Jesse peered out the window and saw Mrs. Wilcox, the caseworker who wouldn’t give his mother bus tickets home. This was huge. He blamed Mrs. Wilcox for being stuck in Michigan, and not on the bus to Texas. Now he thought of paying her back. He didn’t much care how that came about as he propelled himself on his crutches through the corridors of Lakeshore Hospital to his room that evening. He could only guess how good it would make him feel when it did.
He had drifted in and out of consciousness that first night. At first dreams unfolded slowly in endless loops of touchdown glory on his home field in Donna, Texas. He moved effortlessly, scoring at will each time he touched the ball. Then in a flash he lay in a heap outside the lines, the weight of the world on his leg. He felt himself to be in a hurry. To go where? The weight and the waiting were unbearable. And then— nothing. A nurse’s mouth opened and closed and her words came from a different place than her lips. Jesse thought he cried out, but his own voice went unheard. The nurse held something in her hand. His wrist. Someone’s wrist. He observed this from where he floated above his bed, looking down at the boy in it. Then—men in gloved hands pulling a rope. Voices. Bells. A clanging of pots and pans. He felt alone in this strange place, and as his fear abated, he felt a giddiness, too, as the curtain lifted and the new day cast yet another spell.
“Jesse,” his mother, Sarita, said, suddenly in his face, a hand on his forehead. She waited. “Jesse. The drugs put you out. Jesse?”
A nurse introduced herself as Marie. She was short and stout with a nest of curly dark hair. “Do you remember what happened?” she said.
“Do you know where you are?” There was a gap in her upper front teeth and she whistled when she spoke. “The hospital,” Marie continued. “Are you in pain?”
Jesse’s leg was bandaged, his elbow pinned down by what felt like a nail running through it. “My head hurts,” he finally said, with great effort. “My arm, too.”
Marie adjusted the IV attached there. She said that the emergency doctor had cleaned his leg, removing splinters left by a crate of apples. Nothing broken. He could have breakfast if he wanted. Or just a popsicle. “When do we go back to Texas?” said Jesse. He thought of football, his grandfather, the skinny girl Alicia from Reynosa, who had waved good-bye in April.
Marie looked at Sarita. “The doctor explained to your mother. He closed part of the wound. You’ll need more tests when the swelling is down. To see if there was nerve damage.”
“Nerve damage,” sighed Sarita, “is when you find your child on the pavement bleeding.”
Marie said that the resident would look at the leg again soon. Then she’d change the dressing. The wound was draining. She asked Sarita if she needed a place to stay. Sarita said that Marty King from Human Services had found a family where she could live temporarily.
Sarita watched Marie and an aide transfer Jesse into a wheelchair. “He’s got to start moving,” Marie said. “Even if just this.” They kept his leg elevated.
The nurse asked Sarita if she remembered what the emergency doctor said. She read from her laptop as the aide finished positioning Jesse. “. . . forklift tore patient’s flesh, above right knee. X-rays negative. Crush injury not ruled out . . . possible compression of muscle tissue.” Marie indicated the IV and said that the doctor had ordered an antibiotic and anti-inflammatory along with a painkiller. The wound would have to be cleaned frequently. More stitches would be required. He’d get a tetanus shot, too.
“His shots are current,” said Sarita, reaching into her purse for Jesse’s records. “Just a booster,” said Marie. “A precaution.” She asked Jesse to hold the IV pole as Sarita wheeled him from the room.
The next day a nurse with red hair cleaned the wound, changed the dressing and said that a specialist would examine him. She said that it was a miracle that his muscles, tendons, and blood vessels were not cut. Maybe he could go home soon. She removed the IV.
“I live in Texas,” Jesse said.
She gave Jesse crutches, and the freedom to move on his own as long as the swelling continued to go down. Maneuvering came easy to him; his arms were strong from working in the orchard. Mr. Gray, the grower, had even called him podersoso ratón, mighty mouse. Still, Jesse’s leg gave him an uneasy feeling. At times his toes went numb. He wandered the corridors of the small two-story hospital when Sarita wasn’t there, poking around the old building, finding doors locked and unlocked. He had visited a hospital once before, to see his grandmother. She never came home. Now he propped his crutches against a wall and pushed on a door which opened to a closet-like room where crisp white coats hung wall to wall. He fingered one, a coat much like any doctor might wear.
