by Jessie Haas
The medics loaded her into the back of the ambulance. One climbed in beside her, one hopped behind the wheel, and then they were gone.
I turned back toward the house, feeling numb. Rembrandt slunk out, tail tucked up under his belly. “He was beside her when I arrived,” Luis said. “He barked when I came in—asking for help, I think.”
I crouched down beside Rembrandt. He crept into my arms, shaking all over. “Poor boy,” I said, kissing his furry head.
I took Rembrandt inside and gave him his supper, but he turned away from it miserably. I was miserable, too. I couldn’t stand to be in here with no Mimi. I went back outside and waited with Luis and Carmen. Mom, I thought. Please hurry!
At last her car pulled into the driveway. I ran to the passenger door as Mom spoke to Luis and Carmen through her open window. “Thank you both so much!” she said. “I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t been here.”
As I buckled my seat belt, Mom reached over to squeeze my hand. Then she turned the car around, and we took off down the road, much faster than we usually drive.
When we reached the hospital, we found out that Mimi had been taken to the emergency room. Mom asked a nurse to tell Mimi we were there, and then we sat in the waiting room—and worried.
After what seemed like a very long time, Dad rushed into the waiting room, still wearing his pilot’s uniform. He looked tired and anxious. “How is she?” he asked.
Mom started to fill him in, but just then a doctor appeared in the doorway and said, “Can I speak with the Copeland family?”
When we jumped up, she explained what was going on. Mimi had broken her femur, the bone in her thigh, just below the hip.
“That’s good news,” the doctor said. “A broken hip would have been much more serious. We’ll need to put a pin in, and we’ve scheduled the operation for first thing tomorrow. She’s also broken her wrist—not badly, but it will make recovery more difficult. We like to get people up as quickly as possible, but with a broken wrist, she may have trouble using a regular walker. We’ll have to figure something out.”
“Can we see her?” Dad asked.
“We’re getting her settled in a room right now,” said the doctor. “Someone will let you know when she’s ready. But don’t expect her to be too alert. We’ve given her medication to keep her comfortable.”
Mom called Carmen to let her know what was happening, and then we all suddenly realized how hungry we were. We ate some lukewarm fajitas down in the cafeteria, and by the time we came back upstairs, they’d settled Mimi into a room.
When I saw her, the fajita turned into a cold lump in my stomach. Mimi’s face was white, her hair still messy. She had a splint on her right arm, and a clear plastic tube fed some liquid into her left arm. She opened her eyes when we came in, but she didn’t say anything, and her eyes quickly closed again.
We sat for a while, with Mom stroking Mimi’s forehead and Dad squeezing the fingers of her good hand. When visiting hours ended, I leaned close to Mimi’s face, hoping she would open her eyes and give me a special look, a word—anything. But Mimi’s eyes stayed closed. I kissed her cheek, and we went back to the ranchita.
Luis and Carmen were waiting there with a steaming pot of hot chocolate. We sat around the kitchen table, and Mom and Dad updated Luis and Carmen on Mimi’s condition. Rembrandt sat beneath my chair, his body pressed up hard against my leg. I should have been mad at him, I guess, but I knew he felt terrible already. He hadn’t meant to hurt Mimi, and neither had the kitten.
“Who’s going to take care of Rembrandt—and the kitten?” I asked suddenly.
“He’ll have to come home with us,” Dad said, nodding toward Rembrandt, and I saw Mom grimace. Rembrandt and Sam may be brothers, but like some siblings, they don’t get along.
“We’ll check in on the kitten, honey,” said Carmen, reaching over to squeeze my shoulder.
As we sipped our hot chocolate, we tried to figure out what chores needed doing on the ranchita. The chickens had gone into the coop at sunset. Their door needed to be locked each night so that skunks and coyotes didn’t eat them—or their eggs.
“I’ll feed the chickens in the morning, and check the horses,” Luis said. “I do that sometimes when Mimi’s away, so I know the routine.”
The horses were on pasture and only needed their water tub filled. But Mimi checks on them twice a day, to make sure everyone’s all right.
“May I go check the animals now?” I asked. I wanted to be alone for a few minutes.
