The Good, the Bad, and the Emus(2)

The four of us had weeded the vegetable garden right after breakfast, and now I was pruning the hedge. Our black-and-copper Welsummer hens were hovering nearby, pouncing on any insects disturbed by my pruning. It was slow going, because I was using hand tools—the power hedge clipper, like any other power tool, was too attractive to small eyes and fingers—and even the manual clippers were dangerous enough, given the constant danger that an overeager hen would trip me on her way to nab a particularly tempting insect.

I switched to the hand pruners to do some fine tuning and continued snipping away, listening carefully to Natalie’s interactions with the boys and stifling the urge to offer advice every five seconds or so.

“Josh, leave the chicken alone. I don’t think she wants to play tag.”

“Jamie, don’t jump on the brush pile.”

“Take that out of your mouth.”

“Stop throwing rocks at your brother.”

“I don’t think the doggie wants to eat holly leaves.”

“Leave that alone.”

“No, I said later.”

She was learning. And I was making good progress. Should I try to finish the hedge before lunch? Or would it be wiser to break now, get the boys fed, and have Natalie learn how to put them down for naps? I could finish the hedge while they were asleep and—

“Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!”

Natalie’s bloodcurdling scream startled me. My right hand slipped, and I felt a searing pain as the pruners sliced into my left fingers. Just a laceration, though; the fingers themselves were still attached, I noted, as I ran to the other end of the hedge where Natalie and the boys were, wrapping my hand in my shirttail as I ran.

“I’m sorry,” Jamie was saying.

“Only a grass snake,” Josh was saying. “See?”

He held up the writhing green reptile that had provoked Natalie’s scream. She backed away slightly.

“Josh, put the snake down,” I said. “Maybe Cousin Natalie doesn’t like snakes.” Which would be rather ironic, since her favorite earrings were a pair of long, dangly silver serpents, but you never knew.

“I’m sorry, Meg,” Natalie began. “I’m not scared of snakes; really, I’m not. I was just startled and—oh! What happened?”

I looked down at my hand. Blood was pouring out of my fingers.

“I’ll get a bandage.” Natalie headed for the house.

“Blast.” It wasn’t nearly as satisfying as the “damn” I’d have uttered if the boys were not around. “I was hoping we’d seen the last of the ER for the week.”

I gave in to Natalie’s insistence that she drive me to the ER. But on the way, I managed to pull out my cell phone and make arrangements for her to take the boys over to visit Mother and Dad for the afternoon.

“You know how long it always takes at the ER,” I said. “And how restless the boys get.”

Natalie nodded and looked more cheerful at the prospect of going to her grandparents’ house instead of spending more hours at the ER. Two days ago Jamie had fallen out of the barn loft and cut his forehead. Yesterday, it had been Josh’s turn to get stitches, thanks to a close encounter with a broken pickle jar. Both days, I’d accompanied the injured twin back to see the doctor while Natalie tried to keep the other entertained and protect the ER waiting room from collateral damage. She’d gone to bed early the last two nights—about ten minutes behind the boys.

“Mommy okay?” Jamie asked, as I got out in front of the ER.

“I’ll be fine,” I said. “I’m just going to get some stitches from Grandpa’s friend in the ER, like the ones you guys got.”

“Mommy get ice cream now?” Josh asked. A trip to the Caerphilly Ice Cream Parlor had become the standard reward for brave behavior at the ER.

“Not until later, when you can come with me,” I said.

That idea was well received, and both boys stopped looking anxious.

“Now don’t forget to show Grandpa your stitches so he can make sure they’re healing properly.” I shut the minivan’s door.

I watched for a moment as Natalie pulled out of the parking lot. She was a careful driver. And there was a limit to how much mischief the boys could cause while strapped into their car seats. Right?

I turned and walked into the ER.

“Not you again. Which one is it this time?”

Crystal, a friend who worked at the hospital, was sitting behind the admissions desk.

“Me,” I said. I held up my hand and pulled off the once-clean dish towel wrapped around it. The bleeding had mostly stopped, but since this allowed me a better view of the four deep lacerations along the inside of my fingers, it wasn’t entirely an improvement.