The Extraordinary Life of Sam Hell(31)

At some point the sound of the station wagon engine—a funny idle that caused it to tick and sputter—drew my attention. My father was home, and I thought of something I had not yet considered. My bike. I had told everyone that I crashed. What would my father say? I got up slowly, the sting in my knees making movement painful, and went as fast as my injuries allowed back to my room. I climbed onto my bed and knelt at the headboard to look out the shuttered window, watching as my father got out of the station wagon and dropped the laundry sack he brought home each Saturday filled with his white smocks. He stared at the wreckage of what, just that morning, had been a new and—I suspected from my mother’s comments—expensive bike. In one swift motion, he picked up the bike and hurled it over my mother’s flower bed onto the front lawn. Red in the face and teeth clenched, he shook his fists. I’d never seen him that angry, and I’d never been so scared.

As he started up the walk to our covered porch, I dropped from the window and slid beneath the covers, pulling the bedspread to my chin before remembering the melting remnants of ice cream in the bowl on the nightstand. The last thing my dad needed to see was that my mother had rewarded me for ruining the bike. I threw off the covers, briefly contemplated making a dash for the bathroom across the hall, then hid the bowl under my bed.

The front door slammed with such force it rattled the window over my bed. “Did you see his bike?” my father yelled.

“Of course I saw it.” My mother sounded calm.

“It’s ruined. Completely destroyed.”

“I called a bike shop. I’ll take it in to see how much it will cost to fix.”

“That’s not good enough, Madeline. Not this time. That was a new bike.”

“This isn’t about the bike.”

“You’re damn right it isn’t about the bike; it’s about responsibility.”

“Do not swear. Samuel will hear you.”

“Somebody is going to pay for this.”

I quickly tried to calculate how much money I had in my piggy bank—not my prayer piggy bank but the real one on my dresser—and deduced it would not be nearly enough.

“Is he upstairs? Have you checked on him?”

“I just brought him up some ice cream,” my mom said. I grimaced and retrieved the bowl, placing it on the nightstand. “The doctor said he’s going to be fine.”

“But the doctor said he has a concussion?”

“He said he might have a concussion. He wants us to monitor him throughout the night. Why don’t you go up and see him?”

No. That was a terrible idea. What was my mother thinking? My father should stay downstairs and have his Manhattan, read the paper, eat dinner—fried chicken, his favorite. By then I would be fast asleep.

Asleep. That was it. The last ruse of any child hoping to avoid getting in trouble.

As my father climbed the stairs, I shut my eyes and tried to control my breathing. I heard him stop outside my door, then sensed he’d entered and stood at the side of my bed. I kept my eyes shut tight.

“Sam? Sam!” He shook me, but I was determined and kept my eyelids closed. When I didn’t immediately open my eyes, my dad started shouting. “Maddy! Maddy! Something’s wrong!”

I sat up quickly and saw that he’d rushed to the doorway, shouting down the stairs. “Maddy, get up here. Call the hospital.”

“No. I’m okay. Dad! I’m okay.”

My mother hurried up the stairs as my father reentered the room, gasped a great sigh of relief, and collapsed on the edge of the bed.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” My mother raced into the room and cradled my head as she rattled off a series of questions. “How old are you, Sam? What school do you go to? Who am I? Do you recognize me? Dear God, he has brain damage!”

“No, Mom, I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m six. I go to OLM.”

My mother turned and slapped my father’s shoulder. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. What’s wrong with you?”

My father rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “He had his eyes closed. He wasn’t responding.” Turning to me, he said, “Sam, why didn’t you respond?”

I started to cry, and this time the tears were real. “I didn’t want you to yell at me.”

He stood and came around the bed to where my mother stood. “Yell at you? Why would I yell at you?”

“Because I ruined my bike.”

“Oh, Sam,” my mom and father said in unison.

“Sam, I don’t care about the bike,” my father said, sitting. “We can buy a new bike. I care about you. There’s only one Sam. We can’t go to the store to replace you.”

“But I saw you throw the bike on the lawn, and your face was all red. And downstairs you swore.”

My mother crossed her arms and arched her eyebrows at my father.

“I’m not mad at you, Sam. I’m mad . . . at the situation. I’m just mad at the situation.”

“Being mad is no excuse for swearing,” my mother said.

“No, it’s not,” my father agreed.

My mother breathed a sigh of relief. “I’m going to go finish getting dinner ready.”

My father sat with his elbows on his thighs, his gaze on the hardwood floor. “You know, Sam, I saw this karate store in the plaza. There were kids your age, even younger. Maybe we should go and check it out, see if you might like it.” He looked to me. “Would you like that?”