Secrets in Summer(81)

“Susan,” was all she managed to say before Susan gasped, “Oh, no. What’s happened to the boys?”

“Henry cut his finger when they were slicing watermelon. It’s only a little cut but we’re going into the ER to be sure he doesn’t need stitches.”

George jumped up and down, yelling, “Henry’s dying, Mom, he’s bleeding like ketchup on a hamburger!”

Susan snapped into Sergeant Mother mode. “I’ll close the shop and be right there. It’s only a few blocks. I’ll run.”

“Okay, kids, let’s go into the hospital. Look, Henry, magic doors.”

“Duh,” George scoffed. “They’re not magic, they’re electric. We’re not idiots.”

“Then stop acting like ones,” Darcy snapped.

The ER waiting room was full, of course it was. It was summer on Nantucket. Most of the chairs lining the perimeter of the room were taken. Darcy saw a mother holding a squalling baby, a carpenter with a handmade tourniquet wrapped around his arm, a couple of drunks passed out in the corner, and a family talking rapidly in Spanish. She registered at the counter. The exhausted nurse told her it would be ten minutes. That means twenty, Darcy thought.

Willow looked so dazed Darcy feared the doctors would think she was in for a drug overdose.

“George,” Darcy said. “Here’s some money. Take your brothers over to the vending machine and buy some candy. Henry, keep the towel on your finger and you can go, too.”

The boys raced off.

Darcy took Willow gently by the shoulders and faced her squarely. “Willow. What happened?”

Willow’s tears rained down her face. “It was so awful! I can’t even tell you.”

“You have to tell me, Willow. Maybe I can help you.”

“No one can help me,” Willow sobbed.

“Did someone hurt you?”

Willow shook her head so ferociously her tears flew.

“Tell me, Willow. At least give me a hint. The boys will be back in a minute and we won’t be able to talk.”

Willow covered her hands with her face. “My mother,” she whispered. “My mother and Mr. Brueckner.” Her knees sagged and Darcy had to hold her up. “On the dining room table!”

Good grief, Darcy thought. What a thing for a daughter to see.

“Oh, sweetie.” Darcy gathered the girl into her arms. “It’s going to be okay,” she said, patting Willow’s back.

Willow stopped sobbing. She took a few deep breaths. She pulled away from Darcy. “What am I going to do?”

“Did anyone see you?”

“Ha.” She sniffed contemptuously. “No, they didn’t see me, they were too busy….” She couldn’t go on.

“All right,” Darcy said. “First, we have to decide whether or not to tell Susan. She’ll be here any minute.”

“Ick! No, Darcy, we can’t! Mr. Brueckner is her husband.”

Darcy thought it wouldn’t come as an enormous surprise to Susan that her husband was unfaithful, but at this moment in time, she agreed with Willow. “Okay. If Susan asks why you’ve been crying, you can tell her because you’re sorry that Henry cut his finger.”

Willow nodded. Darcy felt in her purse for a tissue and handed it to the girl.

“She was naked,” Willow moaned. “I hate her.”

The boys ran back, packs of Skittles in their hands.

“I can’t open mine,” Henry complained. He had dropped the paper towel near the vending machine. A line of blood crept down his arm.

“Let’s go in the bathroom and get you a fresh paper towel,” Darcy said.

“Willow, you wait with the boys for Susan.”

Automatically she washed her hands, pulled out a fresh paper towel, wet it, and wrapped it around Henry’s hand. The boy had managed to wedge his pack of candy into his pocket, and his hand went from this pocket to his mouth and back to his pocket as if he were automated.

She held the boy’s hand, pressing on his finger, as they returned to the waiting room. Her mind was in a traffic jam of thoughts. Poor Willow, to have to see her mother like that! Poor Susan, whose husband was unfaithful in addition to being a creep. And, oh, right, poor Boyz, whose wife was unfaithful to him, to Boyz, that model of fidelity! She couldn’t help smiling.

Her smile fell away when Susan rushed in through the automatic doors. Darcy flashed a look of caution to Willow, who was clutching her hands together like a Victorian heroine caught in a snowstorm. Susan threw herself around Henry.

“Your hand, let me see your hand!”

Henry held out his hand, unable to keep from looking proud.

“Oh, darling, that doesn’t look so terribly bad,” Susan told him. “You’ll have such an adventure, getting stitches.”