Chapter 4 Saylor
Saylor
I have to give Cristine Ford her credit.
Someone called her before the ambulance even showed up, and by the time I was carted off to the hospital, my mom was already on her way to the airport to catch the last flight from LAX to SFO.
That’s what Coach Synthia tells me when I finally come to.
I fainted twice, apparently. My arm is definitely broken and I effed up my face, which I’m sure will impact my future as an up-close face model.
I’m admitted because I have to wait and see two surgeons in the morning.
My arm is in a temporary brace. I feel like I got hit by a car and not like I tripped over my own feet.
I fall asleep eventually, and when I wake up Coach Synthia is gone and my mom is sitting beside my hospital bed.
The TV is on, the volume low, but she’s looking at her phone.
Of course she looks camera ready. Makeup done, blond hair up in a perfect ponytail.
She’s in her usual color scheme: light-washed jeans, a white shirt, and a camel cashmere wrap.
Tears rush to my eyes and I’m not sure why.
I’m so annoyed with her because really this is all her fault.
But I’m also glad she’s here. I sniffle a little too loud, and suddenly all her attention’s on me.
“Oh hi, honey,” she says, her voice soft. She reaches over and strokes the back of my good hand. “How are you feeling?”
“Fabulous. Glamorous. Stupendous,” I manage to say. “On top of the world. I’m too pretty to be in this much pain.”
“How does your face feel?”
“Like I ran into a fence, but fine otherwise. Did Coach tell you what happened?”
“Just that you fell.”
I bite my lip and wonder if I should even bother telling her the whole truth.
If I should tell her why I was so distracted that I forgot how feet are supposed to work.
How this time she’s gone too far with the oversharing and ruined my ability to run and dribble a ball at the same time.
But then I glance at the television and the little clock on the screen says it’s two a.m., and I can’t move my whole left side, so it’s not the best time to pick a fight with my mom.
“Yeah, I fell pretty hard. Tripped on a fast break.”
“Aww, honey. Remember when Rando broke his leg on that fast break against the Heat? It happens.”
“I know,” I choke out. She’s right, but Ryan Rando was playing for the rookie of the year title. Not fleeing from his own mom-induced embarrassment.
“I talked to the doctor, and they said it’s not the worst break they’ve seen, so that’s good.”
“I guess,” I say, trying not to cry. “I think my arm would have to be torn off for it to be the worst they’ve seen.”
“You haven’t lost your sense of humor. That’s a great sign. I’ll get word to your sisters in the morning, but Papa sends his love. He said he’d call you on his way to work in the morning. Why don’t you go back to sleep?”
I look down at my legs, draped in scratchy hospital sheets and a thin blanket, and think about what I should be doing right now.
Sleeping peacefully in my dorm room, dreaming sweet dreams about our three-on-three team winning our scrimmage by a shocking fifty points. I shouldn’t be in a hospital bed.
“Do you know when I can go back to camp?” I ask my mom.
“Oh, Say. I think camp’s done, honey. I think after they patch you up, we’re heading home.”
I know she’s right. I can play basketball with a messed-up face.
Might even give me the intimidation edge.
I can’t ignore my arm, though. It’s throbbing a little even with the pain meds they gave me, and it’s wrapped in like twenty-eight feet of gauze with two splints for that added flair.
Still, I book a ticket on the SS Delulu. I’m going back to camp.
“I wanna hear what the doctor says.”
“Okay. Why don’t you try and get some sleep? You want me to sing to you?” she says with a devious smile. My mom has a lot going for her, but her singing voice sounds like a bird gasping for its last breath.
“I love you, Mom, but I’ll pass.”
The nurse comes to check on me and gives me more pain meds that help me sleep.
I pass out in the middle of practicing my pitch for the doctor.
I have to go back to camp. I can learn a lot from the sidelines.
It’ll all be fine. A little hiccup, sure, but we can salvage my summer.
It cannot end like this, not before I figure out a way to convince my mom to delete all of her social media.
· · ·
My best friends and I would all agree that our Bethany is the crier of our clique. She cries at everything. Like, everything, but she owns it. Homegirl is emotional, but now I finally get it.
“It’s gonna be okay,” the nurse tells me, gripping my other hand. I’m not crying. I’m weeping, blubbering. I am absolutely losing it.
Dr. Cha is so sweet and very funny, but she didn’t have to let me go on and on about my plans for the rest of the summer—and it was a lengthy, animated pitch—just to tell me that I’ll be spending the next eight weeks in a cast. No sports, no stunts.
I started crying before she briefly left the room, but when she came back and told my mom she loved her content, I really lost it.
Such a betrayal. Doesn’t she know my mom’s criminally embarrassing content is why I’m in this hospital bed?
“Casts in the summer are hard,” the nurse tells me. “I broke my arm on spring break once. It was no fun.”
“You’re not helping.” I laugh through my tears.
“I’m sorry, sweetie.” She laughs with me.
I glance over at my mom, who is recording the whole thing.
She asked the nurses if they were okay with it, and they were.
Did she bother to ask me? Of course not.
I don’t want to cause a scene and it’s not like she’s gonna listen to me anyway, so I just go with it.
Cristine Ford is a master editor, so I know she’ll turn it into high-quality content that’ll get a lot of views.
Who cares if the results will make me want to crawl into a hole and die.
“At least you don’t have to worry about your face,” Mom says.
“Yeah, I guess,” I sniffle.
“The plastic surgeon said the scrape will heal just fine,” she says for the nurses and her own recording.
He wouldn’t let Mom record him, but he did get me a mirror.
My left cheek and temple look like I ran my face down a hot waffle iron.
How can I spend the summer like this? Right after I turned kinda gay, no less? !
“Your arm is going to heal beautifully,” Dr. Cha says. “A tough scar on your face would give you one heck of a story when school starts again.” She winks at me, and that makes me smile a little and also consider running into another fence if it’ll make Mom put her phone away.
“Okay, we’re all done here,” Dr. Cha says.
I look down at the light blue fiberglass now encasing my arm.
At least it’ll bring out the blue green in my eyes.
“While these casts can handle a little bit of water, I’d like you to keep it dry.
And there will be a time where you think it’s a great idea to do something fun like a push-up, but we want this to heal nice and clean, so let’s take it easy.
A few days of rest on the couch to start off wouldn’t hurt either. ”
“Don’t worry, Dr. Cha,” Mom says. “We might have to switch up the summer plans, but I have tons of movies and relaxing couch activities to keep us busy for the rest of the summer.”
I let out a deep breath, still looking at my cast and thinking about what she really means.
Cristine Ford has at least one of us girls back for the summer, and oh boy, are we gonna make content out of every dang second of my healing process.
I know Dr. Cha wants me to keep it dry, but a big fat tear splashes right off my wrist.
My mind is still scrambled with disbelief as we climb into the car Mom ordered so we can head back to the Cal campus to get my stuff.
I’m still in denial even after a quick call with my dad where he assures me he’ll be home early for dinner, which means I too will be home for dinner, back home in LA.
The denial is still there after I see the card the girls left in my room.
Lots of feel betters and get wells, and one I hope you have a good summer. Not bloody likely!
Honestly, I’m in denial all the way through the airport and as I muster half a smile for the vlog Mom decides to film at the gate.
It’s not until later, when my friends have seen Mom’s stories and are blowing up my phone, that it really hits me.
We’re barely two weeks into June, and my summer is over.