Neither of them are quite sure how it happens. She and Meg are both looking away from the slide, so they miss it. But as Susan starts to answer, Andrew shouts, and the women’s heads jerk toward him just in time to see the boy tumbling down the pavers, crashing into the ones poking out, unable to stop himself. He lands at the bottom a second later, and a silent moment balances delicately as everyone in the park freezes and stares.
Then he starts screaming.
Screaming and wailing, a high-pitched sound that means one thing: pain. Lots of it.
Ali, still at the top, gazes in horror at his brother; then he, too, begins to wail. Susan kicks into action, springing toward Andrew, who has managed to pull himself to a half-seated position. His arm sticks out at a funny angle, and he’s bleeding from a gash in his forehead. He screams and screams.
“Meg! Call an ambulance!” Susan yells, crouching beside her nephew. But Meg remains in that frozen moment, eyes wide, shaking, mouth agape. The baby is crying now too, along with a few children nearby. Other parents hurry them away for comfort, shooting Susan and Andrew concerned and pitying looks. “Meg!” Susan bellows.
“I’m on it!” a nearby dad volunteers, waving his mobile.
A mother sprints to the top of the slide and scoops up Ali, carrying him down, soothing him. “There, there, love, it’s all right. You’ve had a fright, now, haven’t you?” she murmurs. “Your brother’s going to be fine, just fine. Come over here, love.” She carries him over to Meg, who is now wailing almost as loudly as her firstborn. A few other parents are trying to calm her.
Susan is dealing with Andrew, who’s turning dead-fish gray. “Andy, you’re going to be all right. We’re calling for help now,” she says, in the bright, fake tones one uses in situations like this. She examines the gash on his forehead. It doesn’t look too deep, but cuts to the head always bleed like crazy. She read that somewhere. Why is that? Is extra alarm really necessary when your head’s wounded? She pulls a tissue out of her pocket and dabs gently at the cut. She expects Andrew to flinch, but he doesn’t. He’s stopped screaming and is now shaking and staring into the distance. Shock.
“Andrew,” she says, her voice now firm because some instinct tells her she has to keep him conscious and aware. “Andrew, tell me about your day at school. Or your favorite film. What did you see last at the cinema?”
“That Lego movie,” he murmurs. “There were superheroes, I think.”
“That’s good, that’s good.” Another slight dab at the head wound. “Did you like it?”
“’S okay.”
“What’s your favorite film?”
“I liked How to Train Your Dragon. The dragons are cool. Wish I could have a dragon.”
“You’re very brave, Andrew,” she reassures him. “Very, very brave. It’s all right—the ambulance is coming.” She looks over his head and catches the eye of the dad with the mobile. He nods to her.
“On their way!” he reports. “I’ll go to the gate and direct them.” He sprints away. Susan guesses that he, like the others who are coddling Meg and frightened children, are enjoying this just the tiniest bit. Excitement and variety in what has otherwise been another fairly dull, routine afternoon at the park. She can just imagine this scene being relived over half a dozen dinner tables that evening, parents and kids comparing notes.
The ambulance arrives, sirens screaming, and Andrew is loaded onto a gurney and taken to the Royal Hospital for Sick Children. They offer to let Meg or Susan ride with him, but Meg’s still hysterical, and Susan doesn’t want to leave her in that state, with the little ones to deal with on top of it, so instead they follow in a taxi. Meg sobs. The boys wail. And Susan has her hands full tending to the three of them while also telephoning Will to tell him what happened. He was playing tennis at the Meadows and arrives at the hospital just behind them. Susan has never been so grateful to see her brother-in-law.
“Hey, hey, big man,” he says to Alisdair, who’s cried himself exhausted. “It’s all right—your brother will be fine.” He sweeps the boy up in a hug, then says to Meg, “What the hell happened?”
“It was an accident,” Susan explains, quick to defend her sister against his perceived judgment. “He was climbing up to the top of the slide, and he slipped and fell.”
“You’re a godsend, Suze,” he says. Still holding Ali with one arm, he drapes the other over his wife’s shoulders and pulls her close. “Come on, let’s go in,” he murmurs.
“Why don’t I take the boys home?” Susan suggests. “No sense keeping them here.”
“That would be great,” Will says, handing Alisdair over. Ali makes no protest. He’s limp, and his head rests heavily on his aunt’s shoulder. “Thank you so much—we really owe you one.”
“You don’t owe me anything,” says Susan. “This is what family does.”
Alisdair settles his head in the hollow of her shoulder and snuggles in against the curve of her neck. Susan lets her own head rest gently on his, finding his warmth and weight against her body soothing. He’s worn out. They all are now the emergency situation adrenaline is ebbing. Susan feels exhausted and wants nothing more than to collapse onto a sofa with a cozy blanket. Even the baby seems pretty relaxed as the taxi stutters toward Stockbridge through heavy afternoon traffic.
Ali falls asleep about halfway home, and the taxi driver kindly helps Susan get both boys into the house when they arrive. She tucks Ali into his little race car–shaped toddler bed and settles Ayden on a blanket in the playroom with some stacking cups. He’s as fascinated by them as if the secrets of the universe were contained in their plastic shells and he could get to them if he just gets the order right. Susan smiles, watching him. Thinking how nice it is when life’s that simple. When complete happiness can come just from figuring out that the blue one goes on top of the red one.
Ayden completes half a stack and applauds, looking to Susan for approval. She duly gives it, just as the front door opens and Lauren swirls in.
“Hiya!” she crows, breathless. “Sorry—just ran over. Mum texted something about Andy being in hospital? She thought I should come over and see if you needed help. She’d come, but she and dad are making an appearance at the constituency. Got to keep those voters placated, you know.”
“Oh, thanks, Lauren,” Susan answers. “It’s a broken arm probably, and maybe a concussion. Meg and Will are at Sick Kids with him.”
“Glad it’s not serious,” says Lauren. “Must have been a thing, though! Did Meg cry? I’ll bet she cried.”
“Of course she cried! He’s her son!”
“You know what I mean. She makes a big drama, doesn’t she? But like you said, it’s her kid and all. You want some tea? I’ll go make some tea.” She clatters about in the kitchen for a while, occasionally singing some pop song off-key, then reappears with the teapot, some mugs, and a plate of biscuits. “These are gluten-free nonsense, but it’s all I could find,” she announces, pointing to the biscuits.
Susan shakes her head. “I’m fine.”
Lauren takes a biscuit, bites into it, and shrugs, apparently finding it edible. “Will he have to stay overnight, do you think? In the hospital? Mum’ll want to know. If he does, she and dad’ll turn around and come right back.”