“Yes” “Who was it?” “My friend Christopher.”
“What were you and Christopher planning on doing?” His tone imploring for more detail. “Play some basketball and talk.”
Head raised, pen hovering over his pad “Didn’t the storm tear down those hoops?”
With a slight knock and a push the doctor enters the room. Ignorant of the moment and seemingly pressed for time the doctor pulls out my chart from the bed. “Hello um everyone. Johnathan! You sir are the unfortunate owner of a plethora of bruises, three broken ribs, one cracked jaw bone, and a nasty laceration on the back of your head.” My free hand wanders up to test the bandages at the back of my skull. A wave of dizziness confirms what the doctor already said. “Surprisingly, there was nothing requiring surgery. Te stitches in your head should be ready to come out in about two weeks. We’ll give you prescriptions to keep swelling down and to keep you comfortable once you are released.”
“When will he be released?” My mothers voice is full of optimism.
“He should be ready by the morning, we want to keep him here overnight for observation. Tat is a nasty head wound. We want to make sure Johnathan’s concussion isn’t too severe.”
Leaning forward and grabbing a handful of blankets my mother asks,”Will he be released into my custody?”
Te doctor turns to the detective and squints at his chest, “I’ve recently been made aware that it depends on Detective Smith here.” His reply is met with silence. “If you all need anything don’t hesitate to call the nurses station. Tey’ll assist you with whatever you need.” Te clipboard is hung onto my bed and the doctor makes his exit having no reason to stay in our awkward silence.
Te detective stands, eyeing my mother while returning the pen and pad to his front pocket. “You seem pretty banged up kid, I’ll give y’all a few minutes to get yourselves together and I’ll be back to ask you some more questions. Need anything? Coffee ma’am?”
“No thank you.” says my mother, her toothless smile stretched taut until the door closes behind him. Head retreating back to the cover of her hands, she mumbles, ”Tis is all my fault.”
“No it’s not!” My hand, still cuffed, reaches for hers.
“How isn’t it? It’s my fault you were at that damned park. What kind of mother am I? I should’ve just gone to the dispensary. No reason to have you walking through that park at night with cash.”
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