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?”
I shrugged. “Maybe,” I said.
“And I used to box in college; did you know that?”
I shook my head. My father and I watched the Friday-night fights together, but he had never mentioned being a boxer. I was impressed. “Were you any good?”
“I held my own,” he said. “I could show you a few things, like how to block a punch and how to throw one.”
Taking a punch was the last thing I wanted to try, but I could sense the answer my father wanted to hear. “Okay, sure.”
The telephone rang. My mother yelled up the stairs, “I’m getting the lasagna out of the oven. Can you answer that?”
My spirits soared. My mother’s lasagna was her specialty, a rare treat on the weekends. I ran my tongue around the inside of my mouth to determine whether I might be able to chew without too much pain. My father patted my leg beneath the covers and left to answer the extension in the hallway.
“Hello,” he said, then listened for a moment. “Thank you for calling, Father Brogan.”
I sat up. OLM’s pastor.
“Yes, that’s accurate.” My father paused. “He’s doing better now. Thank you for asking. How did you find out, Father?” Another pause. “I see. Tonight? Yes, we can be there. Samuel?” My father looked from the hall into my bedroom. “Yes, I think he’s up to it, and I think it would be good if Samuel was present.”