Meadowlarks by Thomas Holladay (novels to improve english TXT) 📗

his age. Kids usually bounce right up, even when they’re bleeding. I sure hope . . .”

“Was he bleeding?” Be a real stroke of good luck if the kid died. He’d hate looking at John’s kid all the time.

Allison didn't answer.

Why?

“Well?”

“Sorry.” She sounded unstrung, probably because she didn’t like deception, being evasive with Carolyn. Allison was loyal, though. As long as she was loyal she could like or dislike whatever she wanted. She said, “The other line’s blinking, probably her again. She didn’t mention any bleeding. What should I tell her?”

“Tell her I’m on my way.” Right after I get the kid his stupid watch. “Don’t say anything about the insurance. Tell her you’re still checking or something. And don't you worry. We'll take care of it. Where is she?”

CAROLYN SAT IN THE darkened hospital room. The nurse had told her they always did that with head injuries because Jason's eyes would be sensitive to light. It seemed she’d been there for days, waiting and hoping for any kind of movement from Jason.

The curtain had been drawn between Jason and another patient, a little girl from a car accident. Her constant moaning irritated Carolyn. She felt guilty about that.

With Jason in what might be a coma, someone should keep that little girl quiet. Her injuries would completely heal, a broken collar bone and a few stitches on her chin, nothing serious. She should be going home already. Why couldn’t she be quiet?

Jason needed for her to be quiet.

Carolyn wiped her eyes for what seemed the millionth time but her tears kept flowing.

“Oh, Lord,” barely a whisper, a start to a prayer not yet formed in Carolyn’s mind. Where were those prayers that had the power to help her son? “Lord.” This city had taken her husband and now it was trying to take her son.

A soft groan came from deep inside her, crying out to God. The words were not there, not on her tongue and not in her mind, only in her heart. Her mind stayed focused on that memory, the first time he'd looked up at his daddy, the way he'd reached out when John had picked him up and said, “My boy.” John had just returned from Afghanistan.

Her tears flowed.

At age eight, no, nine years old today, Jason looked tiny in that big hospital bed. He looked like a Frankenstein doll with his shaved head and seventeen stitches, all swollen and purple. The whole side of his face had swollen with a purple bruise.

The doctor had told her there’d be a scar over his left temple, even though a reconstructive plastic surgeon had done the stitches.

Seventeen stitches. 

“Lord.” They told her the scar would be hidden by his hair and rarely seen. Their concern was whether or not Jason would quickly regain consciousness. They had both warned of the possibility of brain damage or worse.

Worse? God, what does that mean? 

Did they think he might die?

Tears flowed and she searched for words that might get God’s attention. No words came.

Carolyn’s mom looked in from the corridor. “There’s someone here to speak with you.” She helped Carolyn to her feet, led her to the door and pushed her into the corridor. She closed the door. Mom would stay with Jason.

A man in an unbuttoned tan sports jacket and pressed blue jeans waited with a clipboard. His colorful Hawaiian shirt was open at the collar. His carefully styled brown hair showed some gray at the temples and back of his neck. A gold badge was clipped to his belt. “Ms. Potter?”

“Yes?”

“Is Jason Potter your son?”

“Yes.”

He opened his hinged metal clipboard, took out his pen and scribbled some notes. “I need to ask you a few questions about what happened this afternoon.” He looked directly at Carolyn now, making sure she was paying attention. “Does your son own a pocket knife or carry any kind of knife?”

The question surprised her. “No, of course not.”

“How can you be sure?” The man seemed arrogant, self-impressed. That offended her but he was a police officer. These days they were so well groomed and oh, so polite. “Who are you? What’s this all about?”

“Oh, sorry.” He pulled out a folded leather carrier and flipped it open, his L.A.P.D. identification. “My name’s Art Latanzio, L.A.P.D.” He put his identification away and waited for an answer.

She couldn’t remember.

He recognized her bewilderment. “How can you be sure your son doesn’t carry a knife?”

“I’m his mother!” She folded her arms and stood in front of the door, instinctively protecting her son.

“Yes, ma’am.” He sounded so polite, so well groomed, so arrogant. “We’re aware of that, but we hear that all the time. Most parents don’t have a clue what their kids are up to.”

Her hand went to her throat, sensing something bad. “Why are you asking me that? What happened?”

“Our preliminary investigation shows evidence of some kind of struggle, like your son and the other boy were having some kind of a fight.”

“Jason? Fighting? That’s impossible. He and Jimmy are best friends.” Her hands dropped to her sides. Her fists balled around the cotton flannel fabric of her skirt. “Why? What happened?”

“I guess you haven’t heard yet,” so polite, so well groomed, smelling of cologne. He lowered his clipboard and stepped closer, watching her, ready to grab her. “I’m the one who answered the phone at the O’Connell residence. We were just on our way here when you called. I thought it best to keep his parents away from you. She’s very upset. Jimmy O’Connell was pronounced dead on arrival by the emergency room doctors.”

Carolyn bumped back against the door, her knees buckled and she slid to the floor. Tears dripped off her chin. She couldn’t stop them.

“Carolyn,” said a familiar voice from nearby, Mr. Kirby's voice. She couldn’t see him, only the blur of Latanzio’s pressed jeans, his polished shoes and white socks.

Mr. Kirby knelt by her side and slid his arm around her shoulder, creepy. She pulled away and stood, buried her face