[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
.Instead, however, it looked like every single light on the first floor was on, including the outside porch light over the front doors.A part of her thought the house looked rather festive, as if she and Terry were having a holiday cocktail party or open house.Her parents were driving up from Boston tomorrow and spending the night, and she could only hope the house would look that nice to them.A gold ribbon was laced through the swag on the wreath on the front door, and it sparkled for a brief second when it was caught by her headlights as she turned into her driveway.Then she noticed that the electric candles in the windows hadn't been plugged in, however, and instantly the illusion of a party vanished.Moreover, Terry's cruiser wasn't here, and so her husband hadn't come home early to surprise her.She felt a pang of fear--any parent's natural instinct, but inflated beyond reason by the reality that she had lived through any parent's worst nightmare--and started fighting with her seat belt and her keys to escape the car.For a long second she forgot how to unbuckle the shoulder harness, and it felt to her like she was trapped.She heard herself swear once, just before the mechanism clicked and she was released.When she reached the front door, she found it was unlocked, and the house was quiet.Alfred, she called, Alfred?In here, someone said, but it wasn't the boy and it wasn't her husband.It was Paul Hebert.Without putting her bag down or taking off her boots, she ran through the kitchen and down the hallway into the den, toward the source of the voice, and there on the couch she saw the professor and Alfred--the child with what looked like a wadded dish towel against the far side of his forehead--watching, of all things, the Christmas Eve service from Saint Peter's Basilica on a French-Canadian television station.The cantor was singing in Latin just outside the cathedral, and she could tell from the waves of umbrellas that it was raining in Rome.Alfred? she said, and she half-sat and half-leaned on the arm of the couch beside him, and gently pulled away the towel.She realized the cloth was filled with ice cubes, and he offered her a small smile.It really doesn't hurt anymore, he said.Now watch this, Paul said, as if she hadn't just entered the room--or, perhaps, as if she'd been there all along.We're about to see the woman who's going to present the Mass in sign.See there, in that corner: That's her.Incredible, what this woman does.Incredible! Not only does this character speak Latin and French and Italian, but she's about to take all these different languages, translate them instantly in her head, and then present them in sign for the hearing impaired.Unbelievable!What happened? she asked.I fell off Mesa, Alfred said, a trace of an apology in his voice--as if he felt guilty, somehow, or feared he had done something wrong.My God, she murmured, trying not to panic and frighten the boy.So brave, she added quickly.Her mind began conjuring the worst: spinal injuries that would cripple the child for life, a concussion or brain injury that would become manifest any moment.She tried to remember the signs of a concussion, and the ones that came back to her were dizziness and nausea.She had a vague sense that she should look at his pupils, but she figured they would have to be dilated to the size of dimes before she could be sure anything was wrong.How do you feel? she asked simply.Really, okay.You don't feel a little woozy or queasy?Nope.My hand and my wrist hurt a lot more than my head.She noticed then the gauze that was held tight to the palm of his left hand by the white hospital tape they kept in a drawer in the bathroom on the first floor.Okay, the Pope is about to switch from the zucchetto to the miter.I hope they show it.You watching? If we had pomp like that in this country--Paul, how did this happen? she said, lifting Alfred's arm and trying to imagine the cuts on the inside of his hand.She realized his wrist was swollen and bruised.The professor turned to her and shook his head.Well, as Alfred said, he fell off the horse.I understand that! she snapped.Forgive me.These are the salient details.We were near the Cousinos', in a meadow maybe fifty yards in from the road.We were just out hacking, really, giving Mesa some exercise, and--who knows exactly how these things happen--one minute the boy was in the saddle, and the next he was on the ground.I thought you were just walking the horse, Laura said.A little trotting, Paul admitted.Since when?Monday.Go on, Laura said.There's really nothing more to tell.Maybe Alfred encouraged Mesa at the exact moment she hit a patch of ice under the snow.Maybe the horse just slipped--it all took about a second, a second and a half--and your boy here went head over teacup.Or whatever that expression is.You should see my glove.It looks like an animal ripped it apart.The professor shook his head.It doesn't look that bad.But it is pretty useless now.I think we should go to the doctor, she said.If it would make you feel better, Paul agreed.But we did call and speak