Radiate (6 page)

Not only is the pain in my leg not going away, but it’s starting to scare me.

What if I’ve mucked myself up royally?

I pull my bottom lip into my teeth and methodically take the steps down one at a time, wondering how to approach this with my mom. I suppose the direct, truthful explanation is the best way around this. I can’t let fear of the unknown win out.

No big deal... I’ll just go see the doctor, get a prescription, and I’ll be good as new.

As I reach the bottom of the staircase, I listen to the echoes of the silent house.

“Mom,” I call out in a small voice I don’t recognize as my own. “Are you here?”

“In the kitchen, Hayley.”

A long sigh escapes my chest. I glance over at a framed cross-stitch on the wall that someone my grandmother knows did. Pink, yellow, and red floss spell out the comforting phrase,
Fear not, for thou art with me.
Suddenly my courage blossoms.

“Mom, I think I need to go see Dr. Colley.”

As I limp down the hallway and enter the kitchen, I can’t help favoring my right leg. Mom stops scrambling the eggs on the stove and stares over at me. “What have you done to yourself, Hayley?”

I shrug because I honestly don’t remember hurting myself at practice. “I can’t really say.” Sure, my muscles are sore from all of the exertion and hauling Lora up over my head, but that’s normal. This... isn’t.

Dad rounds the corner from the breakfast nook, his newspaper folded up underneath his arm. Slowly, he sets his coffee cup down on the counter. Before I know it, he’s kneeling in front of me inspecting the limpy leg in question. “Tell me where it hurts.”

He presses firmly midcalf and I squeal. “Right there. Feel that bumpy thing?”

His eyes lift up to my mother. Worry covers both of them in a tattered blanket.

“Hayley, what have you done? Did you bang your leg somewhere? Trip and fall?”

“No, sir,” I respond. “Nothing at all.”

“We need to get you to the doctor.”

Mom’s eyes fill with tears. “Jared, don’t you think I know that?”

“Y’all, could we—”

“I was worried about all this practice being too strenuous on you.” Dad continues. “Cheerleading is one of the most dangerous sports around. I saw this piece on
Nightline.
”

I whistle long and high and plop down into the kitchen chair. “Yo! Stop it! I haven’t injured myself at practice. This has nothing to do with cheerleading.” At least I don’t think it does. “This isn’t like my other aching muscles. This is a knot under the surface. It’s got, like, mass to it.” My voice quivers on the last sentence.

Rushing to me, Mom rests my head on her stomach and hugs me to her as if I’m still a little baby that needs comforting. “It’s okay, Hayley.” She kisses the top of my head, and I feel safe and secure in her motherly embrace.

Dad stands and pulls his cell phone from his jeans and immediately dials a number. “Hey, Emma-Jean. This is Jared Matthews. My little girl’s got a lump on her leg that I’d like Dr. Colley to take a look at ASAP. Can he fit her in today?” He pauses and listens. “Really? That’s great. Thanks so much. We appreciate it. You know these cheerleaders. Have to keep them in shape.”

He snaps the phone off and looks back at me. “When did you first notice this?”

I bite my lip and try to remember. Things are literally a blur for me since making the squad, going to practice every day, fitting in with the Pops, and most important, hanging out—and making out—with Daniel. All I think about twenty-four/seven is cheering. I do the routines in my sleep. I practice the chants in my head. Every step I take reflects on how I’ll represent the school come the last week of August. Every image I have of myself includes a uniform, pompoms, and the school-colored Nikes.

“Not long,” I admit. “Like I said, practice has been so physical, I would know if I hurt myself.”

Mom shifts her eyes to Dad’s. “Maybe it’s a massive pimple under the skin that needs to be lanced.”

“Eww . . .” I try not to gag. “That is, like, totally gross, Mom.”

Just the phrase “needs to be lanced” makes me cringe.

Dad comes over and kisses me on the forehead, as well. “Emma-Jean said Dr. Colley can see you first off, so go get dressed and let’s head over to his office.”

I screw up my face into a grimace.

“What?” Mom asks.

“Cheerleader practice is at Chloe’s this week, and it starts promptly at nine.”

Hands firmly on her hips, Mom states, “Do I look like I care what Chloe Bradenton thinks?”

I laugh in spite of the sitch. Chloe’s so not going to be psyched that I’ll be late, but shit happens.

I text my captain.

