”
I throw her a smile because I know exactly what she means. While it’s admittedly on the worst end of his usual injuries, this isn’t the first accident Max has had. It won’t be the last. He’s a child who prefers sprinting as his mode of transport.
“C’mon, bud, let’s go,” I whisper to him. I turn to Birgitta and add, “See you back at the house.”
“Bye, Maxy.”
He gives a weak lift of his arm and drops his head on my shoulder. I carry him across the road and down the other side of the street until we reach The Valentine Vet, the surgery I took on as mine two years ago. It’s where I’ve wanted to work since I was ten years old.
Open Monday to Saturday for appointments, and Sundays for emergencies, there’s a small team of dedicated vets and vet nurses.
Though I’m mostly out visiting the yards, seeing horses and farm animals, I still keep an office here that I use twice a week for a drop-in surgery, which is always busy.
It’s good for community relations, and truthfully, I enjoy seeing the bunnies and hamsters just as much as birthing a cow.
When I push the door open with my feet, Glenda, my receptionist, who I inherited along with the rest of the staff, greets me. I honestly couldn’t run the place without her.
“Hendricks, we weren’t expecting . . . oh, OH . . . Max, what happened?”
“Collided with the pavement. I’m just going to patch him up,” I tell her, marching quickly through to my office without acknowledging anyone sitting in the waiting room.
“Okay, Maxy, I’m going to set you on the bed,” I say and carefully deposit him on the cold metal surface.
The blood has finally clotted when I remove the napkin, and on first observation, I suspect the blood all over his face makes it look like a far worse injury than it actually is.
His nose still appears straight, if a little bruised.
With three brothers, I have enough experience to recognize a broken nose.
I go about fetching antibacterial wipes and cotton strips, then fill a small bowl with warm water. I’m not a doctor, so there aren’t the usual implements one would normally find there. If it’s truly broken, we’ll have to make another trip.
“The bleeding has stopped, buddy, so I’m going to clean your face up, and we’ll make sure it doesn’t start again.”
Max gives one sad nod as I get to work. “You know, I fell over once when I was a few years older than you, and I broke my arm. It hurt so much . . .”
Max nods again and tries to sniff, but it’s clearly painful, given the tears that well in his big blue eyes.
“And Auntie Clemmie always used to bang into something. Not to mention Uncle Miles fell off his pony so many times when he was younger. He still does—”
“He was in hospital?”
I nod. It’s not that Max would remember what happened because he was too little, but we’ve talked about it enough that he knows Miles was in hospital after a nasty accident. “He sure was. That was so scary.”
Scary is an understatement.
A couple of years ago, during a polo match between England and America, Miles almost died from a dangerous collision. He was placed in an induced coma for twenty-four hours to reduce the swelling in his brain, and I never left his bedside.
Miles, being Miles, made a full recovery, in no small part helped by the army of doctors and nurses who flocked around him, attending to his every need.
It took six months before the doctors would sign him off to ride again, and another six months of hard rehab and training to get him back to the level he had been at.
For the past year, Miles has been more focused and determined than I’ve ever seen him.
I’m certain heads will roll if he’s not back up to ten in the summer.
Santiago Torres, the American player who caused the accident, was banned from playing polo for two years.
“Did Uncle Miles cry?”
I nod, remembering how I held him while he sobbed on my shoulder after the surgeon told him he’d be in rehab for months. “Yes, he did.”
“Did you cry when you fell over?”
“I also cried, yes.”
“Who made you feel better?”
My memory flits back to the time he’s referring to, playing in the fields above Honeysuckle Lane and rolling down the hill. It’s where we always met up. Racing each other until our lungs were bursting, sweat dripped down our backs, and we cried laughing.
“Probably Granny,” I reply, picking up a fresh cloth and taking a second pass of Max’s face.
I gently clean around his nose and stuff two cotton balls into his nostrils to ensure it’s fully clotted. He winces when I run my finger down the bridge, squeezing gently along the cartilage, but I stand in my assessment.
“It’s not broken, bud. Just a little bruising.”
“Does that mean we can get a hot chocolate?”
Suppressing a smile, I keep my nod as solemn as his tone. “I think we can manage a hot chocolate.”
“And another flapjack?”
“You got it.”
Tidying my office up as quickly as possible, and wiping us both as clean as we’re going to get under the circumstances, we leave as we arrived. Quickly.
And once Max is holding a hot chocolate along with a flapjack, which he dunks inside, it’s like nothing happened.
I wish I could be so easily placated.
What a morning. Between Story and Max, I feel like I’ve already been through an entire day, and it’s barely ten o’clock.
This is me. Hendricks Burlington.
Dad. Mum. Doctor. Nurse.
As much as I’d like to think my life is together, it’s not.
I’ve not had a full night’s sleep since Story came back.
I might have wished for her return every day for the past six years, but it doesn’t matter.
Max is my priority. It’s him and me in this life together.
My brave little boy, wearing his hot chocolate mustache, is doing his best to eat a flapjack with two cotton balls stuffed up his nose while his eyelashes still hold the remnants of tears.
The reality is, I’m not free to open my heart up to anyone. Let alone with someone who hates my guts. Someone who could very well leave again.
I miss my friend, but I’ve missed her for so long that it’s almost intrinsic. I know what to do with missing her, and right now, my hands are full enough. Too full to change anything.
I have neither the time nor the ability to fix something I don’t know can be fixed.
Therefore, as much as I don’t want to, maybe it’s better that we keep our distance.