chin digging into my shoulder. “He looks okay, Momma,” she said softly, but her voice sounded thick.
Rosie passed her hand over her own head, as if feeling for injuries.
“He doesn’t smell bad,” Lil said. She must have been remembering Momma’s last days.
“Oh, he’s not sick.” I pulled Lil farther into the room so she could see better. “They shaved his head so no hair would get in the stitches. About a dozen stitches here and fifteen here where the horse kicked him.” I touched Sarah on the back of the head and Lil on her chest. I kept my hand there a second, feeling the movement of her breath.
For a moment, we all watched Adam sleep. Then one of the girls farted. They turned accusing looks on each other. Lil hissed and soft-punched Sarah. Bertie wheezed a suppressed laugh.
“Enough. Dinnertime,” I whispered and shooed them out of the room.
“No beans though, Momma. Lil’s already tooting,” Rosie said.
“No, I’m not. That was Sarah.”
It is not possible to take four daughters quietly down a hall after one of them has farted. But for a moment they did not think of their bald father.
Later, I paid Wallace for his week’s work and took him down the hall to see Adam again. Looking bigger in the dimness of the bedroom, Wallace bent silently over Adam and touched him lightly on the wrist. “He went down so hard and so fast. I couldn’t bring him to. You think he’s gonna be all right?”
“Yes,” I replied and told him how good the wounds looked, then we tiptoed out of the room. Before that morning, Wallace had never been down the hall and into the bedrooms. He looked relieved when we were back in the kitchen. With Adam down, we would need extra help. He would work longer hours, he assured me.
Somehow I got through the evening. I prepared a light supper for the girls and checked to make sure they did their homework and chores. I held myself tight and kept myself in line. As soon as I got the girls in bed, I called old Dr. Raymond, the man who had been our family doctor when I was a girl. He had been retired for years. I called his home.
My hands shook when I dialed. He seemed surprised to hear from me at that hour but he was cordial. I told him what had happened to Adam, as if it had just occurred. I didn’t mention the hospital. He asked about the bleeding. The chest injury would be sore for a while, but if Adam’s pain did not increase when he took a breath, we could assume there were no broken ribs. He should be fine, Dr. Raymond said, just keep the wounds clean. He explained what to look for, the signs of concussion or brain injury—dizziness, nausea, different-size pupils. Then drowsiness. “If you can’t keep him awake, take him over to the hospital, Evelyn. You don’t want to mess with a head injury. I thought I’d already heard something about your Adam—that he was sent over to Duke for something pretty rare. That wasn’t him, huh? Wonder who it was.” I didn’t correct him, just thanked him and hung up. My sides felt sticky with sweat.
I went back to Adam. Rosie sat on the side of the bed, holding his hand. She put her finger up to her lips and whispered, “He’s asleep again.”
“He woke up? Did he say anything?”
“He was hungry and he wanted to know how we were. I told him we were fine. Then I think he asked for some corn bread. Something about a ‘damn horse,’ too.” She smiled and wrinkled her nose up at me. “His scalp feels weird. He’s going to be okay, Momma?”
I made myself smile back and led her to the door. “Of course he will be. But we’ll need your help, okay?”
She kissed me and went back to bed.
My last remnant of calm dissolved. I needed to move. I wanted to run, scream, cry, or fight. Instead, I paced the front porch outside our bedroom window. Each time I checked on Adam, he slept peacefully. Finally, I poured myself another whiskey and took it to bed. I cried, my face pressed into my pillow, until I fell asleep.
I woke in the morning still curled on my side next to him, clutching my pillow. Adam’s hand cupped my head.
“Adam?” I rubbed his hand and patted his cheek. “Wake up.”
He moaned and turned over on his side.