He wiped another tear himself and then pointed at his left arm. “I-I fell,” he whispered.
“Can I see where you hurt yourself?” she whispered back. “Your hand makes a good splint, but I think I can make you a better one.”
With worried, pain-filled, and skeptical young eyes, the boy slowly nodded and let go of his injured arm.
Libby smiled at the woman holding Darren. “Why don’t you let Michael take over now?” she suggested. “He’ll hold him steady for me.”
Looking just as alarmed as Darren by Libby’s remark, the woman hesitantly nodded and moved out of the way so Michael could take her place behind the boy.
“What were you doing on the roof?” Libby asked as she used scissors to cut Darren’s shirt carefully away from his arm. “No, let me guess,” she continued, keeping up a steady stream of distracting chatter. “I see Christmas lights hanging off the eave. You were decorating the house, weren’t you?”
He nodded and sucked in his breath the moment she exposed his arm. It was broken between his elbow and his wrist, but the bone hadn’t pierced the flesh.
Libby let out a long and appreciative whistle. “That’s quite a bruise you’ve got there,”
she said in awe, smiling at him. “If it were me, I’d be wailing my head off.”
“You’re a girl,” Darren said.
Libby nodded in agreement. “Yeah, I guess that’s why I’d be hollering and you’re not.”
“Is my daddy going to be okay?” he asked, darting a look at the ambulance.
“He’ll be fine, Darren. But he is hurt, so we’re going to keep him in the ambulance until the helicopter gets here.”
“Am—am I going to ride in the helicopter?” he asked.
Libby cupped his face with her hands and shook her head with a rueful smile. “Sorry, chum. Not this time.”
He pulled his gaze away from the ambulance and stared up at her. Libby darted a quick look at Michael and then looked back at the boy.
“Close your eyes, Darren,” she whispered. “And think about something nice. Do you have a pet?”
“I got Bingo,” he said, tightly closing his eyes.
Libby kept one hand on his chin and placed her other hand over the break in his arm.
“And is Bingo a cat?” she asked.
“Naw. He’s a dog. Ow,” he hissed, flinching.
“Shhh. It’s okay, Darren. It’s only heat you’re feeling, not pain.”
“Your hands are really warm,” he quietly agreed, looking down at his arm.
Libby lifted his chin so he would look at her. “I’m not positive your arm is broken, Darren. I’m hoping it’s just a bad bruise. Now, close your eyes again and think about Bingo. Did you get him as a puppy?”
But Libby didn’t hear Darren’s answer if he gave one. Already, her mind’s eye was traveling through his body. She felt his rapid, anxious breathing and his young heartbeat racing with fear. She found his broken bone, pulsing with color, and began to repair it mentally. The break slowly knitted together, the blood vessels stopped leaking, and the swelling eased ever so slightly.
She was just pulling out of his body when Libby noticed something else—an irregularity in Darren’s heartbeat, a backwash from one valve. And so she stopped and concentrated and repaired it while she was there. She opened her eyes, lifted Darren’s chin, and smiled at him.
“You’re a very lucky boy. It’s only a bit bruised,” she said, looking over at Mrs. Brewer, who was now kneeling beside her. “A little Tylenol if he complains,” Libby told her.
“And he’ll be good to go in a day or two.”
“It-it’s not broken?” the woman asked, softly touching Darren’s arm.
“No. The swelling will go down quickly, once we get some ice on it,” she said, taking an ice pack out of the kit, breaking the seal to mix the ingredients, and then carefully placing it over Darren’s arm. “I think he’s more shaken than hurt.”
Some of the tension eased from the woman’s face. “And Alan?” she asked. “He’ll be okay, too?”
Libby nodded. “He will,” she assured her, remembering the injury she had been able to see but hadn’t been able to get near. “He’ll have to go through weeks of rehabilitation, but he’ll be fine in no time.”
“It’s all my fault,” the woman cried, burying her face in her hands. “I bought those damned lights and wanted them put on the eaves.”
Libby wrapped an arm around her. “It’s Karen, isn’t it?” she asked, trying to remember that morning’s introductions.
“Carrie,” the woman corrected, nodding.
“It was no one’s fault, Carrie. It was an accident. And your husband and son are going to be okay. You’ll have a great Christmas.”
The woman took her son in her arms. “Thank Doc Libby, Darren,” she instructed.
Darren eyed her suspiciously. “My arm don’t hurt no more.”
“I’m glad,” Libby said, standing up and closing the medical kit. “And I’m prescribing that you stay off roofs, young man, for at least three years.”
Michael took the kit from her and carried it back to the ambulance, allowing Libby to run ahead and check on Alan. Being strapped to a backboard was uncomfortable all by itself, and the strain of his ordeal showed on his face behind the oxygen mask.
It was another fifteen minutes before the sound of beating helicopter blades finally broke over the tops of the trees. There was a large field next to the Brewers’ house, and people had parked cars and turned on their headlights to illuminate the area. With its own powerful lights flooding the field, the chopper slowly descended, forcing the onlookers to take shelter. Just as it touched down, attendants emerged and ran toward the ambulance.
With her hand placed reassuringly on his chest, Libby climbed down as Alan was lifted out of the ambulance and became part of the parade of paramedics as she shouted an update of vitals to the new arrivals. Just as soon as Alan was placed in the chopper, Libby closed the door and pounded on the side. She then ducked and ran back to the ambulance to avoid being blown away by the downdraft from the blades.
“Do you have someone to drive you to Bangor?” she asked Carrie Brewer. “And someone to stay with your children?”
Carrie nodded, watching the chopper carry her husband away. Finally, she looked at Libby. “Should Darren come with me?”
“That would be best,” Libby told her. “He probably should have a more thorough checkup and maybe some X rays.”
Carrie pulled her into a shaky embrace. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you for helping us.”
“The paramedics did all the work. Now, go to Bangor, and tell whoever drives you not to rush. It will take them a while to evaluate Alan. But they’ll talk with you before they do anything. And don’t worry,” she finished, patting Carrie’s shoulder, “he’ll be fine.”
Libby turned and walked to Michael’s truck, opened the passenger door, and stared at the chest-high seat. She was too tired and too numb to climb up into it. Strong hands took hold of her by the waist and lifted her up. Her seat belt was fastened, and the door was softly shut.
Libby closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the headrest. Other than to tell the paramedics that she was a doctor, Michael hadn’t said one word the entire evening.
And he still had nothing to say as he slid in behind the wheel, started the truck, and drove down the driveway. When they got to the paved road, he turned right, not left, and headed toward her home.
Libby was thankful for his silence. Her head was reeling, her stomach was churning, and she couldn’t stop shaking. It wasn’t until Michael turned on the heater and a blast of warm air hit her that Libby realized she was chilled to the bone.
She probably should say something.
But what?
She looked to her left and could just make out Michael’s profile in the dim light from the dash as he watched the road. He silently lifted his right arm. And just as silently, Libby unfastened her seat belt and scooted over until she was firmly against him, closed her eyes again with a sigh, and snuggled into his fierce embrace.