right leg. It was elevated. All he could feel of it was the terrific heaviness of it sitting in its sling. He tried to shift to relieve the weight on his lower back. He groaned.
“Joe Willie?”
He should have known that hers would be the first voice he heard. He’d never had the slightest scratch or bruise his entire career without his mother either doing the doctoring or harassing the poor sawbones who was.
“Water,” he said.
She brought the glass to his lips and he sucked through the straw. He moaned. The pressure of drinking that way caused his head to hurt.
“Open your eyes, son.”
He looked at her. She was standing beside the bed as proud and as tall as ever. She moved a hand down to his chest and rested it there, watching him. He couldn’t feel the pressure of her hand but was comforted by the motion nonetheless.
“Hey,” he said, weakly.
“Hey yourself. How do you feel?”
“Not worth a shit,” he said. “I’m broke good, huh?”
“Pretty good,” she said and pulled the chair closer to the bed. When she sat, her face was level with his. They looked at each other, and Joe Willie could feel her worry.
“Well?” he asked.
He watched her gather herself. It was a familiar thing and he’d always been impressed by it. It started somewhere at the back of her eyes, a movement but not really, more like energy pulling itself together like a fist, positioning itself for maximum release. He’d seen it the first time when he was four, and her favourite mare had broken her leg. She’d looked at herlying in the stall and Joe Willie had seen the same rallying happen before she’d marched to the house and returned with his father’s pistol. Then she’d knelt at the horse’s flank and rubbed her with the flat of one hand, spoken to her calmly, lovingly, before standing straight and strong and shooting her through the head. Her arm had slumped to her side and she leaned into his father, who took the gun, laid it on the stall rail and gathered her in his arms. She’d pulled him close too, and as his face had pressed against his mother’s ribs that day he’d felt the sheer strength of her, the breath huge in its swell of emotion, the hand on his back warm, glowing like a branding iron, searing him with all of her vital energy.
“The bull broke you as bad as I’ve ever seen, son,” she said. “They worked on you a long time and you have a big decision to make in the next while.”
“What kind?”
She breathed out. “The change-your-life kind. And there’s no one can make it for you. It has to be your call.”
“Well? Let’s have her, then.”
She stood and looked squarely at him. He tried to breathe deep to prepare himself but his ribs wouldn’t allow it, so he settled for quick, shallow breaths. She described his injuries and the hard fact of his condition.
“Lord.”
“You’ll limp, son. There’s no getting away from that. It’s broke too bad to fix perfectly.”
“Ride?”
“I don’t know.”
“What’s the decision, then?”
“Your arm is shredded. Some of the muscle is ripped clear of the joint and the tendons are snapped. The muscles that help to hold your shoulder in place are gone and the gluethat keeps the arm in the socket is gone too. They can fix it, but the choice is yours.”
“What choice?”
“They can pin the joint—pin the arm into the socket so it will hang properly. But if they do that it might take away your ability to turn it normally, lift it, use it completely. Or they can let it hang in the socket. You can move it around like normal but it’ll always be pretty much held there by skin. Either way it’ll never come back to what it was, son. Ever.”
He looked away. It took a few moments for the message to sink in. He would never rodeo again. The weight of that thought forced him back into the bed with a groan and he wanted the blackness again. He’d always respected his body, trained it, taken care of it, but now, suddenly, he felt
“Joe Willie?”
He should have known that hers would be the first voice he heard. He’d never had the slightest scratch or bruise his entire career without his mother either doing the doctoring or harassing the poor sawbones who was.
“Water,” he said.
She brought the glass to his lips and he sucked through the straw. He moaned. The pressure of drinking that way caused his head to hurt.
“Open your eyes, son.”
He looked at her. She was standing beside the bed as proud and as tall as ever. She moved a hand down to his chest and rested it there, watching him. He couldn’t feel the pressure of her hand but was comforted by the motion nonetheless.
“Hey,” he said, weakly.
“Hey yourself. How do you feel?”
“Not worth a shit,” he said. “I’m broke good, huh?”
“Pretty good,” she said and pulled the chair closer to the bed. When she sat, her face was level with his. They looked at each other, and Joe Willie could feel her worry.
“Well?” he asked.
He watched her gather herself. It was a familiar thing and he’d always been impressed by it. It started somewhere at the back of her eyes, a movement but not really, more like energy pulling itself together like a fist, positioning itself for maximum release. He’d seen it the first time when he was four, and her favourite mare had broken her leg. She’d looked at herlying in the stall and Joe Willie had seen the same rallying happen before she’d marched to the house and returned with his father’s pistol. Then she’d knelt at the horse’s flank and rubbed her with the flat of one hand, spoken to her calmly, lovingly, before standing straight and strong and shooting her through the head. Her arm had slumped to her side and she leaned into his father, who took the gun, laid it on the stall rail and gathered her in his arms. She’d pulled him close too, and as his face had pressed against his mother’s ribs that day he’d felt the sheer strength of her, the breath huge in its swell of emotion, the hand on his back warm, glowing like a branding iron, searing him with all of her vital energy.
“The bull broke you as bad as I’ve ever seen, son,” she said. “They worked on you a long time and you have a big decision to make in the next while.”
“What kind?”
She breathed out. “The change-your-life kind. And there’s no one can make it for you. It has to be your call.”
“Well? Let’s have her, then.”
She stood and looked squarely at him. He tried to breathe deep to prepare himself but his ribs wouldn’t allow it, so he settled for quick, shallow breaths. She described his injuries and the hard fact of his condition.
“Lord.”
“You’ll limp, son. There’s no getting away from that. It’s broke too bad to fix perfectly.”
“Ride?”
“I don’t know.”
“What’s the decision, then?”
“Your arm is shredded. Some of the muscle is ripped clear of the joint and the tendons are snapped. The muscles that help to hold your shoulder in place are gone and the gluethat keeps the arm in the socket is gone too. They can fix it, but the choice is yours.”
“What choice?”
“They can pin the joint—pin the arm into the socket so it will hang properly. But if they do that it might take away your ability to turn it normally, lift it, use it completely. Or they can let it hang in the socket. You can move it around like normal but it’ll always be pretty much held there by skin. Either way it’ll never come back to what it was, son. Ever.”
He looked away. It took a few moments for the message to sink in. He would never rodeo again. The weight of that thought forced him back into the bed with a groan and he wanted the blackness again. He’d always respected his body, trained it, taken care of it, but now, suddenly, he felt
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