Read Online Fearless by Rafael Yglesias - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Rafael Yglesias
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young man in a blue hospital gown looked at Carla’s leg and at her left hand and flashed a penlight into her eyes. “She’s okay,” he said in a clipped dismissive voice, almost a rebuke. He hurried away, followed by an attentive nurse.
Because of him Carla noticed for the first time that the back of her hand had an inflamed red stripe across it. She remembered the burning sensation she had felt during the crash. Other sensations and images came fast: Bubble wedged in her lap, his hair brushing against her chin; the spinning people and seats, the roaring tigers, and the horrible shock of her empty arms.
“Help me up!” she called. She tried to will her legs over the edge of me gurney. The broken one refused her order.
She looked around. She was in a hallway. Blue letters pasted on a glass panel told her she was outside the emergency room. Through the window she saw a middle-aged man’s chest split open like a chicken on the butcher’s counter, his mouth overwhelmed by tape and a white funnel. The sight was fleeting—they drew a curtain around him. Everywhere there were people and hurried activity.
The people here are really sick, Carla. So lie down and shut up. You’re all right .
“Oh God,” she said sadly. A state trooper glanced over at her. He stood with his arms folded facing the entrance’s double doors, as if expecting wrongdoers to make a charge. She waved to him. He frowned. And then he came over. He made noise when he walked. His belt was loaded with things. “You seen a two-year-old boy with black hair?” she asked.
“They took the kids to Pediatric Emergency,” he said, still stern, as if she were at fault for not knowing they would. “Looking for your son?”
His accent squeezed the sounds into a whine. She had to repeat his sentence to herself before she understood it. “Yeah,” she drawled. Her tongue was thick and slow. Must be the shot. “What did they give me?” she asked. When the cop didn’t understand her question Carla mimicked an injection with her thumb and fingers.
“Don’t know. Could be morphine. I’ll ask somebody about your boy.”
He moved off behind her. She attempted to turn herself in order to watch where he went. Her eyes were surprised by the glare of the fluorescent panels on the ceiling. She blinked, her elbows slipped, and she fell back with a thud.
Just relax. Give yourself a break .
“Hi, honey.” A voice wakened her. She wasn’t aware of having fallen asleep.
The face she saw was wrinkled and big and square. Large glasses twitched. They were lightly tinted and had a twinkling jewel at each corner. Carla recognized the frames as being the same as her mother’s. They were an extravagance, costing over two hundred dollars.
“My name is Bea Rosenfeld. I’m a social worker and a family therapist…” she smiled beneficently, tilting her head as if making a joke: “…and some other things. My husband says I like being a student, but you know how men like to belittle what they don’t understand. I guess women do too—but what do you care? You’re in pain. How’s the leg? Has a doctor seen you?”
Carla nodded. “It’s broken.”
“That looks temporary,” Bea said, glancing at the cast. “I was told you said you were traveling with a little boy. Your son?” She studied a sheet of paper. “What’s your name?” Before Carla could answer, she added: “Or what was the name on your ticket?”
“Carla Fransisca.”
“Beautiful name. Franchesca—”
“No. Fran sis ca.”
“Right…uh huh. Okay.” Bea’s glistening frames rose up from the paper and shined at Carla. “Well, I think you should know that he’s missing.” The glasses reflected two bars of fluorescent light. She told Carla the fact boldly. She put a big warm hand on Carla’s uninjured one. “Was he in a seat or in your lap?”
“I couldn’t get him in the seat! The belt wouldn’t work!” Carla felt stupid yelling, but she was nervous that her story
Because of him Carla noticed for the first time that the back of her hand had an inflamed red stripe across it. She remembered the burning sensation she had felt during the crash. Other sensations and images came fast: Bubble wedged in her lap, his hair brushing against her chin; the spinning people and seats, the roaring tigers, and the horrible shock of her empty arms.
“Help me up!” she called. She tried to will her legs over the edge of me gurney. The broken one refused her order.
She looked around. She was in a hallway. Blue letters pasted on a glass panel told her she was outside the emergency room. Through the window she saw a middle-aged man’s chest split open like a chicken on the butcher’s counter, his mouth overwhelmed by tape and a white funnel. The sight was fleeting—they drew a curtain around him. Everywhere there were people and hurried activity.
The people here are really sick, Carla. So lie down and shut up. You’re all right .
“Oh God,” she said sadly. A state trooper glanced over at her. He stood with his arms folded facing the entrance’s double doors, as if expecting wrongdoers to make a charge. She waved to him. He frowned. And then he came over. He made noise when he walked. His belt was loaded with things. “You seen a two-year-old boy with black hair?” she asked.
“They took the kids to Pediatric Emergency,” he said, still stern, as if she were at fault for not knowing they would. “Looking for your son?”
His accent squeezed the sounds into a whine. She had to repeat his sentence to herself before she understood it. “Yeah,” she drawled. Her tongue was thick and slow. Must be the shot. “What did they give me?” she asked. When the cop didn’t understand her question Carla mimicked an injection with her thumb and fingers.
“Don’t know. Could be morphine. I’ll ask somebody about your boy.”
He moved off behind her. She attempted to turn herself in order to watch where he went. Her eyes were surprised by the glare of the fluorescent panels on the ceiling. She blinked, her elbows slipped, and she fell back with a thud.
Just relax. Give yourself a break .
“Hi, honey.” A voice wakened her. She wasn’t aware of having fallen asleep.
The face she saw was wrinkled and big and square. Large glasses twitched. They were lightly tinted and had a twinkling jewel at each corner. Carla recognized the frames as being the same as her mother’s. They were an extravagance, costing over two hundred dollars.
“My name is Bea Rosenfeld. I’m a social worker and a family therapist…” she smiled beneficently, tilting her head as if making a joke: “…and some other things. My husband says I like being a student, but you know how men like to belittle what they don’t understand. I guess women do too—but what do you care? You’re in pain. How’s the leg? Has a doctor seen you?”
Carla nodded. “It’s broken.”
“That looks temporary,” Bea said, glancing at the cast. “I was told you said you were traveling with a little boy. Your son?” She studied a sheet of paper. “What’s your name?” Before Carla could answer, she added: “Or what was the name on your ticket?”
“Carla Fransisca.”
“Beautiful name. Franchesca—”
“No. Fran sis ca.”
“Right…uh huh. Okay.” Bea’s glistening frames rose up from the paper and shined at Carla. “Well, I think you should know that he’s missing.” The glasses reflected two bars of fluorescent light. She told Carla the fact boldly. She put a big warm hand on Carla’s uninjured one. “Was he in a seat or in your lap?”
“I couldn’t get him in the seat! The belt wouldn’t work!” Carla felt stupid yelling, but she was nervous that her story
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