The Extraordinary Life of Sam Hell(30)

I nodded.

“Did you run into anything?”

“I don’t think so,” I said. “I think I swerved.”

“You swerved?”

“I think there was a branch and I swerved. I lost my balance.”

“But you didn’t hit anything?”

At this point I suspected the doctor had doubts about my bike accident. My mother had once told me a priest was sworn to keep confidences, even if you told them you’d done something really bad, but I didn’t know if the rule applied to doctors.

“I don’t think so,” I said.

“Okay, do you think you could handle a sucker?” He pulled a red one from his pocket.

“I think I could,” I said. My mother didn’t even make me save it until after dinner.

The doctor suggested to my mother that they talk in the hall. When they’d departed, the nurse dressed my wounds. She wrapped bandages around my knees, my elbows, and my head, the latter to cover the cut above my left eye. “That must have been some nasty bike accident,” she said.

“Pretty bad,” I said.

“You must have hit your mouth on the handlebars.”

“I don’t remember,” I said.

“Sit up,” she instructed.

I could see my reflection in a mirror and thought I very much looked like the wounded soldier I had imagined myself to be. Since my bloody shirt had been cut up and tossed in the trash, the nurse gave me a baggy blue shirt she called a “scrub” and said it was the kind the doctors wore. As she helped me slip it over my head, she leaned close, close enough to whisper. “Never be afraid to tell the truth, Sam. Not to the people who love you.”

“All set?” the doctor asked, reentering the room with my mom.

The nurse winked at me. “All set. You’re a brave little soldier, Sam.”

My mom asked if I felt up to walking or wanted to ride in the wheelchair. Beginning to relish the attention, I chose the wheelchair.

Neither Ernie nor Mrs. Cantwell spoke on the drive home. When we stopped at their house, Mrs. Cantwell began to apologize. “Ernie knows better,” she said. “We never let him ride his bike alone in the street. I’m so sorry. I just . . .”

My mother was gracious. “These things happen,” she said, but she did not get out of the car to say goodbye. Ernie and I also departed without saying anything to each other. As we drove off, I looked back and saw Ernie and Mrs. Cantwell standing in the street, watching us leave. Ernie lifted his right hand and gave me a tentative wave, but because of my dressings, I did not return it.





13

My mother helped me straight upstairs and into my pajama bottoms; I wanted to continue to wear the blue doctor’s shirt. After I climbed into bed, she surprised me with a bowl of Neapolitan ice cream, telling me it would probably be easier on my lip and tongue. Who was I to refute such logic? She sat on the edge of the bed looking forlorn, caressing the top of my head as I spooned the ice cream into my mouth. “Can you tell me a little more about the accident, Sam, how it happened?”

I allowed the spoon to linger in my mouth, stalling. “I’m not really sure I remember.”

“The doctor seems to think that maybe there was more than a bike accident.”

Now I was certain doctors were not like priests.

“Did someone do this to you, Sam? Did someone hit you?” I allowed the ice cream to melt and slide down my throat. “Sam, it’s okay to tell me. I’m not going to let anyone hurt you again.”

Oh, how I wanted to believe her; how I wanted to believe all her novenas could protect me and that David Bateman’s reign of terror had ended, that I would be safe, but I knew at some point I was going to have to go back to school and David Bateman would still be there.

“It was an accident,” I said.

My mother patted my arm and went downstairs, leaving the door open. She told me if I needed anything I could just holler, which ordinarily I wasn’t allowed to do.

I picked up The Count of Monte Cristo from my nightstand. Reading it had been tough going, the words harder to pronounce than those in my schoolbooks, but I had gotten the hang of it about halfway through. I set aside my ice cream, thinking about Edmond Dantès and the sufferings he’d endured, as well as his revenge. I very much wished I could be like him, find a treasure, and come back with a new identity, rich and powerful enough to get even with David Bateman and his two goons. Then a more sobering thought replaced the fantasy: I could never disguise my identity; my eyes would betray me.

I thought again of my prayer bank. Though I had my doubts, I decided to give it one last try. “Please God,” I prayed, mentally pulling the plug and shaking out the few prayers inside. “Please let me have brown eyes like everyone else.”

As I prayed, I heard a faint, muffled gasp through the floor vent and sat up. I heard it again. I got out of bed and made my way to the staircase, stopping when I heard the sound a third time. Slowly, carefully, I stepped down two steps and peered through the spoke railing with my un-swollen eye. I’d done this several times when I wanted to watch television after being sent to bed. But this time the television was not on. My mother sat on the couch, her back to me. She was rocking, as if fighting a stomach pain. “Hail Mary, full of grace,” I heard my mother pray in between her stifled sobs.