“Your daughter is fine,” the doctor reassured Reginald. “She just sprained her pinky.” He pointed at a little silver sling holding Cheyenne’s pinky just as I made my way to it.
“A sprain?” I held the little swollen fingers.
“What happened?” Reginald asked.
“I climbed a tree,” Cheyenne said matter-of-factly.
“I told her to stay out of that tree in the backyard,” my mother said.
“A tree? What were you doing climbing a tree?” I asked.
“We were playing in Grandma’s backyard and R. J. said he wanted to see me fly.”
“Fly? But you know you can’t fly? You know that’s not for real,” I said.
“She knows now,” my mother said. “Cried the whole time on the way over here. They had to give us a room, she was so loud.”
“I wanted to climb the tree in the backyard like a boy,” Cheyenne admitted.
“But you can’t just do whatever you want, baby,” Reginald said. “You know right from wrong and you know you shouldn’t be climbing trees. You can hurt yourself. You could’ve really hurt yourself and your brother.”
I listened as the doctor explained how the sprain would affect Cheyenne: the swelling would go down in about a week, but until then there was no reason to limit her activities. Maybe no
tree climbing.
“Ice cream is the best remedy,” he joked. “My prescription is an immediate trip to the nearest ice cream parlor.”
“Ice cream? Really?” R. J. said excitedly. “I want to sprain my finger, too. Can I?”
“No! No! No!” we all said.
As we attempted to retrace our steps to exit the hospital, Reginald and I naturally took sides around the twins and held their hands. My mother, who’d been silent and trying to avoid talking to Reginald walked a few steps ahead. Cheyenne held her pinky to her chest and walked closest to her father.
“We going home, Daddy?” R. J. asked.
“Yes, son,” Reginald answered.
“Yes,” Cheyenne cheered. “We’re a family again.”
Reginald looked at me.
“Mama, did you drive?” I asked.
My mother turned around.
“No, I couldn’t,” she said. “That child was hollering like somebody was killing her. I had to call an ambulance.”
“Reginald and I are in my car,” I said. “I guess we can all fit in.”
“It’s OK; we’re all going home,” R. J. said and then I realized that he was talking about Augusta.
I looked at Cheyenne holding Reginald’s hand.
“No, I think we’re going to have to drop Daddy off,” I said.
“Drop him off?” Cheyenne looked at me and dropped Reginald’s hand. “But I thought you said we were going home together. That we were going back to Augusta with Daddy. Isn’t that why you went there?” She stopped walking.
I looked at my mother.