CLARA JUNE
A thin sheenof sweat makes my skin slick, and my racing heart makes it hard for me to breathe or think. I stumble down the hall, toward the piercing howl of Tanner’s cry, heavy footfalls behind me. I push open the door and sail across the room, dropping to a crouch at the side ofmy son’s bed.
He’s sitting up on one elbow, sheets bunched around his waist, his complexion chalky, his eyes wide. His pillow is dark with sweat, and his sheets, beneath his body, are much the same. Rawley appears in the doorway, in plaid pajama pants and a Slipknot t-shirt. His sleep filled eyes come to mine. I nod toward the switch on the wall.
“Hit the fan. Bring us some water, and more Advil,” I tell him slowly, garnering a nod before he flips the switch and disappears down the hall. I do my best to stay calm. As the parent, I decide the mood of the situation, and I also decide how much we are collectively in fear. I breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth, assessing and calming.
I look at Tanner, who is writhing within his range of motion, groaning, teeth gritted. I press my hand to his forehead, and try to get a feel for his body temperature. He’s warm, and the room is warm, and I’m warm, so I don’t know. I shake my head. “I don’t know if you have a fever.” It occurs to me just then that in the chaos of it all, I haven’t even asked what’s wrong. I stroke my hand through his hair, pushing sweat off of his forehead. “Tanner, what’s wrong?”
Dean sits on the foot of the bed, and Tanner’s eyes do a double take. He’s not shocked to see Dean—he’s relieved. “It hurts, Coach. It hurts so bad. I can’t—I can’t,” his lips seal shut as he winces, riding out a wave of pain, evident by the way his face drains all lingering traces of color.
Over the top of his comforter, Dean grips Tanner’s foot and gives it a squeeze. “Deep breath in and slow breath out, gimme three, come on, T, let’s relax and figure this out.”
My son opens his eyes, making contact with his coach. A moment later, he nods, then pulls a long breath in through his nostrils. Dean counts one as Rawley returns, putting a cold compress on his brother’s head. I didn’t even ask for it, but we needed it.
“Thank you, Rawl.” I take the water and Advil from him, too, and set it next to Tanner on the night table.
“Is he okay?” Rawl asks as Dean counts off the third and final breath.
I shrug. “I don’t—I don’t know.”
“I need to go to the ER,” Tanner moans, unable to relax despite Dean’s breathing exercises.
In my mind, I run through the list of bills I haven’t paid, ones that I have paid but are coming up again, and wonder if the hospital has a payment plan for Tanner’s last bill. Regardless, if he needs to go to the ER, we will go. I will figure it out, even if it means I live at Goode’s for a year until I make it all up. I will give my son what he needs.
Dean’s voice is assured, calm and damn near relaxed. “Hold on now. Let’s just take a minute, alright?”
Rawley sits in Tanner’s desk chair, and I say a silent prayer that Archie remains asleep, because getting him back down is near impossible. Dean scratches the back of his neck before clamping his hand onto Tanner’s foot again.
“Go ahead and sit up, drink that water your brother brought you, and take those Advil, too.”
Tanner doesn’t argue. He simply nods, and sits up, and takes the pills, finishing the glass of water.
Dean slides down the mattress, and I back up, sitting on the desk next to Rawley as Dean puts pressure on Tanner’s collarbone.
“You had your first practice back. It was grueling. You had PT after. Let’s not assume you’re hurt, or that something is wrong,” Dean says, slowly moving his hand around my son’s chest, to his neck. He motions for Tanner to lift an arm, and talks to him while maneuvering T into stretches. “I think you’re discovering the hard part of coming back to the field after an injury. Seems like that first run on the field and thatfirst hit is gonna be brutal.” Dean assesses my son’s ability to reach behind himself. “But it’s the first few nights, when you’re all settled in bed.”
He looks my way, wearing an easy smile that brings me so much comfort. “He’s okay. I think this is soreness from getting back to the field.” He looks at Tanner, tipping his head to the side, assessing. “Nothing really feels out of place to me. When you focus on the pain, is it radiating or sharp?”
“Radiating,” Tanner answers, earning a nod from Dean.
“Your nerves were compressed as you healed. Limited range of motion makes everything get comfortable, and today, you tested that comfort, and stretched all those nerves out.” He looks between me, Rawley and Tanner. “I think we’re good. But some more ice wouldn’t hurt.”
Rawley gets to his feet. “I’ll get the ice.” He places a hand on top of my shoulder, giving me a sad, half-smile. “Archie’s up.”
I glance at the door where a tired little boy stands in the doorframe, one fist rubbing at his eye, the other clinging to a blanket scrap that belonged first to Rawley, then to Tanner.
“What’s going on?” he asks through a quiet yawn.
“Tanner was just feeling sore from his injury. But he’s okay. Let’s get you back to bed.” I crouch down and lift him into my arms, despite the fatigue of the day, I never miss a moment to hold my baby. After all, he’s my last and sooner than later, he won’t want me to hold him this way.
I sift my fingers through the back of his head as I peer down at Tanner. “I’ll come check on you after I get him back down, okay?”
He nods, looking between me and Dean. “I think I’m okay.” He grabs Archie’s foot. “Night, dude.”
“Night, Tanner.”
Forty three minutes later, Archie is finally asleep and I’m quietly tugging the door closed to his room when I pause, overhearing what I know is meant to be a private conversation.