GONNA B L8 2 PRACTICE. CHECK UP @ DR ’RENTS SKEDULD

Two minutes later.

NOT COOL. GET HERE AS FAST AS U CAN WILL DO. THX!

I’ll just pop over to Dr. Colley’s, he’ll tell me it’s nothing, give me a prescription for a pain killer or muscle relaxer, and I’ll be at Chloe’s in two shakes of a lamb’s tail, as my minister’s wife, Miss Agnes, says.

Yep. It’ll be that easy.

***

“There’s Miss Hayley,” Dr. Colley says as he enters the antiseptic, cold examining room. I swear you could hang meat in this room. “I haven’t seen you since that nasty bout with the chickenpox. Never seen a sixteen-year-old get them so badly.”

I smile weakly and try not to think of the deep scars on my hairline, the left side of my nose, and weirdly enough, each one of my boobs. “No, sir. That was pretty gnarly.”

Dr. Colley, in his late sixties, reaches out and ruffles my long hair. Then, he stretches his hand out to shake my dad’s. “Jared, good to see you, as always.”

Once we’ve dispensed of the howdy-dos, I tell Dr. Colley what’s troubling me.

“Put your leg up on the table there, Hayley, and let me take a look.”

I push off my tennis shoe and sock and extend my left leg on the examination table. Dr. Colley peers over his glasses and pokes and prods my entire leg. He presses the length of it from ankle to knee and notes how I squirm and grimace when he hits the sore spot.

“Well, you’ve definitely got a mass of some sort there.”

My eyes pop wide, tamping down the fear that’s threatening to strangle me. “It’s not going to keep me from cheerleading, will it?”

His smile broadens. “Are you a cheerleader over at Polk now? I thought you played the trumpet.”

“Used to.” I return his grin. “I’m on the varsity squad. I don’t want anything to slow me down.”

He pats my knee in a grandfatherly way. “My Stella was a cheerleader when she was your age. Just loved it. You will, too.” He pulls my chart, makes some notes, and then hands a piece of paper to my dad. “Jared, take her down the hall to X-ray. I want to get a better look at this. Might not be anything more than a calcium deposit, but let’s just be sure.”

“You got it, Doc,” Dad says.

An hour later—ugh, Chloe’s going to be pissed at me—we’re back in Dr. Colley’s office sitting in front of the large, wide computer monitor that shows a digital image of my left leg. And... eww...
What is that?

Echoing my thought, Dad points to the globby mess that resembles white foam, and is attached to the small bone in my leg. “What
is
that, Doctor?”

Because it’s an X-ray, it’s black and white and a little gray. There appear to be air bubbles within the mass of goo that looks like the shaving cream I use to mow down my leg hairs. That can’t possibly be inside me, can it?

Dr. Colley lifts his glasses for closer inspection. “I’m not a radiologist, but to me, it looks like a calcium deposit. I’ve seen them before in our community’s athletes. It seems to be focused right here”—he points to the middle of the image that reflects my midcalf area—“around the left fibula.”

Right... The fibula is the small bone in the leg. Fibula, tibia, the big one, femur, the thigh bone, and patella, the kneecap. Look at me remembering tenth grade physiology. A calcium deposit. That doesn’t sound bad. After all, we need calcium in our bodies to build strong bones. Maybe I just got a little too much.

“What do I do about it?” I ask my doctor. I’m not terribly worried. As long as it’s not broken or fractured, I can keep cheering. If it’s something I can wrap in an Ace bandage or down a few Tylenol for, no big whoop.

“Jamal Ridgewood over at Polk Community College had one on his elbow last year. Didn’t slow him down any. He’s starting at running back for Maxwell State this fall.”

Selfishly, I don’t give a rat’s ass about Jamal Ridgewood. I want to know the prognosis for me. The scowl that’s surely on my face causes my doctor to move closer and set his hand on my shoulder.

“Hayley, just to be safe, I’d like to send you and your folks down to Dothan to see an orthopedic specialist,” he explains. “It’s the same one I sent Jamal to. He’s going to know a lot more about this than an old country doctor like me.”

“Just to be safe?” I question. Seriously, I can’t have conflicts in my cheering schedule like this. “Is it something I can do on the weekend so my captain won’t get annoyed at me? If I miss practice and stuff, I get demerits.”

Dad clears his throat forcefully. “Hayley, your health is the most important thing. Dr. Colley’s right, Little Kid. A second opinion is always a good thing.”

