Blindsided

The room is unfamiliar, I don’t know how I got here.

 I am seated. I feel the chair against my butt. My back.

 I look at my feet. I lift one, then the other. They are inside big-toed, thick-soled black boots. When I lift one up, I see small puddles of dirty water under it.

My hands lie on the table in front of me. The table is big enough for only one person: me. I can wiggle my fingers but it’s strange, my hands are inside puffy cloth bags. Like the puffy cloth thing I am wearing.

 “Settle down,” says a big man. He is about twice my size.

 I raise my head, and I watch him. I forget my hands, feet, butt, and all my questions about them because suddenly I realize there are many people like me in this room. Twenty or thirty people are sitting on chairs at small tables-for-one. Everyone’s head bobs up and looks at the big man. The hubbub of noise becomes quiet.

No voices, but there is rustling and movement.

“I know everyone is excited,” the man says to us.

 Excited. Am I excited? I feel dizzy. I try to watch him carefully and get some clue about why I’m here, how I got here with the many others seated on chairs at small tables. But the dizziness is too, too much.

 The bright lights overhead, and the light coming through the window beside me—they are too much. I must close my eyes.

Darkness! That immediately feels better.

But I open my eyes because a feeling inside me says: Watch! Watch out! It says be careful, and I don’t know if this means to be careful of the big man or of the many others who are my size.

Must concentrate.

It hurts to concentrate. The dizziness comes again, so I close my eyes. When it passes, I open my eyes again.

I look out the window, and I see a wide-open field with trees in the distance. Most things are outlined with thick white stuff. The trees: they have no leaves, just branches outlined in white. The whiteness starts to move a little.

The man is talking. I stay quiet and listen—like everyone else. He says, “I know everyone is excited by the fresh snow. Yes, it looks like fun—”

 I jump. Snow, yes! The white stuff is snow! It’s being blown around!

 All heads turn toward me. They are staring at me. I realize that I spoke aloud.

The man chuckles and says, “Yes, Mikey. Snow.”

 I feel sick and must close my eyes. I lean so my head rests on the small table. I hear rustling and muttering.

I hear the man’s voice. “Everyone, please open your geography workbook to page 49,” he says.

A minute later his voice is very near to my ear. “Mikey?”

I put my hand under my tabletop, and I feel the lumps of gum I stuck to it. Some are hard, some are soft. And suddenly it comes back to me: the gum I deposited there this morning! It’s the softest of all. It still has lots of zingy cinnamon in it. And I put it there ready to chew on… later. Later when… when something finishes, when something would finish.

What is that thing that will finish? My head is swimming; I feel the answer is very near.

School!

I jump a little when I realize what the thing that finishes is. I am in school and this man, the one whose voice sounds closer and is now calling “Mikey,” he is… he is—

I lift my head and I force my eyes to open again. The light is so bright. His face is very near to me. I start to retch.

 “Mikey, are you okay?” the man says. “No, no, you’re not. What’s the matter?” He is looking at my head as closely as the lice inspector.

Oh, no, Mom will be mad I didn’t take a bath last night. I say, “Mom…” It sounds like a croak. I close my eyes.

The man has a sharp intake of breath. “Uh-oh, I see a big, red lump on your head. Mikey, did you bump your head?”

 “No.” My voice sounds strange. Like a little frog’s voice.

“Mr. Tom,” says someone with a high-pitched voice. Someone speaking close to us. “Mr. Tom, some kids were in a snowball fight.”

I know this voice. I can picture the blonde curls on this kid’s head, but I can’t think of the name.

Another voice pipes up: “Yeah, snowball fight,” chimes in another voice.

 “Mom,” I croak again.

“Do you want us to call your mom?” Mr. Tom takes my elbow. “Can you stand up, Mikey? We’ll get you to the office and call home right away.”

Another small voice continues. “And some of the big kids, they went to the parking lot and got ice chunks from the tire wells.” This is Raven’s voice. I would know her voice anywhere. I hope I don’t spew on her.

 “No, they got it from snowplow mountain. And—and—” Other voices are excitedly filling in details.

