FIVE YEARS EARLIER
“Broken,” Dr. Coleman says as he angles his computer screen around to face us. I stare at the X-ray of my hand as he points out a bone. “It’s the lunate again,” he explains with a frown. “Of course, it was already weak, so it’s no surprise it has fractured so easily again.” He turns the screen back around and pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose as he begins to type something up.
The small office goes quiet. My wrist is throbbing in my lap. Dad is sitting on the edge of his seat next to me, fumbling with his hands, his foot anxiously tapping against the floor. It’s late morning, and instead of being at school and at work, we are here.
“It’ll heal, though, right?” Dad asks Dr. Coleman. Even his breathing is shallow.
“Luckily, it’s not severe,” Dr. Coleman says, glancing up from his screen. “Back into a cast for three weeks, but there’s a lot of swelling right now, so we’ll stick to a splint over the weekend. Bring him back on Monday and we’ll get a cast on. Expect it to take a couple of months to fully heal.” He flashes me a teasing smile, but I can tell there’s a seriousness to his words as he says, “That’s if you don’t break it again first, Tyler!”
Dad looks at the ground again. He feels real bad today, way more than usual. Is it because he can’t ignore the pain he’s inflicted this time? Is it because he has to look at me and see the band-aid on my forehead and the swelling of my wrist?
“Peter,” Dr. Coleman says as he continues to type away at his computer, glancing sideways at Dad, “how’s your father doing these days? I haven’t seen him around lately.”
Dad swallows as he forces his gaze back up. There’s a wave of relief that comes over him, like he’s eternally grateful for the change in subject. “Oh, he’s doing just fine. Keeping himself busy with that damn Corvette!”
“Remind him that he owes me a drink sometime,” Dr. Coleman says with a hearty chuckle. “And a ride!”
Dad joins in with the laughter, and suddenly I feel so alone again. They banter back and forth while Dr. Coleman puts a splint on my wrist, and it’s like the frequency of my broken bones has been forgotten already.
* * *
As we walk back to Dad’s car in silence, I trail slightly behind, kicking at the ground and staring at the black splint that I now have to wear over the weekend until I can get my cast. I should be frustrated that it’s only been a month since I got my last cast off, but at this point, I just don’t even care anymore. It’s all just so . . . Whatever. I guess I’ve accepted it now. This fracture will heal, and then there’ll be a new one.
The thing that’s really on my mind is that I don’t want to go home. I can see Dad’s Mercedes just ahead, but I want to turn around and run away, run back into Dr. Coleman’s office and ask him to help me, that my wrist is broken again not because I’m clumsy, but because Dad is cruel. I know I can’t do that, though. I know I can’t tell anyone. Ever. I know that all of this is so wrong, but I don’t want to be the one to tear my family apart. I don’t want to ruin Dad’s life. He’s my dad.
That’s why I do as I should and climb into the car. Awkwardly, I one-handedly pull on my seatbelt and fix my eyes on the dashboard. I’m waiting for Dad to turn on the engine, to drive us home, but he’s not doing anything. I wonder if he’s mad at me, if he can’t keep his anger at bay until we get home, if he’s going to grab me right here and now in the hospital parking lot. Mustering up an ounce of bravery, I look over at him.
He’s sitting paralyzed with his hands on the steering wheel. He is completely frozen, staring off into nowhere, and I can hear his shallow breathing again. His chest rises and falls, his lower lip quivers. A long minute passes, and then he slowly angles his head to look at me. The expression in his eyes is foreign to me. They are brimming with emotion, wide and heartbroken, full of remorse, of guilt, of regret. He stares at the band-aid on my forehead, and then at my wrist, and his green eyes glisten as they fill with tears.
“Never, ever, ever again,” he whispers as he chokes up. He presses his hand over his mouth as tears break free, his features twisting, his head shaking fast. He can’t even look at me as his voice breaks. “I promise, Tyler. I’m never going to hurt you again.” He huddles over the steering wheel, muffling sobs as he covers his face with his hands, his body shaking. “I’m sorry. I am. I really am,” he splutters, but he’s breaking down so quickly that his words are almost unintelligible.
I’ve never seen Dad cry before. Not once in my twelve years of living. He once told me only weak men cry. Does that mean he’s weak now? Does that mean he’s not strong enough to hurt me anymore? He says sorry a lot, but not like this, not with so much meaning.
That’s why I believe him.