FIVE YEARS EARLIER
I love it when Dad is out of town, because when he’s out of town, he isn’t here, and when he isn’t here, he can’t hurt me. He’s been in Seattle for the past two days, and I don’t think he’s coming home until tomorrow night. I wish he would stay away longer, but I’m hoping that by the time he gets back tomorrow, he won’t be so stressed. I’m hoping he’ll come home happy and play basketball with us out on the drive again like he did a couple weeks ago. That would be real nice.
It’s Friday afternoon, and I’ve been allowed to skip last period only because I have an appointment with Dr. Coleman. We’re sitting in his waiting room now, Mom and me, and I’m staring at the clock on the wall in front of me, watching it tick on. It’s been a while now since I got the cast on my wrist removed, and now Dr. Coleman wants to follow up and check how the fracture is healing. I’ve been constantly forgetting to do the exercises he asked me to, so in a last-ditch effort to make a difference, I quickly hold up my left arm and begin rotating my wrist in a full circle. It still hurts sometimes.
“Isn’t it too late to start doing that?” Mom asks teasingly as she glances at me out of the corner of her eye. She’s been on her phone for the past five minutes, rapidly typing, probably because she’s been working from home the past couple days and needs to stay in touch with the office. She’s even taken the afternoon off to take me here, and she’s promised we’ll stop for ice cream down at the promenade afterward.
“It might still help,” I tell her with a shrug, but then quickly give up and drop my wrist back down onto my lap. I look at the clock again.
“Tyler?” I hear a voice say, and when I look over, Dr. Coleman is smiling straight at me from the door of the waiting room. He’s sort of old, with deep wrinkles and graying hair and a pudgy stomach, but he’s always super nice. It’s not enough to put me at ease, though. “Come on through!”
Mom tosses her phone into her purse and gets to her feet. I try not to wince as she places her hand on my shoulder and guides me over to Dr. Coleman as he leads us down the hallway to his office. Dr. Coleman is a childhood friend of Grampa’s, and he’s been our family doctor since forever. Mom asks him how he’s doing, but I don’t listen for the answer, because now I’m nervous. I get anxious every time I have to see him. Despite the high temperatures outside today, I’m wearing several layers of clothes, including a hoodie. I don’t want him to notice the bruises, and I make it difficult.
“So, how’s that wrist doing?” Dr. Coleman asks once we’re all sat down and comfortable inside his office. He flashes me a warm smile and interlocks his hands in his lap as he watches me through the thick lenses of his glasses, waiting for a reply.
“It still feels sort of stiff sometimes,” I admit, glancing down at my hands. I just want to get this over and done with as quickly as possible.
“Normally, it’d be fully healed by now given how small the fracture was, but it’s taking longer due to how weak the bone is after breaking it the first time,” he explains with a frown, then edges forward in his seat and reaches out his hand. “Let’s take a look.”
I roll the sleeve of my hoodie back up to my elbow and hold out my wrist to him. I’ve done this all over before, earlier this year when Dad fractured my wrist in the exact same place when he grabbed me too hard, so I know the routine. Dr. Coleman bends my hand in different angles. Rolls it. Prods my skin deeply with his thumb.
“Just stiffness?” he asks once he sits back again, angling himself toward his computer.
“Yeah,” I say. Quickly, I pull my sleeve back down.
Dr. Coleman begins typing and over his shoulder he says, “It’s feeling pretty good to me. Give it a couple more weeks, and if it’s still feeling tight, come and see me again.” He stops typing and swivels back around in his chair to face me, moving his glasses an inch down the bridge of his nose. “I still don’t understand how you were unfortunate enough to break that wrist twice in the same year. Some odds those are, Tyler. When you turn eighteen, make sure you try out the lottery!” He laughs and gives me a wink.
“He can be so clumsy,” Mom says. Even without looking at her, I can sense she’s rolling her eyes. “We can’t keep him on his feet half the time!”
“Must run in the family. Old Pete was always tripping up out on the field when we were young!” he says. They get to their feet, and he exchanges a smile and shakes hands with Mom. I’m pretty sure Grampa must have been genuinely clumsy, whereas I’m not. “Make sure he does those exercises.”
“Of course,” Mom says, placing her hand back on my shoulder again when I stand up.
I feel sick now. Even Dr. Coleman doesn’t know what’s really going on. But I guess I make it difficult for anyone to figure out. Half of me desperately wishes someone would, but the other half of me knows better.
“Tyler,” Dr. Coleman says as we’re heading for the door. Mom and I pause to look back at him, and he shakes his head with a small laugh. “No more running down the stairs too fast, okay? I don’t want to see you breaking that wrist for a third time!”
If only I could promise him that.