Spring re-arrived at Shoreacres each April like a great, green moss. Sleepy. Creeping. Plentiful. My siblings and I, however, burst onto the season like the first, rowdy chorus of Spring Peepers which impulsively arose from the woodlands and wetlands, from the new growth and leafy debris; noisily ascending, anxious and energized after many dormant days. We found instant succor in the newness, in the re-gathering community, bolstered by the constant arrival of free-wheeling teens bent on making the most of the fairer, fleeting seasons.
One early spring day, Phil arrived at the house with a brand new, 1978 Chevy pick-up truck (soon to be christened Lola) filled with Jim's buddies bent on seeing "What this baby can do." Jim quickly talked his best friend into letting him behind the wheel. Chris and I blindly followed (Well, I did. Chris was there for Tim.), piling into the truck bed and heading to the one place where the pick-up's off road ability could be properly tested.
The golf course. Of course.
Entering on the service road at the west end of the Straight Away, Jim's exaggerated twists and turns along the winding, gravel road quickly bored him, so veering from the narrow lane, we were soon bouncing along the edge of the fairways, heading toward the woods and the short, very steep hills of the ravines.
Failing to recognize what might happen when rear tires met level ground from a near forty-five degree incline was Jim's greatest error that day.
As soon as he started down the incline, we helpless, hapless, truck bed accomplices - with nothing to hold onto except a feeling of dread - sensed things were not going to end well.
They didn't.
As the rear tires hit the ground from a practically perpendicular incline, the truck bounced - hard - sending all bodies in back aloft; arms and legs flailing, looks of surprise morphing into looks of fear.
Then came the descent. Slow motion in my memory. Split second in reality. My right hand contacting metal first, followed by a painful ass plant. Pandemonium ensued. Everyone was yelling at Jim and rubbing their bruises.
Except me.
I was looking down at my arm... and my hand,
Which was no longer at the end of my wrist where I normally found it.
While the others righted themselves and continued to call Jim rather unpleasant names, I cradled my arm and spoke calmly.
"You guys. I think my wrist is broken."
No response.
So, I said it a little louder and with a lot more conviction.
"You guys, my wrist is broken."
Still unnoticed amid the verbal thrashing Jim was continuing to receive, I finally screamed as loud as I could.
"YOU GUYS, MY WRIST IS BROKEN!"
All went quiet.
"Anne broke her wrist," Chris screamed, breaking the momentary silence, "and she's bleeding all over the place!"
I wasn't.
Jim and Phil leapt from the front cab to find those in the back surrounding me, shuddering and exhaling, "Whoa!" at the sight of it.
Not a good sign.
It appears that on impact, the bones attaching my arm to my hand had snapped cleanly in two and my hand, now detached beneath unbroken skin, had been forced from its usual place and lay awkwardly on top of my wrist, like a slab of raw meat in a rubber, flesh-toned glove.
Finding any movement was enough to inspire hysteria, no one was able to convince me to relocate to the cushioned front seat of the pick-up, but a couple of the boys closely flanked me as I sat cross-legged, still cradling my misshapen arm. As Jim very slowly and very gently steered a course for home, I tried to concentrate on the leaves still unfolding overhead and the gentle, spring sun. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and then another, and sunk, ever briefly, in the smell of new grass.
And teen boys.
We pulled up to the garage just as Mom was walking past, when Chris jumped from the truck and with the subtlety of a crow in a cornfield said, "Anne broke her wrist!" (So much for Jim easing her into the bad news, as agreed upon moments prior.)
"Oo-oo-oo!" Mom said, jumping in place and then into action, as only a mother of five could.
After I was somehow lifted from the back of the pick-up and placed into Mom's car, I turned to see the faces of Jim's friends - Vargas, Palmer and Holvenstot - who were looking at me, looking a little guilty, then looking at Jim.
Who looked miserable.
Not a word was spoken on the way to Lake Forest Hospital.
No questions asked.
Or fingers pointed.
At the emergency entrance, Mom tried to get me out of the car and to my feet, but I wouldn't - I couldn't - for fear the slightest movement would make the pain unbearable - or even worse - that I would lose hold of my arm and have to witness my detached hand dangle. Then a handsome stranger, with a sweet voice and a smile to match, approached the car and asked if he could help and before I had a chance to refuse, he lifted me from the car with an effortless swoop and carried me inside, where he gently set me in a wheelchair, smiled and disappeared.
"That was Walter Payton of the Chicago Bears," the nurse smiled.
I knew exactly who it was.
After being welcomed back yet again to the emergency room (puberty had not been kind), I was x-rayed by a sadist, drugged, yanked, drugged again, and eventually yanked back into place by the two attending doctors - the process of which finally became too much for Mom who, lightheaded and nauseated, had to be led from the room.
By the time I returned home with that double dose of painkiller, I was feeling pretty good about the whole experience. "A broken wrist isn't that bad," I said, prior to the drugs wearing off. "In fact, I feel pretty darn good!" I smiled as I casually waved the crooked cast that reached my armpit, while Mom and Jim hid their telltale faces which told of the pain and discomfort that was sure to follow.
And how could I not be touched when I saw that Jim had straightened my room, folded down my bed and picked flowers for my bedside?
But teen boy guilt is fleeting.
My injury would soon become fodder for everyone's jokes, most of which were scribbled in permanent marker on the first cast. By the time the second cast came off three and a half months later, (after a long, tedious summer of interminable itching, sponge baths, and sitting on the sidelines) the event was already in the back of everyone's mind, except mine.
I can still feel a big storm approaching by the undeniable aching in my wrist and can't help but grin at the thought of pick-up trucks, broken bones, Walter Payton and teen boys.
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