“Go ahead,” said Marie behind him. “Try it on.” “Were you following me?” said Jesse, startled.
“To keep you out of trouble.” He leaned on her as she put the crutches aside and helped him into the jacket. It reached his knees, but another nurse passing by said that he looked darling and insisted that he keep it on. She rolled up the sleeves to his wrists and pinned them. Jesse followed Marie to a desk where she made a tag, Jesse Madrigal, Chief of Operations, and stuck it to his lapel. “Your third day here,” said Marie. “And already you’re at the top of the heap.” Jesse decided to hide the coat in his room where Sarita would not find it.
Later that afternoon, when he catapulted himself past the nurses’ station, Marie called out to him. “Sit, my dear friend, and listen to this.” She read from the Bear County newspaper. “‘It was the first accident at Northland Cannery in seven years, and—although the numbers are not in yet—the late season apple crop promises to be the best in a decade. The twelve-year-old migrant boy likely didn’t hear the forklift above the din of the heavy trucks leaving the lot for market. X-rays were negative, and he has made many friends at Lakeshore Hospital.’” Marie looked up at Jesse. “Front page stuff. You’re famous.”
Jesse smiled and eyed the pizza box alongside her paperwork. She warmed up a piece for him. “Who told the newspaper all that?” he said. “The reporter was here. He talked to me, and your mother. There isn’t much else to report on in these parts.” “Do you like it that way?”
Marie was silent for a time. “Quiet is good,” she said at last. “People come here to forget the places they leave. Vacation homes near Lake Michigan for some. Hiding out for others.” She took the remainder of the pizza and walked off. When she didn’t return, Jesse lingered for a few minutes.
That was about right, he thought. Rounded a corner—and bam! Didn’t see or hear the forklift. He wondered why the reporter didn’t ask him; talking to adults came easy to Jesse. He often translated documents for older workers in the orchards and fields, and phone calls to distant grandchildren who didn’t speak Spanish. Other times he helped out at Peter Gray’s office, explaining to workers deductions for this or that on payday. Probably the same reporter who had interviewed his mother after the squash, he thought. He seemed to like Sarita; a lot of men did.
Just then he heard the chirp of a siren. Jesse jammed his crutches hard into the floor, propelling himself to a window across from the entrance to the emergency room. Outside, hospital lights cut into the falling dark and the street was quiet. A few geese skittered along the pond on the hospital grounds as an ambulance came to a stop. A man and a woman in uniforms got out, opened the rear doors, and wheeled a patient out. Under the bright lights he saw her, Betty Wilcox, plain as day, and as helpless as a newborn. Stupid lady, thought Jesse. We just wanted to go home.
“A neighbor found her,” a voice said, startling him. He turned to see an orderly, and wondered if he had followed him, too. “She’d fallen,” the clean-cut young man said.
Jesse returned to his room. Seeing Mrs. Wilcox had set his heart pounding. He wondered if she’d stay at the hospital, and if so, where? He couldn’t wait to ask her, how are you feeling? Of course, he’d be pretending. He didn’t care how she felt. She was a whacko. And he’d say, wouldn’t you rather be home? Maybe then she’d get it. They had only asked for bus tickets to Texas. Sarita’s arrival interrupted his thoughts. She had heard from the doctor that his leg was draining well, and the swelling had subsided. Her ride to the hospital waited outside now to take her shopping. She’d be back.
Jesse lay in bed with his leg elevated, trying to read The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, which his teacher had sent over. The words, however, seemed to jump all over the page. Then the wall behind him hummed. He grabbed his crutches and looked into the hallway, just as the elevator doors opened. The same orderly wheeled a patient on a gurney past his door. A couple and a younger man followed. Several rooms near Jesse’s were occupied but never had visitors, and another room toward the end of the hall had been empty from day one.
It was there where Betty Wilcox was left.
