Trailer Trash(88)

Nate did as instructed, although undressing made his ribs hurt like hell. A few minutes later, the nurse came back, but before she could do much, one of the other nurses called her over. They stayed within sight as they whispered urgently, glancing toward him every few seconds. Another woman joined them—not a nurse, he didn’t think, but maybe one of the women from the front desk—and soon they were all whispering, their eyes straying his way more often than seemed normal.

The nurse came back, but this time, her smile didn’t seem quite so genuine. She began going through drawers, pulling out cotton balls and gauze pads and a bottle that he hoped wasn’t plain old rubbing alcohol—that was bound to sting. Finally, she dug around in another cabinet and came up with a box of rubber gloves.

“Okay,” she told him as she opened the box and pulled a couple of them out. “Let’s take a look at those cuts on your face.”

Nate watched her, puzzled. He knew from TV that doctors wore gloves for surgery, but in all his visits to the ER, he’d never seen them used. “What do you need those for?”

“Just being careful.” She was careful, all right—careful not to meet his eyes as she said it.

“I’m not sick.”

She gave him a tight-lipped smile. “One of the other nurses went to a symposium in Denver last month. She said they’re recommending rubber gloves for everything now. Even sports physicals and dental visits. It’s practically routine.”

Practically. Except not really. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have had to search for them.

She began cleaning the many cuts on his face, fumbling a bit with the bottles and tubes of ointment, obviously unused to having her work impeded by the gloves.

A cold little knot of dread began to form in Nate’s gut. He had a sinking feeling he knew what was going on.

“I don’t think you’ll need stitches,” she told him. “That’s good news, right?”

“Right.”

“The doctor will be in any minute now—”

She was interrupted by the arrival of his father. Nate didn’t think he’d ever been so glad to see him.

“Jesus, Nate, what the hell happened?” his dad asked, once the nurse had gone.

“Just some of the guys from school.” Trying to talk about it made it all come back to him—the terror and the shame and the pain—and he fought to keep his voice steady. “They slit the tires on the car so we’d have to walk, and then they were waiting for us in the empty lot behind the gas station. Cody tried to—” His dad scowled, and Nate stopped short. “What? Is Cody okay?”

“Better off than you, it seems.” But his voice was strained.

“Can I see him?”

“I’m pretty sure he and his mom left already.”

“Oh.” Nate tried not to sound too disappointed. In some ways, it was just as well knowing Cody wouldn’t have to see him dressed in a flowered hospital gown, with one side of his face swollen up like a balloon. Still, he was surprised Cody would leave without even saying good-bye.

“I told you not to hang out with him. I told you it would lead to trouble.”

“You busting Brian’s dad for cocaine possession didn’t exactly help, you know.”

“I told you. That had nothing to do with what you said about him.”

“Well, try telling Brian that, why don’t you? He was too busy kicking me in the kidneys to listen to excuses.”

He was glad to see the doctor arrive. At least it would put an end to their argument. But rather than examine Nate, the doctor asked to speak with Nate’s father. Again, they stepped away, staying within sight of Nate’s bed, but moving far enough away to talk without Nate overhearing.

Nate watched them, waiting. He hurt everywhere. Now that the adrenaline had worn off, he wanted to cry from the pain. His stomach and his back and his face all ached. His face hurt the worst. But it all paled next to the shame he felt, watching them all whisper as they glanced his way. His dad became agitated once, raising his voice to say, “That’s ridiculous! My son is not—” before they all shushed him. His dad’s jaw clench, the color rising in his cheeks.

“Fine,” he said at last. “Just do whatever the hell it is you need to do.”

The doctor examined him at last, but not until he and the nurse had stopped to put on the stupid rubber gloves. They took X-rays and ran a slew of tests, all the while giving him that look. It was the same look he’d seen thrown Cody’s way at school. The same look people had started to give him. He flashed back on his first conversation with Cody about it, and the way Cody had said, “It’s an STD. You even know what that stands for? Sexually. Transmitted. Disease.”