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) Assess the wound to see if we can get away with super glue. If not, then head down Second Street to the ER.
Number two probably wasn’t necessary, but if I didn’t say it in my head, then I’d forget. There was a reason my mom called me “Babbling Brook.”
I made it to the cute, tree-themed daycare in a few short minutes, and already, they were in the lobby waiting for me. The daycare was really sweet, with a huge indoor playground to combat the horribly cold Idaho weather, and open spaces where the kids could run and play freely. Apparently, the eating area was too close to the playground, though.
The director explained in breathless tones how Calla had tripped on her own feet, and although the corners of the tables were made of rounded rubber, she still managed to smack her head hard enough to give her forehead a decent gash.
Calla sat on a hard plastic chair in the foyer of the facility, a paper towel held against her head and a cheese stick in her free hand. She grinned at me with her little, pearly white teeth that had cheese stuck between the molars. “Hey, Mom!”
“Hey, kiddo,” I said, crouching down in front of her.
She kept the towel pressed dutifully against her forehead, and her enormous brown eyes twinkled with laughter. “I did it again.”
“You did it again,” I agreed. I smoothed a hand over her dirty blond hair. At five, it had finally grown a bit thicker, with feathery-soft curls and wisping tendrils, but for a long time, she had been a hilariously bald toddler. “How are you doing? Does it hurt?”
She shook her head. “Nope.” Her gaze shifted from me to the middle-aged, blond director who stood nervously behind me. “I got popsicles. And cheese.”
I gave a solemn nod. “Popsicles are the best. No wonder you feel better.” Calla giggled.
Behind the director, a couple of the younger staff stood with folded arms, their expressions sympathetic. They all wore the same dark blue polos with the daycare’s logo embroidered on the chest and khaki pants over clean, white tennis shoes. I didn’t know people still wore khakis. It kind of looked cute on eighteen-year-old college kids, though.
One of them had a lip ring and vibrant pink hair that made me intensely jealous. Could I dye my hair pink? Yes. Could I keep my job at the same time? Probably not. “Calla, maybe you’ll get to meet Dr. Cade,” she grinned.
Her coworker, a tiny thing with blond hair in a tight ponytail, slapped her arm. “Stop!”
That was the second time in thirty minutes this doctor had been mentioned. I looked between them. “Someone at school said something similar. Does he have a glitter beard or something?”
They giggled, and the pink-haired employee covered her cheek. “Oh my God. No, he’s just really—” She caught her director’s glare. “He’s really good,” she finished, sucking on her lip ring.
Huh. Interesting.
“We’re really so sorry,” the director reiterated. I couldn’t remember her name, but she was super nice. They had done Calla’s hair when I had showed up in a rush with a barely clothed child in my arms, and she had helped me find financial aid for the childcare costs.
I lifted Calla into my arms and gave the director a reassuring shake of my head. “No, no. It’s fine, really. She does this all the time. When she was maybe ten months old, she started walking, and her first three steps ended with her face smashed into the coffee table. And I’m a terrible mom, so I laughed at first, and then I noticed that she was bleeding. It hasn’t really let up since then, and it’s seriously so frequent, she should probably be wrapped in Styrofoam peanuts. Next time it happens, you might as well lead with, ‘She smashed her damn brains in again.’ It’ll at least give us a laugh.”Shut up, Laurel.
The director nodded, her expression appropriately concerned. “Oh, gosh.”
“Anyway,” I cleared my throat, trying to combat some of the soreness that was creeping in where my tonsils were located, “thank you for… calling me.”Of course they called you, dumbass.Your kid smacked her head on a table. “I’m sure I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Please let us know if we can help in any other way,” the sweet director said, and her offer seemed genuine.
It wasn’t the first time the occupants of Montpelier had offered to help me in the fifteen days I’d lived there—embarrassing as it was, they seemed to sniff out my weakness easily. The Mormon population, especially, seemed raring and ready to save me from myself. There were lots of single moms in the world, but I guess I fumbled my way through it so awkwardly, it was hard to look away. I thanked her, and then I carried Calla to the car. She bounced her head side-to-side, and some of the blood oozed from her head onto my floral dress.
I resisted the urge to curse and shifted her so I could carry her like a baby, cradled in my arms. I gave her a squeeze. “You okay, kiddo?”
She gave me the first indication that she might be worried. “Do I have to go to the doctor?”
“Eh,” I made a face, and when we got to the car, I set her on her feet. She wore a purple tutu skirt with horizontally striped pajama pants underneath and a sparkly dog t-shirt on top. I let my five-year-old dress herself because our mornings were hectic enough without meltdowns. Let her look like Junie B. Jones; I wasn’t out to get the Most Fashionable Mom award.
I peeled away the towel to get a look at the cut. White peeked out from the enormous gash that wept bright, thick blood down her forehead. I kept a poker face, but internally, I shrieked.Jesus, that’s the worst one yet. I gave her a careful kiss on her soft, chubby cheek. “Sweetheart, we get to go see the doctor.”
She gave me a skeptical frown. “Do they have to use a shot?”
“Maybe,” I said honestly.
Tears started in her eyes, and I gave her a squishy hug, making sure to keep the towel against her forehead. “I’ll be right there with you. You can watch a show on my phone, okay?”
“YouTube?” she asked, muffled.