Jesse waited, perched in his doorway. A short time later, he heard the visitors leave Mrs. Wilcox’s room. “She doesn’t get it,” the younger man said. “She’ll be okay,” said the older one. “I’m worried,” said the woman, as the three disappeared in the elevator. The hospital floor was laid out like a small “t,” with the nurses’ station at the cross and usually deserted after eight o’clock. Seeing no one, Jesse now slipped on his white coat and quietly propelled himself down the hall. He peered into the caseworker’s room, surprised that it was smaller than his own. Mrs. Willcox lay in bed, a patch over one eye, a bruise on her forehead. He hopped closer. Her perfectly combed hair wasn’t so perfect anymore. She appeared to be asleep, her torso attached to a web of cords and tubes. Like a helpless bug, thought Jesse. He leaned over her bed for a moment and thought, too, that he might free her, using his crutch like a magic wand to make all that protruded from Betty Wilcox disappear.
He watched the blinking of the monitors that she was connected to, the only bright things under the dim light. Then she opened her one eye wide.
“Are you the resident?” Mrs. Wilcox said. “Please. Are you?” She stared out from her bed covers like a frightened child. “I don’t want to go to Grand Rapids to see the neurologist,” she said, grabbing the hem of Jesse’s coat. “Please,” she said, again. Jesse marveled at this small, plump fist that held fast to his borrowed coat. He thought it marvelous, too, that this woman who he blamed for his family’s troubles was now so in need herself.
“What is it?” he said anxiously. “What do you want?” “Please, doctor. I can’t do this anymore.”
For the first time Jesse understood the real significance of the coat he wore. He thought of tossing it in the corner, and running. If he could. But he only removed the woman’s hand, leaned back on his crutches, puffed his chest out, and said: “Is this an emergency, Mrs. Wilcox?”
“Yes, I suppose it is.”
“An eh-mer-hencia,” Jesse said slowly, pronouncing the word in Spanish and then parroting the words Mrs. Wilcox had used at her office, “is something unforeseen, something that you can’t predict.”
Mrs. Wilcox said that she wasn’t feeling well. She didn’t understand. “No hay emergencia!” Jesse said. “You had your whole life to get better. And not be the person you are.” He wasn’t sure why the words came out that way. Hearing them reminded him of the feeling he had when he was looking down at himself that first night at the hospital; it was, and wasn’t him. He didn’t know what to believe, then or now, and was overcome by sorrow. For his messed-up leg, and all the touchdowns he wouldn’t score in Pop Warner. For not being able to wrestle his grandfather. For not being on the bus home. For wanting to tear from Betty Wilcox what he thought she’d taken from him.
Mrs. Wilcox wet her lips with her tongue. She squinted out of her one eye, and raised her arm as if to block the little light there was. “Are you my doctor?”
“I am Jesse Madrigal. You didn’t approve our application. Denied us bus tickets home.”
“I don’t want to live,” said Betty, looking away. “Help me.”
Bingo! thought Jesse. He gleefully imagined the reporter’s next headline: It was the first accident at the hospital in seven years . . .
“What do you need?” asked Jesse.
“Bring me that bag.” Jesse didn’t move. “Over there. On the chair,” she said, in a tone—even in her weakened state—reminding him of her office and everything he didn’t like about her. “My purse,” Mrs. Wilcox said.
Jesse turned to the chair by the window. On the sill above it he saw a vase of roses, and a card, which was open. Betty, Come Home, it said. He hesitated.
“I don’t want flowers,” said Mrs. Wilcox.
Jesse brought her the bag and she asked that he empty the contents on her bed. She took a container of pills but lacked the strength to open it. Standing on his good leg, Jesse reached over to unscrew the cap, and then emptied the vial into her shaking hand. This is what she wants, he thought. But his heart that was so full of purpose and vengeance only a moment ago was now teeming with emotions that he didn’t understand. When Mrs. Wilcox went to swallow the pills, Jesse gently laid his left crutch on her arm to prevent her from raising it. “Please,” he begged, leaning forward and wrapping her hand in his. “Let me get you some water.”
Betty Wilcox nodded.
Jesse instead pushed the call button on her headboard with the tip of the crutch, then seated himself on her bed.
“Doctor,” she said. “Can I swallow these?” Minutes passed and still Jesse sat there, holding her hand in his. He listened for footsteps but only heard the drone of the machinery she was hooked up to, and her short, rhythmic breaths.
