Big Cherry Holler - Adriana Trigiani [43]
“There they is!” Fleeta clucks. Pearl and her doctor kiss under the mistletoe hung on the pocket doors between the Victorian and antebellum eras.
“Doctor B. It’s so good to see you again.” I give him a big hug. We ferriners should stick together. Besides, if this romance works out with Pearl, he’ll be family.
“Joe’s doctor.” Iva Lou whispers this as though she doesn’t realize she’s said it aloud.
I cover for her. “Iva Lou, you remember Dr. Bakagese.”
“Of course. How are you?”
“Fine. Thank you.”
Fleeta looks at me sadly; she can be sensitive once every hundred years or so, and this is one of those times.
Dr. Bakagese smiles at me. I feel instantly guilty. So many times over the past few years, I meant to call him and thank him for all he did for our family and for Joe. But I have not called him to come to dinner, as I meant to do, nor did I go to see him. I kept meaning to, but I couldn’t. When I look into his eyes, he seems to understand. I flash back to the day I met him; of course, that was the day that would change our family forever.
“Mama! Joe fell!” Etta hollered from upstairs.
That kid is driving me nuts, I thought. I went up the stairs.
“I’m fine,” Joe said, rubbing his hip.
“Where did you land?”
“On my butt.”
“Good.”
“Why? It wouldn’t hurt him if he landed on his head.”
“That’s not funny!” Joe pushed Etta. Before they could fuss full-out, I pulled them apart.
“Stop it. Both of you. I can’t take it anymore!” The tone of my voice scared them (a little), so Etta went off to her room in a huff.
“Come on. Let’s get you dressed.”
Joe took off his pajamas and waited for me to hand him his clothes. As he climbed into the red pants, I noticed a bruise near his knee.
“What’s that from?” I asked him.
“What?”
“That bruise.”
“I dunno.”
“You’ve got to be more careful.”
“It doesn’t hurt.”
The room was dark because of the gray day outside, so I pulled open the shades to let more light in. The sun peeked out of a curtain of charcoal clouds, enough to help me see. I turned to help Joe into his shirt. There was another bruise on his back, right under his shoulder blade.
“Jesus, Joe. You’re all banged up.”
His skin looked a little transparent, and there seemed to be deep pools of shadow right under the skin, almost like bruises that turn from blue to yellow as they heal.
“I don’t like the way this looks,” I told him, and then my son wriggled away from me. I loaded the kids into the Jeep and took them up to Saint Agnes Hospital. Looking back, that seems extreme; after all, it was just a couple of bruises. Somehow, I just knew something was terribly wrong.
Joe sat in the front seat, holding on with his hands as we bounced down the holler road. I remember looking down at him and thinking how much I loved his little face. His profile was perfect; his chin stuck out like an emperor’s. Etta rested her head on my shoulder as she stood between the seats. I didn’t yell at her to get into her seat belt. She had her hand on her brother’s neck, the way she did when we took him into his first crowd at a high school football game. For the first time in a long while, my kids were quiet. Neither of them said a word. There was only the sound of the windshield wipers, of the wheels hitting the wet road and our breathing.
Sister Ann Christine met us at the reception desk. She’s five feet tall (at most) and was dressed in a white shirtwaist habit, white shoes, and a white wimple. She was around sixty then, but you couldn’t tell by her skin. It was smooth and pink, not a wrinkle in it. Her small nose dipped down in a straight line; her blue eyes stood out like patches of sky against clean white clouds. As she leaned over to embrace my children, I imagined my mother holding them and almost cried.
Dr. Bakagese entered the examination room with a big smile. “What’s happening, little buddy?” He spoke American slang with an Indian accent. He was tall and slim. He had beautiful hands with long, tapered fingers. His hair was jet black and cut short. His skin was a beautiful shade of café au lait. He had a small