Page 32 of The Delivery

“Help him,” she hears herself say. “Why aren’t you helping him?”

“We’ve stabilized him as best we can,” the EMT says. “But we need a full-blown paramedic here. No way we’re risking snapping that neck entirely.”

“He’s paralyzed for sure, man,” one of the young cops says too loudly. “For sure.”

Rebecca thinks, He can hear you.

But at the same time, Jackson seems gone already, less a man than the remnants of an accident. Given his state, she wonders what, if anything, he can take in. The scream of a siren splits the air, more help arriving, but still she cannot tear her gaze from that hideous eye.

It twitches in the socket, pinning her.

“Errug,” Jackson says. And then, an agonized roar. “Eeruuggh!”

Horrified, she stumbles back.

Tripping, falling onto the fresh-cut lawn, shoving up from hands and knees. The colossal fire engine seems to fill the entire world, flying up to the curb behind her van. Maddy is gone from the back seat and Rebecca’s panic revs higher into redline, but as she whips her gaze up the street, she sees Mr. Man ushering Maddy in through their front door, one smooth hand at the side of her head to block her view of the accident.

Paramedics and firemen spill out, storming past Rebecca as she staggers to her van. Her hands tremble so badly she almost cannot fit the key into the slot.

She drives crookedly into the driveway, banging across the curb, and manages to slot the van into the garage without crashing.

She takes a moment to gather herself before entering the house.

Maddy is at the table, the calming scent of Nervous Tummy Tea rising from the mug before her, permeating the kitchen. She is smiling and talking with Mr. Man.

“They are from Africa,” she is saying. “Rhodesia, which is now called Zimbobby.”

“ Zimbabwe ,” Mr. Man says, moving clean plates from dishwasher to cupboard.

“Zimbobby,” Maddy says again. “And they were bred to hunt lions. Raaar!” She makes raaar claws just as Rebecca did earlier, her pug nose scrunched up in a snarl. She notices Rebecca standing there. “You okay, Mommy?”

“Yeah, Maddysaurus. I’m okay. It’s just . . . Jackson had an accident.”

“A accident? He cut his finger?”

“No, honey,” Rebecca says. “He fell off his ladder.”

“Owie!”

“Yeah.” Rebecca is still trying to breathe normally. “Owie.”

“He gonna be awright, Mommy?”

The pause is quiet enough that she can hear Bao-Bao nibbling at his water nozzle.

“I hope so.”

“I’ll say a prayer for him.”

“That’d be nice, Maddysaurus.”

Maddy’s eyelids are heavy, her blinks long; she is crashing from the Froyo sugar high. Rebecca rests a hand on Maddy’s head, surprised as always by how warm it is. Maddy gets up, and Rebecca keeps her palm atop her sweaty hair, steering her down the hall to her bedroom.

They skip bath, and the rest of the nigh-night routine goes swiftly and smoothly until it is time for forehead kiss.

Maddy pokes a finger at the hollow of Rebecca’s throat. “Where’s your necklace, Mommy?”

Memory flash: Rebecca standing over Jackson’s buckled form, clawing at her neck, the give of the cheap filament chain.