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I nodded again.
“Let’s go.”
***
Four hours later, I stared blankly at the wall, bile still filling my throat.
They’d taken my baby to surgery over an hour ago, and George was on his way.
George hadn’t taken the news well, which was understandable.
I hadn’t taken it well, either.
I closed my eyes and replayed the surgeon’s words in my head. He’d come by on the way to the OR—operating room—with my son in it and had discussed what was about to happen.
“Your son has sustained two broken legs, a broken femur on his left, and a broken tibia on his right. He has a cracked pelvis as well as two broken ulnar bones in each of his arms. He’s sustained a concussion, but at this time, does not show any signs of swelling. The purpose of the surgery is to set both bones in his arms, and his broken femur. I’ll have more information for you once I’ve gotten a chance to repair the damage to him.”
Another tear hit my leg.
And another. And another.
With my legs crossed the way they were, the tears had just started to roll down the length of my pants to pool in my crotch. It made me look like I’d wet myself, but I didn’t care.
A door slammed somewhere down the hallway, and I looked up.
George was barreling down the hallway toward me, determination in his every step, and a stark sadness in his eyes.
“Georgie!” I cried, standing up so fast that my head spun. Then, moments later, I threw myself into his arms and buried my face into his neck.
He did the same thing to me, and suddenly we were on our knees, holding each other while the other cried.Chapter 16If it’s the thought that counts, I should be in jail.
-George to Wrigley
George
Your son is in surgery.
I replayed those words over and over as I looked at my hands.
When surgery was over, they’d scheduled him to be taken to an adult room since both his mother and I would be staying with him—and we would. There’d be no leaving for either one of us—they’d chosen to give him a bigger bed so we could sleep with him in it.
In other news, professional baseball player center fielder for the Longview Lumberjacks had a tragedy strike against his family tonight. Around four p.m., the center fielder’s son was hit in a city park by a drunk driver who lost control of his vehicle. He was airlifted to Dallas Children’s Hospital, and at this time, no further news has been released on how he is doing. When the Lumberjack team manager was contacted, they declined to comment. Our thoughts and prayers are with the Hoffman family tonight as they await news on their son.
I tuned out the reporter and closed my eyes, reliving those moments when Wrigley had called me to tell me the news.
Then, to make matters worse, I’d looked up to see the entire thing play out on the TV in front of me. The team manager had requested that we stay and attend the local radio station’s “Live with the Lumberjacks” that they were hosting. Though, I and a handful of the other players had actually done what we’d been asked to do.
And I had been one of them.
I’d been there to witness the entire thing from start to finish of three reporters harassing my wife on the way to the park and distracting her. Then I’d watched as my son had raced ahead on his bike, and the car had lost control. The next thirty seconds would live forever in my brain.
The car flipped into the ditch, rolled, and then swung around to hit my son.
My son, his tiny little body, had gone flying.
I could actually hear the crunch of bones as they snapped in his tiny little form.
It was the single worst sound that I would ever hear in my life. The second worst was hearing Wrigley’s phone call confirming what I’d just seen, followed shortly by her sobs.
My phone rang, and I saw it was the call I’d been waiting for.
“I’ll be right back,” I said to Wrigley.
She looked up, her eyes dead, and nodded.
I made my way out to the hallway, placed the phone to my ear, and said two words. “Find him?”
“Yes,” I heard replied from the other end.
“I want him gone. I want harassment charges filed on him. And I also want anything else you can pin on him. He never finds another goddamn job in this part of Texas. Hell, any of Texas. Do you understand me?” I said carefully.
“Yes, sir,” my lawyer replied. “I’ll get it taken care of.”
I hung up and resisted the urge to smash my phone into pieces.
I couldn’t do that, though.
Grams was on her way here, and I wanted to be able to talk to her if she needed me.
