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“For what?” she asks, her eyes huge in her face.
“I’m going to get blood on your gardening apron.” I wrap her hand in the underside of the apron, where there isn’t a streak of garden soil. “Where’s your first aid kit?”
“The kitchen...my parents’ kitchen.”
I pull her with me to the back porch. “Dr. Banks,” I call as the screen door bangs open. The hallway is dark, it feels almost pitch-black after the bright sun of outdoors. The floorboards creak under our feet and vaguely I worry about the dirt I’m tracking in from my work boots.
“Lu?” Her dad pokes his head around the corner. His mouth makes the same O shape hers does when he sees us, her blood on her clothes and my hands wrapped around hers. “What happened?”
“First aid kit?” I ask.
I follow him around the corner into their brightly lit kitchen. Lulu drops into the nearest chair, taking what was clearly her father’s spot, where he was enjoying a cup of tea and toast, a thick book laid open flat.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m so sorry.” The tears streaming down her face are almost like an afterthought, like she doesn’t even know she’s crying. Other than a slight tremor in her voice, she doesn’t sound like she’s crying at all.
“What? Why?” I ask, as her dad finally locates their first aid kit—a reused cookie tin—underneath a stack of cookbooks in a shelf over the fridge. He has to stand on a stool to get to it and I am only one man, I cannot deal with two emergencies right now. Luckily, he takes my hand and lets me help him down.
“So stupid.” She sniffles.
“What do you need?” Dr. Banks asks.
“Hold her hand up, apply pressure.”
“What’s all this racket?” Her mother walks in as I assess their abysmal supplies. “Oh Lord. Oh Lulu. Oh no.” Her hands flutter around Lulu’s head, her voice getting higher and higher pitched.
“Dr. Banks,” I say to her. “Can you please get me some warm, soapy water and a clean cloth? Dr. Banks,” I say, pivoting to her father. This is going to get confusing. “Check if she has any rings or bracelets on her hand.”
The busywork alleviates their panic somewhat, giving me the opportunity to get my supplies situated. I pull up the closest chair and sit with my legs spread, pulling myself as close to her as possible. Settling a towel in my lap, I take her hand from her father’s.
“We should go to the hospital,” her mom whispers.
“It’s not that bad, Mom,” Lulu says, but there’s a mask on her voice. She’s more scared than she’s letting on. Sweat gathers at her hairline.
“It hurts?” I ask.
She bites her lip, nodding. “A lot.”
“Do you feel any numbness, cold in your hand?” I start dabbing at the wound, as gently as I can. She hisses but doesn’t pull away. With the blood cleared, I can let out the breath that’s been caught in my throat. The bleeding has stopped. Her fingernails are still pink and when I press on them, color returns to them immediately.
“No,” she says. “But I think I’m gonna pass out.”
She’s staring directly at it, the cut that—if it were any deeper—would have me insisting we go to the hospital for stitches. “Then quit looking at it,” I tell her, my voice low. “I’ll tell you everything I’m doing, OK?”
She sighs, smiling tight-lipped. “Thank you.” She closes her eyes.
“I’ve cleaned the area,” I tell her. “We’ve confirmed there likely isn’t any nerve damage and you haven’t nicked an artery. I’m putting iodine on the cut now,” I say, as I dab the brown liquid with a cotton ball.
Lulu nods, her eyes squeezed tightly shut.
Their tube of antibiotic ointment is so old I don’t think they make this brand anymore, but I apply it anyway. I can pick up more for her and reapply it later. “Now the ointment, then the bandages.”
Her mother flutters around the kitchen as I wrap Lulu’s hand in gauze. She turns on the kettle, opens the fridge, closes it, wipes the kitchen down with a lemon-scented cleaner. She sighs andhumphsand asks Lulu repeatedly if she needs anything. Her dad sits on the other side of the table, sliding his tea and toast and book over to him. Lulu watches me while I wrap, her lower lip caught between her teeth, her skin still blotchy from her tears.
Gently, I place her bandaged hand on the table and grab ice from the freezer and two cloths, wetting one with warm water. “Put this over the bandage.” I give her the ice wrapped in a cloth. “It will keep any swelling down.”
Then, I wipe her face. There’s a speckle of dried blood on her chin that could have been mistaken for a freckle, plus it gives me a chance to assess her for shock. It’s not that bad. I know it’s not. But now that I’m out of the moment, my heart thumps hard enough in my chest I’m sure they can hear it.
“You’re good at this,” she says quietly. “Taking care of people.”