“Especially when it’s a possible athletic injury,” the doctor says.

“But this isn’t from cheerleading,” I state. “In fact, had I not been practicing so hard, I don’t know if I’d ever found this. It only pops out when Lora and I do our partner stunts.”

“Then it’s a good thing you made the team, isn’t it,” Dr. Colley says with a hearty laugh. “You’ll be back at practice in no time.”

I hope Chloe’s going to be cool with this.

The doctor writes down the name and number of the referral in Dothan—about an hour south of Maxwell—and hands it over to me. “Dr. Alfred Maddox. I don’t know him personally, but he retired not long ago from the army in Fort Rucker and set up a private practice. He’ll fix you up right.”

I stare at Dr. Colley’s messy handwriting, but all I can think about it that I’ll miss more cheerleader practice.

Dad must read my mind. “It has to be done, Hayley.”

“Okay, but nothing’s going to keep me from going to cheerleader camp.”

***

Late Wednesday afternoon, Mom pulls our Toyota Sienna into the medical park off Ross Clark Circle in Dothan. Chloe and the rest of the team weren’t put off by this appointment today since we practiced from nine a.m. until two p.m. A quick forty minutes down to the Circle City and we’re just in time to make Dr. Maddox’s last appointment of the day. I played the whole appointment low key with the cheerleaders and told only Lora what was going on. She was afraid she’d hurt me somehow, but I insisted that wasn’t the case. But what do I know? I’m not a doctor.

And I need to get back to Maxwell ASAP because Daniel and William are taking Lora and me to see a movie. Which one, I don’t know. Nor do I care as long as I get to spend time with the hottest guy in school.

“You’re okay, right Hayley?” Mom asks sweetly.

“Sure. No big.” And it really isn’t. These appointments are more of a hassle than anything. I need to get over to Gill’s Uniform Company and get fitted for the new outfit the school is footing the bill for. They’re going to be the cutest! Blue and white double-colored straps that will “X” us across the back, white fabric with a flare in the front that shows the same blue and a red PA across the front. As we sit in the waiting room of Dr. Maddox’s practice, all I can do is picture myself in the new outfit, hanging out in the hallways of PHS with my friends, and maybe even getting to wear Daniel’s letterman jacket with it.

“Hayley Matthews,” the nurse announces from the doorway leading to the examining rooms.

Mom and I gather our things and follow the woman back to the starch white room. There’s a computer monitor set up, much like the one Dr. Colley had in his office, and a table with that crinkly white paper covering the leather padding.

“Why do they do this? I mean, you just rip and wrinkle it when you crawl up here.”

Mom stifles a laugh and then returns to serious mode.

Over the next forty minutes, I flip through two
Woman’s Day,
one
Oprah,
and a
Good Housekeeping
that are all at least four years old. Mom sighs heavily every five minutes but doesn’t say anything.

Finally, I hear shuffling and muffled voices outside the room.

“Tell Dr. Covington that I can tee off with him Friday morning at ten a.m. sharp.”

I roll my eyes, hoping a frickin’ golf date hasn’t kept me waiting like this.

The door opens, and in walks a petulant, short, bald man in a crisp white coat and black reading glasses hanging from a silver chain that circles his neck.
Alfred S. Maddox III, M.D
. is embroidered on the left breast pocket, and I see what appears to be a very expensive fountain pen clipped to the inside of it.

Without even making eye contact with me, Dr. Alfred S. Maddox III flips through my chart and reads aloud. “‘Hayley Matthews, age seventeen, complaining of severe pain in the left calf area. Preliminary X-rays show mass on left fibula. Possible athletic injury or calcium deposit.’”

He glances up at my mom. “Are you Hayley?”

I harrumph. As if.

Mom actually blushes for a moment and then indicates to me, the one who’s, like, sitting
on
the doctor’s table. Geesh, what’s this guy’s glitch.

“I’m Nan Matthews. This is my daughter, Hayley. Dr. Colley said you were—”

The man turns black eyes onto me and interrupts. “You’re Hayley, huh? Did you have new film taken yet?”

“No, sir,” I say, almost afraid of this guy. I have to remember, he was in the military and probably isn’t used to dealing with teenage girls. “We’ve been waiting for an hour to see you.”

“That’s how it is in the medical profession,” he says flatly. He snatches the phone off the wall and presses an extension. “Christine, do we have the pictures on this patient?”