The Family Fang - Kevin Wilson [29]
Buster looked up at his mother. “It’s my crown,” he said.
“But you don’t want it,” Mrs. Fang said, exasperated.
“Yes I do,” he replied. “I won it. I’m Little Miss Crimson Clover and this is my crown.”
“Oh, Buster,” she said, pointing at the crown atop his head, “this is what we rebel against, this idea of worth based on nothing more than appearance. This is the superficial kind of symbol that we actively work against.”
“It. Is. My. Crown,” Buster replied, almost vibrating with righteous anger, and Mrs. Fang allowed a slow smile to cross her face and unclenched her jaw. She gave in, nodded three times, and hopped into the van. “Okay,” she said, “you can redefine the crown if you want to.”
Chapter Four
Buster was in a bad way. In his hospital bed, properly angled, he groaned softly and felt a deep, structural pain travel across his entire face. Even though he was barely conscious and aggressively doped, he understood his unfortunate circumstances.
“You’re awake,” someone said.
“I am?” Buster said, with some effort. He moved to touch his face, which ached and hummed in his ears.
“Oh, no,” the woman’s voice now said, “don’t do that. People always want to put their dang hands all over the thing that just got fixed,” but Buster was already falling back into something that resembled sleep.
The next time he awoke, a beautiful woman was sitting beside his bed, her face warm and confident, as if she had been expecting him to rouse at just this very moment. “Hello, Buster,” she said. “Hi,” he said weakly. He felt like he had to urinate and then, as soon as the feeling appeared, it was gone.
“I’m Dr. Ollapolly,” she said. “I’m Buster,” he replied, but of course she already knew that. He wished someone had maybe given him a lower dosage of morphine. She was beautiful and capable; he was doped up and possibly disfigured. Even through his haze, he thought, “I am in a bad way.”
“Do you remember what happened, Buster?” she asked him. He considered the question. “Potato gun?” he answered.
“Yes, you were accidentally shot in the face by a potato gun,” she told him.
“I’m invincible,” he said.
She laughed. “Well, I’m glad to hear that, Buster, but that is not an entirely accurate statement. You are lucky, I’ll give you that.”
She went on to explain the particulars of his situation. He had suffered some severe facial injuries. To begin, there was significant edema of the face predominantly on his right side, which, Buster guessed correctly, was where the potato had struck him. He had a stellate laceration (“like a star,” she told Buster) through his upper lip. His right superior canine tooth was missing. He sustained multiple complex fractures of the facial bones on his right side, including his upper orbital cavity. On the bright side, despite the eye shield he was wearing, his vision, she assured him, was intact.
“That’s good,” he said.
“You’re going to have a scar on your lip,” she said.
“Star-shaped,” he answered, wanting desperately to please her.
“Yes, a star-shaped scar,” she said.
“That’s hard to say,” he answered.
“You are less one tooth,” she continued.
“Okay.”
“And after the operation to stabilize those fractures, you are looking at some recovery time before your face is totally healed.”
“You saved my life,” he said.
“I fixed you up,” she said. “That’s all.”
“I love you,” he said.
“That’s fine, Mr. Fang,” she replied. Before exiting the room, she smiled with great sincerity, as he imagined all doctors must do if they want their patients to recover.
He owed, according to the solicitous financial officer who snuck in one morning and informed him, somewhere in the neighborhood of twelve thousand dollars in medical fees. Did he have insurance? He did not. Things got awkward after that. Would he like to set up a billing plan? Buster did not. He pretended to fall asleep and waited for the woman to leave his room. Twelve thousand dollars? Half a face for twelve