“It’s not a good idea, Mrs. Wilcox,” said Jesse finally.
A tall nurse who he didn’t recognize walked into the room. “What are you doing here?” she said. “And where did you get that coat?”
“Marie said that—”
“Marie doesn’t work this shift,” said the nurse. “Take it off. Now.”
“Look—” Jesse said and he opened his trembling hand to show the nurse Mrs. Wilcox’s, still clenching the pills.
“Did she swallow any?” “No,” said Jesse.
The nurse looked closely at the pills, took them from Mrs. Wilcox— who offered no resistance—then raised the bed and checked her vital signs.
Jesse laid the white coat on the chair. Marie had made him feel like a superhero when he wore it. Chief of Operations, he thought. What does that even mean? He glanced at Mrs. Wilcox. Before leaving the room, with the nurse’s back to him, he took a rose from the sill.
He met his mother coming down the hall, and gave her the flower. “Where did you get it?” she said, pleased.
“Mrs. Wilcox.”
“Oh! Did I miss her?” “No, she’s here. Sick.”
“And she wanted me to have this?” Jesse was silent. “Hijo?” “I thought I wanted something from her,” Jesse said.
“Then you’ll have to give it back.”
They turned to Mrs. Wilcox’s room, but the door was closed. Sarita laid the rose on a stand outside it. She gave Jesse a pen. On a paper toweling he wrote: Mrs. Wilcox, I took the flower and I’m sorry. I hope you get to go home soon. Jesse.
“The doctor said that we could leave tomorrow, if the tests are okay,” said Sarita. “They’ll sew you back up and send us on our way.”
“Texas?”
“I found a place for us here. A farm outside Sears Harbor. I think you’ll like it. You’ll need follow-up appointments and physical therapy. I already scheduled some. I’m going to take classes, and work at the cannery. Your Aunt Teresa in Chicago is loaning us the money to buy a car.”
Jesse didn’t sleep well that night. When a nurse entered his room in the wee hours of the morning to ask if he was alright, he did not look her in the face. I’m fine, he said.
At daybreak they wheeled him onto the elevator and into a different wing. The doctor had determined there was no nerve damage or infection, and closed the remainder of the wound. After breakfast Sarita packed up the few things from his room. They were waiting for their final instructions when Amber—the nurse who had confronted Jesse in Mrs. Wilcox’s room—brought a wheelchair, explaining that hospital policy required one at every patient’s discharge. And no, he couldn’t keep it, only the crutches until his mother arranged for his own. Amber then asked them to follow her down the hall.
“Is this about the insurance?” Sarita asked. Amber said only, “You’ll see.” When she opened an unmarked door past the nurses’ station, a roomful of hospital staff stood up to applaud Jesse. Marie presented him a cake in the shape of a football with blue and silver frosting. Dallas Cowboy colors.
“For our young hero,” announced Amber. “You likely saved a patient’s life.”
Sarita, beaming, looked at Jesse, who burst into tears and quickly wheeled himself out of the room, thanking God that the door had been propped open.
Sarita found him minutes later down the corridor looking out the window over the duck pond. “Jesse—” She put a hand on his still heaving shoulder.
“Mrs. Wilcox told me she wanted to end her life,” Jesse said, not turning around, catching his breath between sobs. “And I wanted to help her do that.”
The two watched a young boy on the hospital grounds jerk his arm skyward. They saw a stone launch high in the air that in a blink of an eye flitted across their window, like a birdwing. The bright stone plunged downward, breaking the smooth surface of the pond, the ripples reaching the marshy grass some yards away. Sarita pulled Jesse close.
B.L. Makiefsky was the winner of the 2012 Michigan Writers Cooperative Press chapbook contest, for his short story collection “Fathers And Sons.” His work has appeared, or will appear, in the Detroit Free Press, Fan Magazine, Dunes Review, Thoughtful Dog, Pithead Chapel, Brilliant Flash Fiction, Fiction Southeast and Dreamers Magazine. He was an analyst for the Michigan Dept. of Health and Human Services before retiring in 2018. He lives and writes in Traverse City, Michigan.
