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He winked and went inside. As I was about to do the same, I heard crying. Little kid crying. Turning around, I saw a boy of about eight or nine walking his bike down the sidewalk. He was sniffling and wiping his face with the back of his hand. He wore shorts and T-shirt, sneakers. I could see his knees were bloodied and he’d scraped an elbow.
I dropped my bag and as he continued down the sidewalk, about to pass my steps, I went down to him. “Looks like you’ve had a serious fall. Were you trying to be Evil Knievel?”
He stopped and looked up at me, all sweaty and tear stained. I stood bes
ide him and did a quick visual assessment. Nothing looked broken, it didn’t look like he hit his head. Just a typical bike spill.
His face scrunched up in confusion. “Who’s that?”
“He was a man from when I was a kid who would jump across rows of cars on his motorcycle. I think he even jumped across the Grand Canyon once.”
He had black hair that curled, but was damp with sweat. His eyes were dark and had a Mediterranean look about him. Italian perhaps. His eyes widened, clearly impressed, then he frowned. “Nah, I just got my wheel caught in a storm drain.”
I nodded, understanding. Those old grates were the perfect width to catch bike tires if you rode over them the wrong way. It was easy to do.
“You don’t live nearby, do you?” I asked.
He tilted his head. “A few streets over. Why?”
“Well, I think I’d have seen you before if you did. I’m Emory.”
“Marco. Marco Casale.”
“Hi, Marco. How about a few Band-Aids for the road? I know it always made my son feel better.”
“You have a son? Can he play?”
I smiled indulgently at him. Sounded like he was a little lonely. “Well, he’s not a kid anymore. He’s away at college. But I bet he’d like to meet you when he comes home. So, Band-Aids?”
“Okay.”
“Tell you what. Lean your bike against the side of the steps and have a seat. I’ll go get them and come back out.”
By the time I’d gotten the Band-Aids and a glass of water, he was sitting with his knees tucked up, but his tears had dried up.
“I thought you might be thirsty.” I handed him the water.
“Thanks.” He took the plastic cup and drank half the water, handed it back.
“Do you want to put the Band-Aids on yourself or do you want me to do it?” I knew boys pretty well. They had their own little egos and pride just like the bigger versions. I had to be careful not to mother him too much. Or at least let him think he wasn’t being mothered. “Just so you know, I’m a nurse and work at the emergency room, so I see cuts like these all the time. I probably won’t throw up.”
His face crinkled again. “Gross. You won’t throw up ’cause you’re a mom.”
I nodded. “Especially because I’m a mom.”
“Then you can do them.”
“Okay, but this first part might sting a little.” I used a wet paper towel to dab at the cuts, then covered one scrape after another, making sure no blood or sore spot was exposed, just as Chris used to want. He flinched at first, but Marco acted very brave.
“Do you want to call your mom or dad to come pick you up?”
“I live with my uncle and grandfather. But no. I can ride home now.”
“Is your front tire damaged?”
He shook his head, dark curls bouncing. “Thank you for the Band-Aids, Miss Emory.”
“You’re welcome, Marco.”