I found Mimi’s flashlight, stepped outside, and went to check on the chickens. They were all lined up on their roost, crooning sleepily in the flashlight beam. I closed the door and locked it.
Then I went out to the horse corral. At first I didn’t see any animals there. The horses graze in the evening, when the air is cool, and they have acres of pasture to scatter across. I checked the water tub, which was about half full. I turned on the hose and waited, looking up at the crescent moon in the velvet-dark New Mexico sky.
Mimi in the hospital—how could that be? Yesterday she was galloping on Picasso. Today she lay in that bed, looking broken.
A scuff and a gentle snort made me turn. Picasso was walking toward me. Maybe he’d heard the water gurgle. I slipped between the fence rails and went to greet him.
Picasso put his muzzle to my cheek and puffed his breath on me softly. Could he smell the hospital? Could he smell Mimi?
I leaned against Picasso’s neck, breathing his rich horsey scent. “She’s hurt, Picasso,” I said. My voice came out all wobbly, and I didn’t say anything more. I felt strange—clearheaded, but weak and shaky.
Mimi fell.
Mimi fell…
She’d seemed so unlike herself, lying there in that hospital bed. That wasn’t the strong, full-of-life Mimi that I knew and loved.
But if Mimi wasn’t Mimi, then I wasn’t me. My whole world seemed turned upside down.
It was past eleven when we got home with Rembrandt. I went into the house first and let Sam out into the fenced backyard by himself. We don’t usually do that, because Sam is a great jumper, but this late at night he wouldn’t wander.
That was the theory, anyway, which lasted a whole thirty seconds—the time it took for Dad to lead Rembrandt up to the front door. Smelling his brother, Rembrandt woofed.
Sam let loose a huge peal of barks from the backyard. Dad hustled Rembrandt inside and into his and Mom’s bedroom while I went out back to hush Sam.
He was nowhere to be seen but everywhere to be heard. Barks rang out from beside the house and then around front. I rushed to the front door and found him sniffing up and down the sidewalk. I called and he came racing in, only to bark at the bedroom door. Rembrandt barked back.
I dragged Sam to my room, and gradually things got quieter. Not quiet enough, though. Every time I started drifting off to sleep, one of the dogs woofed, and the other answered. Moans from Mom and yelling from Dad made no difference, especially when the Chihuahua next door started yipping, too.
In the morning, bleary-eyed and groggy, we went to the hospital.
Mimi was already being prepped for surgery, so we couldn’t see her. We sat in a waiting room and looked at magazines for what seemed like forever, until the surgeon finally came out.
The operation had gone well, he said. He’d put in a pin to stabilize the bone. Mimi’s broken leg might be slightly shorter than the other one, but that should be the only lasting effect.
We sat with Mimi in the recovery room. She slept, looking pale in the white bed, with her graying hair spread across the pillow. We all kept yawning while we waited for her to wake up. Finally Mimi opened her eyes wide. I could see it took a huge effort.
When she focused her eyes on our own tired faces, Mimi’s face suddenly looked stern. Her lips moved, but I couldn’t hear what she said. She pointed to the cup on her bedside table. Mom brought it to her and bent the straw so that she could drink.
After a long s
ip of water, Mimi whispered hoarsely, “Go home. Take a nap!”
Mom and I looked at each other and grinned. Mimi bossing us around—that was a good sign!
Dad asked, “How do you feel, Ma?”
“Stupid,” Mimi said with a frown. “What a stupid, stupid thing to do!”
She was talking about her accident. But Mimi never puts herself down, or anyone else, either. When I heard how angry she was with herself, I felt like crying. Maybe she did, too.
Mom asked more questions, and Mimi told us that she didn’t feel too bad, just tired. Very tired. She closed her eyes again. Clearly she didn’t want to talk, or she couldn’t.
We went to the cafeteria for an early lunch, but I couldn’t eat. My stomach was in knots. When we came back, Luis and Carmen were visiting. Mimi looked livelier, but no happier. “Old ladies break their hips,” she was telling Carmen.
Carmen said, “You didn’t break your hip, Mimi. You broke your leg. Even a kid can do that.”
