Her front tire hit the shoulder where the asphalt met the dirt.
“Watch out!” I screamed, as the bike wobbled hard. London tried to get her other hand back on the handlebars but it slipped off the grip. By then, I knew what would happen, and I watched in horror as the front wheel suddenly jerked. London catapulted over the handlebars, her head and upper body smashing into the mailbox with a sickening thud.
I was off my bike and racing toward her, screaming her name even as her front tire continued to spin. I vaguely noticed the look of surprise on the driver’s face before I crouched beside London’s limp form.
She was facedown, unmoving, utterly silent. Panic flooded every nerve as I gently turned her over.
So much blood.
Oh God, Oh God, Oh God…
I don’t know whether I was saying the words or hearing them in my mind as my insides turned to jelly. Her eyes were closed; her arm had simply flopped to the ground when I’d rolled her, like she was sleeping.
But she wasn’t sleeping.
And her wrist looked as though someone had stuffed half a lemon under the skin.
In that instant, my fear was as all consuming as anything I’d ever experienced. I prayed for a sign that she was still alive, but for what seemed an eternity, there was nothing. Finally, her eyelids fluttered and I heard a sharp intake of breath. The scream that followed was ear shattering.
By then, the driver was gone, and I doubted whether he’d even seen what happened. I didn’t have my phone so I couldn’t call 911. I thought about rushing to a house – any house – to use their phone to call an ambulance, but I didn’t want to leave my daughter. Those thoughts raced through my head in the blink of an eye and she had to get to the hospital.
The hospital…
I scooped her into my arms and began to run, cradling my injured daughter in my arms.
I tore through the neighborhood, feeling neither my legs nor my arms, hurtling forward with single-minded purpose.
As soon as I reached our house, I opened the car door and laid London on the backseat. The blood continued to flow from a gaping wound on her head, soaking her top as if it had been dipped in red paint.
I raced into the house to grab my keys and wallet and rushed back to the car, slamming the front door of the house so loudly that the windows rattled. Jumping behind the wheel of the car, I turned the key, my tires squealing.
On the seat behind me, London was no longer moving and her eyes were closed again.
My senses sharpened with adrenaline, I had never been more aware of my surroundings as I edged the accelerator higher. I flew past houses and rolled through a stop sign before gunning the engine again.
Hitting the main road, I passed cars on the left and right. At a red light, I came to a stop, then rolled through, ignoring the sounds of honking horns.
London lay silent and terrifyingly inert.
I made the fifteen-minute drive in less than seven minutes and slammed to a halt directly in front of the emergency room. Again, I cradled my daughter in my arms and carried her into the half-full waiting area.
The intake nurse knew an emergency when she saw one and was already rising as she called out, “This way!” directing me through the double doors.
Rushing her into an examination room, I laid my daughter on the table as a nurse hustled in, followed a moment later by a doctor.
I struggled to explain what had happened while the doctor lifted her eyelids and shone a light at her pupils. His movements were efficient as he barked commands to the nurses.
“I think she was unconscious,” I said, feeling helpless, to which the doctor responded tersely with some medical jargon that I couldn’t hope to comprehend. The blood was wiped from London’s face and her wrist briefly examined.
“Is she going to be okay?” I finally asked.
“She needs a CAT scan,” he replied, “but I’ve got to staunch the bleeding first.” Time seemed to slow down as I watched the nurse clean London’s face more thoroughly with an antiseptic pad, revealing a half-inch gash directly above her eyebrow. “We can stitch this, but I’d recommend that we get a plastic surgeon in here to do it so we can minimize the scarring. I’ll see who’s available unless you prefer to call a surgeon you know.”
My new client.
I mentioned the doctor’s name and the ER doctor nodded. “He’s very good,” he said before turning to one of the nurses. “See if he can make it here. If not, find out who’s on call.”
As two more nurses entered with a gurney, London stirred and began to whimper. In an instant, I was at her side, murmuring to her, but her gaze seemed unfocused and she didn’t seem to know where she was. Everything was happening so fast…
As the doctor started to question her gently, all I could think was that I’d convinced her to ride down the hill.
What kind of father was I?
What kind of father would urge his child into such a risky situation?
I was sure that the doctor was asking himself the same questions when he looked at me. I watched as gauze pads and bandages were plastered on my daughter’s head.
“We’re going to need to take her now,” he said, and without waiting for my response, London was wheeled from the room.
I filled out the insurance paperwork and used the hospital phone to call Marge. She agreed to swing by my house and grab my phone before coming to the hospital; she also said she would call Liz and my parents.
In the waiting room, I sat with hands together and head bowed, praying for the first time in years, praying that my little girl would recover and hating myself for what I’d done.