doctor’s receptionist in Spanish. I could see the woman trying to interrupt, but Grandma needed to delineate everything about the accident and her decision to bring me. She also said that my parents were at the airport and that she was concerned they would be frightened if we weren’t back home by the time they arrived. I trembled so from the cold that my teeth clicked together. Dolores put her hands on my shoulders and gently rubbed them to warm me up.
When the receptionist was at last permitted to speak she said she would check whether the doctor could see me right away.
My grandmother’s trust in Dr. Perez was well-placed. He came out immediately and painlessly inspected my broken arm at the receptionist’s desk. He said it was probably fractured; a simple one he thought. He said it was pointless for him to take an X-ray, that she should get me to an orthopedist and let him make the determination as well as treat me. He gave the name and address and said he would phone ahead to make sure we were taken care of.
But, at the orthopedists, although we were expected, there was a long wait—at least it seemed long to me. The discomfort and debilitation of the shock were having an effect—I felt sad, tired, and irritated. It must have taken a long time before my arm was X-rayed and the cast fitted because Grandma sent Dolores back to the house to greet Pepin, Francisco and Ruth and tell them our whereabouts.
Grandma sat next to me, except during the X-ray and fitting of the cast. She was too timid to insist on following me into the examining rooms. But, during the intervals, she placed my head on her chest and stroked my cheek while she kept her eyes fixed on the door, anxious about my parents’ arrival. I was uncomfortable in the position, and I didn’t like the worry and possessiveness of her petting. But I didn’t have the energy or nerve to tell her to stop. I felt weak. I felt I had failed: I had upset my Grandma; I had ruined my father’s return; and I would never play center field for the Yankees.
My mother came into the examining room while the cast was being set. Unlike my grandmother, Ruth was not only unawed by the doctor and nurse—she seemed to be their boss. She hugged me awkwardly—because of the wet cast—and immediately fired off questions about the fracture and its treatment. Mom had left the door open and I could see a sliver of the waiting room between her body and the nurse’s.
My father was out there, talking loudly and cheerfully to his mother in Spanish. Jacinta hugged him with abandon. The difference in their sizes made it appear she clung to him, calling up for his attention the way a dog greets his master. Her usually composed face was animated with emotion. She looked younger. Her eyes shone and she smiled joyfully. She loves him so much, I remember thinking. I was surprised. I thought Grandma only loved me that way
“Frank,” Ruth called to my father. “Frank!” she called a little too loudly for my taste. “Your son’s in here.”
The cast had begun to harden and I had my first experience of its rigidity as my father entered. I tried to shift my wrist beyond a certain point and my thumb was stopped. There was a twinge inside the arm. When I attempted to touch it, I was distressed to find not my soft living flesh, but the unyielding hollow plaster. I got a hint of how frustrating and tedious wearing it for six weeks was going to be.
“Hey, my boy,” Francisco said, brushing past the doctor, the nurse and my mother. Although I was elevated by the examination table, he was so tall he had to bend down to reach me. He hugged and kissed me on the cheek. Remember, this was no physically frozen father of the Eisenhower years. Francisco was a proud Latin Papa who saw me as an extension of himself. That meant he was often very warm and loving—and, by the same logic, sometimes very careless.
The orthopedist and his nurse weren’t Latin. When the doctor began to examine my
When the receptionist was at last permitted to speak she said she would check whether the doctor could see me right away.
My grandmother’s trust in Dr. Perez was well-placed. He came out immediately and painlessly inspected my broken arm at the receptionist’s desk. He said it was probably fractured; a simple one he thought. He said it was pointless for him to take an X-ray, that she should get me to an orthopedist and let him make the determination as well as treat me. He gave the name and address and said he would phone ahead to make sure we were taken care of.
But, at the orthopedists, although we were expected, there was a long wait—at least it seemed long to me. The discomfort and debilitation of the shock were having an effect—I felt sad, tired, and irritated. It must have taken a long time before my arm was X-rayed and the cast fitted because Grandma sent Dolores back to the house to greet Pepin, Francisco and Ruth and tell them our whereabouts.
Grandma sat next to me, except during the X-ray and fitting of the cast. She was too timid to insist on following me into the examining rooms. But, during the intervals, she placed my head on her chest and stroked my cheek while she kept her eyes fixed on the door, anxious about my parents’ arrival. I was uncomfortable in the position, and I didn’t like the worry and possessiveness of her petting. But I didn’t have the energy or nerve to tell her to stop. I felt weak. I felt I had failed: I had upset my Grandma; I had ruined my father’s return; and I would never play center field for the Yankees.
My mother came into the examining room while the cast was being set. Unlike my grandmother, Ruth was not only unawed by the doctor and nurse—she seemed to be their boss. She hugged me awkwardly—because of the wet cast—and immediately fired off questions about the fracture and its treatment. Mom had left the door open and I could see a sliver of the waiting room between her body and the nurse’s.
My father was out there, talking loudly and cheerfully to his mother in Spanish. Jacinta hugged him with abandon. The difference in their sizes made it appear she clung to him, calling up for his attention the way a dog greets his master. Her usually composed face was animated with emotion. She looked younger. Her eyes shone and she smiled joyfully. She loves him so much, I remember thinking. I was surprised. I thought Grandma only loved me that way
“Frank,” Ruth called to my father. “Frank!” she called a little too loudly for my taste. “Your son’s in here.”
The cast had begun to harden and I had my first experience of its rigidity as my father entered. I tried to shift my wrist beyond a certain point and my thumb was stopped. There was a twinge inside the arm. When I attempted to touch it, I was distressed to find not my soft living flesh, but the unyielding hollow plaster. I got a hint of how frustrating and tedious wearing it for six weeks was going to be.
“Hey, my boy,” Francisco said, brushing past the doctor, the nurse and my mother. Although I was elevated by the examination table, he was so tall he had to bend down to reach me. He hugged and kissed me on the cheek. Remember, this was no physically frozen father of the Eisenhower years. Francisco was a proud Latin Papa who saw me as an extension of himself. That meant he was often very warm and loving—and, by the same logic, sometimes very careless.
The orthopedist and his nurse weren’t Latin. When the doctor began to examine my
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