“That was all I could think, lying there,” Mimi said. “You’ve broken your hip. You just turned into an old lady.”
“Nonsense, Ma,” Dad said in the blustery voice he uses when he thinks someone is overreacting. “You’ll bounce right back from this!”
Mimi turned her head to focus on Dad, and she looked annoyed—even mad. She shot something back at him, but I didn’t hear what she said, because Luis tapped my arm. “It’s getting crowded in here,” he whispered, jerking his thumb toward the hall.
“Mimi will be more herself tomorrow,” he said when we were outside the room. “But she’s scared, Saige. This takes away her two most important things—riding and painting.”
“But she’ll get better,” I said. “People get better from broken legs.”
For a long, scary moment, Luis didn’t answer. He looked over my head, back into Mimi’s room. “Mimi’s going to miss the ranch,” he said. “It’s hard for someone like Mimi to recover in a place like this.”
I glanced around. I hadn’t noticed before, because I’d been so worried, but the hospital was like our school hallway times ten. Everything was white or pale yellow—a haze of blandness that stretched on as far as the eye could see.
“Do you think…?” I began. “Could I bring in some of Mimi’s things tomorrow?”
“Good idea!” Luis said. “Let’s ask the nurse. It’ll make Mimi feel better.”
I peeked back into the room. Mimi looked a little more normal now. Arguing with Dad had brought a touch of color to her cheeks.
That was it—color! There was nothing bright or rich or interesting to look at here, nothing to think about. It was a hospital. I couldn’t change that. But I could change something.
Sunday morning Luis did the chores at Mimi’s, and we slept in—or tried to. It wasn’t really possible with the dog situation.
In the afternoon we stopped at the ranchita before we went to the hospital. When we walked into Mimi’s house, no one said “Good!” No Rembrandt barked. The kitten sat quite still on a kitchen stool, her tail wrapped around her paws. Her food and water bowls looked full. I said a silent thank you to Carmen for that.
While Dad and Mom looked for some insurance papers in Mimi’s office, I fed and watered the chickens, collected the eggs, and looked the horses over thoroughly, the way Mimi would have. They were fine, and it felt so good to hug Picasso. Some horses wiggle when you put your arms around their necks, but he just stood there, solid and comforting.
While I was leaning on him, Luis appeared. “Got an idea,” he said.
He had a pair of steel scissors with him, and he reached up under Picasso’s mane and snipped off a lock of hair. I sucked in my breath.
Luis smiled down at me. “I know,” he said. “But she’s not here, is she? And I think she’ll like what I’m going to do with this. Want to watch?”
He took the chunk of hair to the kitchen and laid out some small metal objects on the table: a jewelry clasp, some silver beads, and a pair of needle-nose pliers. Luis began straightening the horse hairs, combing and pulling them between his fingers until they were all in line. He crimped a piece of silver that looked like a row of staples onto the end with the pliers. “Can you hold this for me, Saige?” he asked.
Luis’s fingers, which looked too big and muscular for such delicate work, started braiding. It was a complicated four-strand braid, with only a few hairs in each strand. Picasso’s silver-white mane hair kept disappearing, and Luis occasionally paused and squeezed his eyes shut, without ever letting go of the hairs between his fingers. I kept a tight grip on the other end of the hairs as he braided.
When the braid was complete, Luis pinched another set of silver staples onto the end and attached a jewelry clasp. Suddenly it was obvious to me what he had been making.
“A bracelet!” I exclaimed.
“Yes. A charm to bring Mimi back to us,” Luis said, handing me the bracelet. “Give it to her today, and tell her that I’ll stop by tomorrow morning.”
That reminded me of my task. I wanted to gather some colorful things for Mimi, and I had a list: The deep-red serape that was draped over the chair. A painting of the horses. A photo of Rembrandt standing on the porch with his mouth wide open, panting.
I wanted to bring some art supplies, too. If Mimi could still move her fingers, she could doodle, and that might remind her of who she was, the way the fancy reins had reminded Picasso.
I grabbed a sketchpad. Then I poked through the cups of drawing instruments until I found the perfect thing—a felt-tipped brush-pen, just like mine. It’s easy to use and makes a deep black line with only the slightest pressure.
