A Morning Like This by Deborah Bedford Read Free Book Online Page A

fine
.
    “Do you want me to drive you, Abby?”
    “No. No. I’ll be okay.”
    Everyone crowded around, asking Braden questions.
    “Can you breathe through your nose?”
    “Can you see? How many fingers am I holding up?”
    “Do you feel like you need to throw up?”
    The power of suggestion. Braden’s face went ashen. “Ken,” Abby said. “Don’t ask him any more questions. Just carry him to
     my car.”
    “Are you sure you don’t want me to go to St. John’s with you?”
    “I’ll be fine. We handle things like this at the shelter every day.”
    But as Abby started up the car and steered them toward Broadway, her hands were shaking. Because even though Abby was experienced
     with confrontations and emergencies, with her own son it felt like a different thing.
    “Keep your head forward, Brade. Don’t swallow.” She grabbed a box of tissues from the floorboard and tossed them across to
     him while he held the ice bag against his nose. Within minutes, blood-soaked Kleenexes littered the seat.
    “I can’t help it, Mama.”
    “Are you dizzy, honey? Do you feel like you might faint?”
    “No…Yes…I…I want Dad. Where is
Dad?
”
    “You know your dad,” Abby said with more confidence than she felt. “He’ll get here as soon as he can.”
    At the hospital the minutes passed in a slow march as Abby waited with Braden in the admittance area and Braden fought against
     tears, struggling to breathe through his swollen nose. The peas in the bag had melted to mush and his foot jiggled with pain
     as Abby answered a barrage of unnecessary questions. Name. Address. Place of employment. Insurance company. To make matters
     worse, the admittance clerk kept stopping to answer the phone.
    “Look. Don’t you have these things on record? My son is in pain.” Abby could scarcely bear this, seeing Braden hurting without
     any help.
I’d like to take that stupid computer screen and hit you over the head with it
.
    “I’m sorry. I cannot admit him until we have this complete.”
    Then, to add insult to injury, they wouldn’t give Braden a drink of water. “Sorry, kiddo,” the nurse told them. “No drinking
     and driving. Dr. Meno says we’ve got to get X-rays first. You can’t drink until we know what’s going on inside that head of
     yours.”
    “He can’t even have a sip?” Abby said as a nurse pushed him in a wheelchair. “He’s thirsty.”
If David were here, he’d make them give Braden a drink of water
.
    They rounded a corner and, as if this very thought of David had conjured him up, here came her husband, stepping out of a
     side door, rolling down his sleeve.
    “Dad!”
    “Braden!” One odd, awkward pause. David’s eyes shone with fear. Abby decided he must be worried sick about his son.
    “Oh, you’re here.” She raced forward. “Thank heavens.”
    “What are you—”
    She grabbed his forearm. “I knew they’d tell you at the ball field to find us here.”
    “The ball field? Oh.” For one moment, it almost seemed as if he was struggling to understand. “Oh. Oh, yes. Braden’s game.”
    “He got hit in the nose. Did they tell you that? We’re getting X-rays. They won’t let him drink anything until they know if
     it’s broken.”
    David began to follow his family, leaning low as a nurse wheeled his son along the corridor. “Braden. Buddy. Let me see.”
    Braden removed the latest tissue. “It hurts.”
    “Oh, my.” A regretful laugh. “It doesn’t look very good, either.”
    “Where were you, Dad? Where
were
you? You almost missed the whole thing. I was batting.”
    At David’s pause, Abby turned toward him again. A flush had risen on his neck. She had an odd sensation that David felt guilty
     about something. The sad, set expression in his eyes made him look rigid and bereaved, almost old. Strong frown lines etched
     the outline of his mouth. He kept staring at the bloody cleats in Abby’s hand as if he’d never seen them before.
    He answered his son cryptically.