Chapter 3 - The Exile and the Assessment
The lights of the Emergency Room were white, clean, and unmerciful. They showed every detail I had tried to ignore for the last five years: the slight grey tint under Leo’s eyes from months of stress, the way he flinched when the male doctor moved too quickly toward the bed, the small scar on his wrist from three summers ago when Ryan had "accidentally" tipped him off the porch swing.
The X-ray technician, a quiet man named Marcus, rolled the machine back with a grim nod. "Two fractures on the left seventh and eighth ribs," he told the attending physician while I stood by the sink, washing my hands until the skin was raw. "Slight fluid accumulation, but no pneumothorax. We’re going to keep him overnight for observation to ensure the lung doesn't compromise."
"Thank God," I breathed, my forehead touching the cool stainless steel of the paper towel dispenser.
"He’s lucky," Dr. Al-Jamil said, turning to me with his tablet in hand. "A fraction of an inch more force and we’d be in theater fixing a punctured lung. The social worker has already been notified, Ms. Vance. In cases where the perpetrator is a minor relative and the family attempted to suppress the call, it’s mandatory."
"Good," I said. "Let them come."
My phone was returned to me at 8:30 p.m. by a different officer. The screen was cracked across the corner where my mother’s large diamond ring had pressed against the glass during the struggle, but it still worked. The moment it connected to the hospital’s Wi-Fi, it began to vibrate like a dying insect.
14 missed calls from 'Mom'. 8 missed calls from 'Carla'. 3 text messages.
I opened Carla’s first. “You’ve gone completely crazy. The police came to the house. Dad’s blood pressure is through the roof. Ryan is hysterical crying because he thinks he’s going to jail. He’s TWELVE, Sarah. You’re destroying this family because you can’t handle a little roughhousing. Bring Leo back or tell the police it was an accident before you ruin everything.”
My mother’s message was shorter, written with the cold authority she had used to govern our lives since we were children. “Your father and I are deeply disappointed in your lack of restraint. We have contacted Arthur. He will be at the hospital shortly to resolve this situation. Do not speak to the social worker until he arrives.”
Arthur was my uncle—my father’s younger brother and a senior partner at one of the largest corporate defense firms in the state. He wasn't a family man; he was a fixer. Whenever one of the Vance cousins got a DUI or a business venture went south under mysterious circumstances, Arthur appeared with a leather briefcase and a series of nondisclosure agreements.
I looked down at Leo. He was sleeping now, the pain medication finally giving him a reprieve. His small chest rose and fell in a regular, rhythmic pattern, his hand still clutched around the small plastic dinosaur Mr. Henderson had given him at the pharmacy.
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I took a deep breath, sat down in the vinyl armchair next to the bed, and opened my email. I didn't reply to the texts. Instead, I sent a single message to my supervisor at the architectural firm where I worked: “Personal emergency. I need to take my accumulated family leave starting tomorrow. Will send the documentation from the hospital shortly.”
Then I sat back and waited for the wolf to arrive.