When Mom and I got to the hospital, Mimi was sitting in a wheelchair—not the bed—and watching television. She turned her head sharply toward the door when I knocked and said, “Good!”
A huge grin spread over my face. I dumped things onto her chair and bent to kiss her. “You look better,” I said with relief.
“I feel better,” Mimi agreed. “I talked with the surgeon today, and he’s confident that he can get me up walking again. I don't know about riding…”
A shadow of worry crossed Mimi’s face. I jumped in before she could think about that for a moment longer. “Luis sent you this,” I said brightly, holding out the bracelet.
Mimi reached for it with her left hand, cupped the bracelet, and turned it awkwardly toward her to get a closer look. “Oh! Is it—”
“Picasso’s mane. But don’t worry,” I reassured her. “You can’t see where Luis cut it off at all.”
“Glad to hear it!” said Mimi in a sort-of-teasing, sort-of-stern voice. “Picasso needs to look good for the parade.”
The parade. I hadn’t been thinking about that, or the fiesta. How could Picasso and I possibly lead the parade without Mimi there? And would there even be a fiesta without Mimi’s trick riding? It was the main act! My hopes for the after-school arts program whooshed out of me like air from a balloon.
To distract myself from those depressing thoughts, I turned to the bag of things I had brought from the ranch. While Mom fastened the bracelet onto Mimi’s left wrist, I opened the red serape and draped it over the chair. I took down the hospital’s generic seagulls-and-surf picture and hung Mimi’s horse painting. I put Rembrandt’s photo on Mimi’s bedside table, and in front of it, I put the sketchpad and the felt-tipped pen.
I looked up to see Mimi watching me. Her eyes sparkled with tears.
“Life’s blood,” she said in a choked voice. “You’re my life’s blood, Saige. Thank you.”
I swallowed the lump in my throat and reached out to hold Mimi’s outstretched hand.
I saw tears in Mom’s eyes, too. She quickly wiped them away and smiled at Mimi. “Let me brush and put up your hair,” Mom said. “You’ll feel more like yourself.”
As Mom brushed Mimi’s hair, Mimi told us more about her expected recovery. The news wasn’t all good. Because Mimi had broken both an arm and a leg, she said, her doctor thought her recovery wo
uld be complicated, especially without anyone at home to help.
“I’ll stay with you,” I said quickly. Mom started to say something, too.
Mimi cut her off. “Out of the question,” she said. “I’ll need help twenty-four hours a day for a while, and that’s too much to ask of anyone. I’m just hoping you and Luis can manage the animals for a month or six weeks while I go to the rehab center and let the professionals get me going.”
I tried to hide my disappointment. I wouldn’t get to live with Mimi after all.
“Anyway, Saige,” she told me, squeezing my hand again, “you’ll have plenty to do keeping the fiesta on track.”
At that, my anxiety about the fiesta came rushing back. I wasn’t even sure I wanted to be a part of it anymore—not without Mimi by my side.
Back at home that night, I thought again about Mimi’s words. How was I supposed to keep the fiesta on track?
I took a deep breath, sat down at my desk, and made a list: Get Picasso in shape for the parade. Remind my classmates about the bake sale. Finish my painting. How could I get these things done? And would any of it matter if we didn’t have a main act—something to replace Mimi’s trick riding?
The dogs weren’t helping. They needed constant attention because they quarreled about everything: Food. Toys. Who went through the door first. Who got walked first. Every little thing that used to be easy was now complicated.
I crawled into bed and pulled the covers over my head. It was too much!
The next morning, Sam insulted Rembrandt, or Rembrandt insulted Sam, and they wouldn’t stop barking. I had to walk them separately, and by the time that was done, I was running too late to walk to school with Gabi. Mom dropped me off, and I slid into my chair at our table.
“How’s your grandmother?” Gabi whispered.
“Better,” I whispered back.
“What happened? Did she fall off a horse?”
“She’s going to get so tired of that question,” I said. “No, she tripped over Rembrandt.” She might like saying that, I thought. I mean, how many artists can say, “I broke my leg tripping over Rembrandt”? I hoped we’d be joking about that soon.