 I try to stand but I feel too woozy. I can’t concentrate on what’s being said. My head is hurting—at first a small amount, but now it’s become really bad.

 “Aw, the poor baby.” One low, raspy voice jumps out at me. Colton. I get a very bad feeling and the next thing I see is a puddle of slime and Froot Loops and gunk on the floor.

It has come from my mouth. Uh-oh.

Relief, but not for long. There’s a strong upward lift to my armpits and I am half walking, half being dragged out of the room by the big man.

***

Someone is lifting my eyelid. Ow! Ow! A bright light blasts into my eye.

I squint at the person. It’s a woman with a white coat on and a heart-listening-cord around her neck. She lifts my other eyelid and shines the light again. I pull away and rub my eyes. The light is too bright. I squeeze my eyes shut. I want that light to go away. I want my head to stop hurting. I want -- I need --.

“Here’s a pan, Michael,” the woman says gently. “You can get sick in the pan.”

 And I do.

As I’m wiping my mouth with my sleeve, I hear Dad as he comes into the small room. “Hello? Mikey?...  Hey, big guy.”

I feel his big warm hand on my back. Tears spring to my eyes and I open my arms for a hug like I’ve been away for a week at camp full of mean kids and Dad has come to pick me up. Joy.

Except for that light over our heads. It’s too bright. I squeeze my eyes shut. We hug again and I think everything will be okay.

“Sorry I couldn’t get here sooner,” Dad says. I feel the puff of his breath on my hair at the top of my head.

“Doctor—,” Dad says, and then his voice changes. “My God, is that you, Tina?” He’s still hugging me. But the hold has loosened.

The woman in the white coat laughs softly. “Oh yeah, I saw the name Gravelstein and I thought there’s only one Gravelstein I know.” Her voice softens. “How’ve you been, Josh?

“Great,” Dad says, patting my back. “Just great.” He sounds like he does when he’s hidden the Easter eggs all over the lawn but tells us Peter Rabbit did it.

I try very hard to open my eyes and take another look at this woman in the white coat. Because something has totally changed in the room. Like the time we took a winter trip to Hawaii. As soon as we got off the plane, I could feel the difference.

Doctor Tina says, “You’re a fine dad. I always knew you would be.”

 I open my eyes just a little. And my hand slides from my chin to the top of my head.

“Well.” She picks up the clipboard and nods. “I’ll get right to it. Concussion. His teacher, Mr. Thom, said a snowball fight turned ugly--chunks of ice-- ooh, watch out, Mikey. Don’t touch your lump,” she says.

 I yelp and pull my hand back from the bump. And the adults both laugh, that strange kind of laugh when you see something bad happening to your cat. Like it’s funny and surprising, but you don’t really want your cat to get hurt. I frown at Doctor Tina. When will she use the heart-listening thing?

“Just the one?” the doctor says.

“Three,” Dad says. “Twins at home.”

 “Well, congratulations,” she says, very brightly. Too brightly. “I know I should keep up with the Facebook alumni group and all, but I’ve been working in Rwanda.”

“Rwanda?” Dad says.

I force my eyes open. What is Rwanda?

 Dad looks just as puzzled as I am. But his look softens. And his look is only for Doctor Tina.

She starts to say something about Rwanda, but a loud voice comes over the PA. It says, “Code blue.”

Doctor Tina gets up. “I must go.” She hands Dad a paper and speaks rapidly. “Have a look at this -- instructions for concussion.”

 “But but—.” He says, “But what am I supposed to do?” He sounds like when Mom tells him we have to go to someone’s funeral.

 Doctor Tina pauses in the doorway. “Wake him up every hour -- even through the night -- to make sure he is conscious.”

“Code blue,” the voice repeats. “Code blue.”

 “Every hour?” Dad says, “even at like 2:00 in the morning. How about pain? Is there any prescription for pain?” Dad and Doctor Tina briefly lean together over the paper.

 “Bring him in if there’s any change,” she says.

Then they quickly pull apart.

 I hear the soft noises of others in the hallway, the noises of people moving quickly but trying not to make any noise. Like Dad when he thinks we are all asleep.

THE END