Chapter 13 -- Seize the Day
Sunday October 9
My mom's attempt at humor last night had failed, in my estimation. I'd been completely freaked out until the doctor came in and explained my injuries. Any time you're knocked unconscious, it's cause for concern. That was why they'd kept me overnight. Other than the risk of brain injury, the doctor had said I would live. If the pain I felt this morning was any indication, I had my doubts.
When I'd seen the SUV about to plow into us, I'd turned my body. The back of my head had a cut and a huge knot where it had struck the window. I had three cracked ribs, a bruised upper arm with a swollen elbow, and the outside of my right leg was banged up. What hurt the most was my hip.
The doctor said I'd injured my iliac crest or hip bone. In layman's terms, I'd received a hip pointer. The way the doctor described it, I'd had the soft tissue of my hip crushed against my hip bone. What made that injury so painful was that the cluneal nerve runs right along the iliac crest; a contusion (basically a bruise) to that nerve hurts--a lot. I could attest that the pain was intense when I tried to walk, laugh, cough, or even breathe deeply. The cracked ribs didn't help with the last three, either.
My parents walked into the room.
"How do you feel?" Mom asked.
"You know how we joked about turf toe and hip pointers?" I asked my dad, and he nodded. "Hip pointers are no joke. Between that and my ribs, I can barely move without it hurting."
"How long until you can play ball again?" Dad asked.
"Three to six weeks. The best case would be to come back for the last game of the season, worst case would be for the State Championship Game," I explained.
When I first woke up, I thought the doctor had been overly cautious when he said I wouldn't play for at least three weeks. Then my pain meds started to wear off. I'd come to dread the ten feet it took to walk to the bathroom, and I didn't even want to think about running around on a football field.
"How is everyone else?" I asked, fearing to hear the answer.
"They're all fine," Mom assured me. "I sent them all to the hotel last night when they told us that only family could visit you. I received a text from Brook saying they're coming over after breakfast."
"I want to get out of here. We have all those meetings scheduled for today, plus I need to talk to the USC coaches."
"Your dad and I had some time to talk last night. We think you're right," she said.
I guess my look of confusion had come through, at least when it came to my mom ever admitting I was right about something.
"No smart comments," she said with a warning glare, and then it softened. "Your dad pointed out that we hadn't taken your desire to just be a kid seriously. We had some heated words when he pointed out I was the worst offender by having you take pictures for my listings."
"What your mom is trying to say is, let us worry about the meetings. If something big comes up, I'll talk to you. Your mom was always going to remodel your house anyway, so why fight it," Dad said, and got a dirty look from her for his efforts.
"Sounds good, but I'd like to sit in on today's meetings," I said.
There was a knock on the door, and Fritz stuck his head in. I saw he had his wrist wrapped.
"What happened?" I asked.
"Broke my wrist. I guess I had a good grip on the steering wheel when we were hit. They have to wait for the swelling to go down before they can put it in a cast."
He then told us about the accident. The driver of the SUV was one of the security people who worked for Zander Lewis. Several of the people in our car had seen Zander and the other security guy bail and run off when they discovered I'd been hurt.
The driver, probably from prior experience with Zander, quickly figured out Zander was going to cut him loose and hang him out to dry, so he'd told Fritz everything. Zander had wanted to send a forceful message to Halle, and things had gotten out of hand. When the police arrived, the driver had repeated his story to them. Zander and the other security guard were now missing.
"Dear Lord, the press must be going crazy," I guessed.
"It's only a matter of time. The good news is that we were inside the gates. Residents of Malibu Colony pay to keep the paparazzi out. The press will know soon, though. They have sources in the police departments, and you, Halle, and Zander being tied to a traffic accident involving some pretty severe injuries will garner considerable attention," Fritz said.
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My dad helped me to the bathroom so I could shower. I figured out quickly that I would need some help in the short term because I couldn't even get my pants on or tie my shoes without almost crying. I think if I'd just had the hip pointer or cracked ribs, I might have been able to deal with the pain when I tried to walk or move. With both, it was like trying to juggle chainsaws while walking in six-inch high heels. Every move I made felt dangerous because if I did anything too quickly, or did more than shuffle my feet, I was in tears.
As a parting gift, my doctor gave me a couple of boxes of sample pills for pain to hold me over until I got home and could go to the pharmacy. Mom had warned him what not to give me. It was probably best that I didn't become chatty in the mood I was in. They put my arm in a sling and made me ride out in a wheelchair. I say 'made,' but the truth was I would have never been able to walk out.
"Well, shit," Fritz said as we got close to the exit.
For Fritz to cuss, you knew it had to be bad news. I could see the paparazzi had shown up. I think people could almost make a living tipping them off. One of the hospital staff was more than likely responsible.
"Mom, you go get in the car first," I suggested.
"Why?" she snapped.
How do you tell your mom that you don't want her embarrassing you by going postal? I was sure that when the paparazzi went into a frenzy, she would have some choice things to say or might even pop a couple of them in the nose. Luckily, Dad figured it out and put his foot down. From the look she gave him, I was glad she wasn't my wife.
Mom slipped through the crowd and got into the SUV that Fritz had brought today. She pulled it around so that we didn't have to navigate the parking lot with paparazzi hounding us.
"Showtime!" I announced.
Fritz led the way, and Dad pushed the wheelchair. Thankfully there was only a handful of them. That didn't stop them from being rude and trying to push Fritz out of the way. He quickly made them realize that that wasn't a good idea.
"David, why are you in LA? Are you and Halle James back together?" one of the paparazzi shouted.
"The usual reasons. The weather, California girls, and Mexican food."
