Bandages, Christmas, and the Number Ten
“Well, are you going to survive?”
I extended my hand to show everyone my left thumb encased in a swath of bandages. “Unfortunately. My nail’s probably a goner, though.”
“How did you shut your hand in the car door?” Mom asked.
“Talent.” I collapsed into a chair, accepting a plate of microwaved dinner. The injection of pain medication administered at the clinic was beginning to take effect, my vision dizzy and the throbbing ache in my hand ebbing for the first time in hours. “At least I’m right-handed.”
Mom sat down across from me, her gaze sympathetic. “The kids were worried about you.”
“Where are they?” My niece and nephew were conspicuously absent from the cluster of people that met me at the door.
“Building Legos in the sunroom with your dad.” She took a sip from her mug; I could smell apple and spices. “He took care of everything for Tami and Jeff while you were with the doctor. Their room’s all set now.”
“Yay.” I sighed, shaking my head. My vision went sideways for a moment, and I blinked. “At least something went right today.”
She patted my good hand. “Take it easy.”
I stared at the plate in front of me: leftovers from yesterday. Leftovers were anathema to my…
