The change is instantaneous. The furrowed brow smooths out, the tears are sucked away, and a blinding smile steals across her mouth. I’ve been had.
“Yay! I lub ice cream, My Owen!” She throws her arms around my neck, nearly knocking me off balance in the process. I throw an arm against the wall to steady us, wrapping the other around her tiny body.
“I love you, My Stella,” I whisper softly. She squeezes tight for just a second and then let’s go. She skips across the barn, happy as a clam—which is a saying I’ve never really understood. How happy are clams? And how do we know they’re that happy? It just doesn’t make any sense to me.
I hear her start chattering to Huck again, telling him about all her favorite things about Christmas, mixed in with what ice cream she’s going to pick, and which toppings she will pile on top.
Crisis averted, though I wouldn’t tell Tristan I had used bribery to accomplish it, I start whistling Jingle Bells under my breath as I finish pulling out the rest of the tables and chairs. I take a quick minute to text Roe, to make sure I can make good on the promise of getting started on the decorations today. Even if we just do a small portion, I need to keep my promise to Stella. It’s going to take a hell of a lot more than my lack of decorating skill to get me to disappoint her.
I roll the next table to the designated location, forcing myself to think about hurrying through getting the tables and chairs set up, moving on to decorations, and not about how Tristan and my mother are faring on their first outing alone together. Tristan has been equal parts excited and terrified about spending the day with Mama G. Her previous experience with mothers has varied from tragic to ambivalent and every range of emotion in between. She’s told me that her time in the system wasn’t made up of the horror stories that often plagued foster kids, but it still hadn’t given her any sort of positive interaction with mother figures.
And since Mama G is like a regular mother hopped up on a dozen energy drinks, laced with coffee, and infused with three or four shots of espresso, Tristan has been more than just a little worried about the day.
I’d tried to tell her that shopping for Christmas gifts for the party would be harmless, but I wasn’t able to keep a straight face so she didn’t believe me.
I click the legs of the last table into place before fishing my phone back out of my pocket and shooting a text off to Tristan to check in with her. Have you started drinking yet? I stare at the phone for a few seconds, waiting to see if those three little dots pop up to indicate she’s responding. When they don’t show up, I slide my phone back in my pocket. I listen to Stella squeal in laughter as Huck chases her around the tables before I slip back into the closet and start pulling out the chairs.
I have half the chairs set up when my phone vibrates in my pocket. I press my thumb against the home button, unlocking the screen, and nearly choke on my laughter. The first picture is of Tristan holding an empty extra-large margarita glass in one hand, and a half-full extra-large margarita glass in the other hand. The second picture shows Tristan and Mama G each holding their own respective glasses, wide smiles on both of their faces. The third shows an overflowing pile of shopping bags.
The pictures are quickly followed up by half a dozen questions about Stella. I start to text her my typical flippant reply about how Stella and I have decided to break out the chain saws, or something equally stupid, when I hear a startled shriek, a loud crash, and Huck’s rapid-fire barking. Seconds later my heart drops to my feet when Stella’s heart-wrenching sobs override the barking. I scramble out of the closet, kicking over the last stack of chairs in my haste to get to Stella.
My knees buckle when I see her lying on the ground, clutching her left arm against her chest, blood pouring like a fucking level-five rapid from under the wool hat. I hit my knees, skidding to a stop next to her. My hands hover over her. I’m terrified to touch her, all my training sliding out of my head at the sight of her white, tear-streaked face.
“My Owen.” Her pain soaked voice rips right at my broken heart. “Hurts.” She just whimpers the last word.
“I know, baby,” I whisper. Huck lies down on the ground next to her, whining quietly, obviously upset. He army-crawls forward, moving close enough that his nose butts up against her stomach. “Can you tell me what hurts, Stella?” I try to keep my voice even and calm, but the fear wants to slither through.
“Evebything hurts,” she whimpers again. Tears leak out of the corner of her eyes, and I feel them burn the back of my own. I hit the button to call Roe. She should be getting close to the farm. Waiting on an ambulance to make its way out here will take way too long.
“Is it time for decorations?” Her voice comes across the line after two rings. Christmas music blasts in the background.
“Stella’s hurt.” I snap out the two words. I reach out to run a hand down Stella’s cheek in an effort to calm us both. “Can you pull up right to the barn?”
“I’m literally thirty seconds out.” The engine revs as she picks up speed and the Christmas music is muted now. “What happened?”
“She fell. I think. I was getting chairs out of the closet so I didn’t see it.” I swallow down the bile burning up the back of my throat. “I think her arm is broken.”
“Fuck.” The squeal of tires sounds through the phone and right outside of the barn. I look up to see Monroe sprinting through the door. She skids to a stop right next to us, her hands hovering over Stella much like mine had done. “Okay,” Monroe says quietly, “okay. Did you call Tristan?”
“I want Mama!” Stella wails the words. She’s still clutching her arm against her chest, but she’s rolled to her side, and now the tears have mixed in with the blood from her head wound and snot from her progressively runny nose. “Pwease, My Owen. I want Mama.”
Monroe looks at me. “Help me load her in the car. We can call Tristan on the way to the hospital.”
“Doc Jacobs…”
Monroe silences me with a look. “She hit her head, Owen. She might have a concussion. She’ll need a cat scan. Doc Jacobs can’t do that at his office. Let’s go to the emergency room.”
“Okay.” I rub one hand along the back of my neck. “Okay. Let’s get her in the car.” I lean over, brushing my lips across the side of Stella’s head that isn’t bleeding. “Okay, baby, I’m going to pick you up now. Okay?” She nods her head. “It’s going to hurt, baby. I’m so sorry. You can cry and scream all you want to, okay?”
I slide my hands under her body as gently as I can. She doesn’t make a single noise until I lift. She starts crying in earnest, each sob and whimper like a stab straight to my heart. I slide straight into the backseat with her, lifting her into the booster seat that Monroe had installed in her car a couple of weeks ago. Both my parents, Monroe, Nora, and I all have them in our individual cars now. I feel Huck jump into the backseat next to me. He’s going to be an issue at the hospital, but I know it’s going to be a bigger issue to try and get him out of the car right now and I don’t want to waste time.
Stella curls into herself in the seat, tucking her injured arm against her stomach, and burying her head against my shoulder. I kiss her little head again. “It’ll be okay, baby. I know it hurts.”