to the nurse, and she didn't see any cause for alarm.The boy doesn't need stitches, and his wrist isn't broken or sprained.How do you know that?Well, I don't.At least not for a certainty.But the swelling isn't huge and he can move it pretty well.Right?Right.And his head? Laura asked.The nurse said to keep ice on it for a bit.So far he doesn't have any signs it's going to be more serious than a goose egg.Was he wearing his helmet? She didn't like how angry she sounded, but she couldn't help herself.I was, Alfred said, although the question had been directed at Paul.And you still conked your head?Might have been considerably more troublesome if he hadn't had the helmet on, Paul said.When did this happen?About an hour ago.An hour! She thought to herself how an hour ago, the moment when Alfred had fallen from the horse, she was holding a plastic cup of punch in one hand, and a twelve-year-old terrier named Lucky in the other.Lucky had been brought in earlier that week after his elderly owner died and the woman's only son proved allergic to dogs.He came with a red dog sweater the woman had knit, and he was wearing it that afternoon to the party [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
zanotowane.pl doc.pisz.pl pdf.pisz.pl matkasanepid.xlx.pl
.Instead, however, it looked like every single light on the first floor was on, including the outside porch light over the front doors.A part of her thought the house looked rather festive, as if she and Terry were having a holiday cocktail party or open house.Her parents were driving up from Boston tomorrow and spending the night, and she could only hope the house would look that nice to them.A gold ribbon was laced through the swag on the wreath on the front door, and it sparkled for a brief second when it was caught by her headlights as she turned into her driveway.Then she noticed that the electric candles in the windows hadn't been plugged in, however, and instantly the illusion of a party vanished.Moreover, Terry's cruiser wasn't here, and so her husband hadn't come home early to surprise her.She felt a pang of fear--any parent's natural instinct, but inflated beyond reason by the reality that she had lived through any parent's worst nightmare--and started fighting with her seat belt and her keys to escape the car.For a long second she forgot how to unbuckle the shoulder harness, and it felt to her like she was trapped.She heard herself swear once, just before the mechanism clicked and she was released.When she reached the front door, she found it was unlocked, and the house was quiet.Alfred, she called, Alfred?In here, someone said, but it wasn't the boy and it wasn't her husband.It was Paul Hebert.Without putting her bag down or taking off her boots, she ran through the kitchen and down the hallway into the den, toward the source of the voice, and there on the couch she saw the professor and Alfred--the child with what looked like a wadded dish towel against the far side of his forehead--watching, of all things, the Christmas Eve service from Saint Peter's Basilica on a French-Canadian television station.The cantor was singing in Latin just outside the cathedral, and she could tell from the waves of umbrellas that it was raining in Rome.Alfred? she said, and she half-sat and half-leaned on the arm of the couch beside him, and gently pulled away the towel.She realized the cloth was filled with ice cubes, and he offered her a small smile.It really doesn't hurt anymore, he said.Now watch this, Paul said, as if she hadn't just entered the room--or, perhaps, as if she'd been there all along.We're about to see the woman who's going to present the Mass in sign.See there, in that corner: That's her.Incredible, what this woman does.Incredible! Not only does this character speak Latin and French and Italian, but she's about to take all these different languages, translate them instantly in her head, and then present them in sign for the hearing impaired.Unbelievable!What happened? she asked.I fell off Mesa, Alfred said, a trace of an apology in his voice--as if he felt guilty, somehow, or feared he had done something wrong.My God, she murmured, trying not to panic and frighten the boy.So brave, she added quickly.Her mind began conjuring the worst: spinal injuries that would cripple the child for life, a concussion or brain injury that would become manifest any moment.She tried to remember the signs of a concussion, and the ones that came back to her were dizziness and nausea.She had a vague sense that she should look at his pupils, but she figured they would have to be dilated to the size of dimes before she could be sure anything was wrong.How do you feel? she asked simply.Really, okay.You don't feel a little woozy or queasy?Nope.My hand and my wrist hurt a lot more than my head.She noticed then the gauze that was held tight to the palm of his left hand by the white hospital tape they kept in a drawer in the bathroom on the first floor.Okay, the Pope is about to switch from the zucchetto to the miter.I hope they show it.You watching? If we had pomp like that in this country--Paul, how did this happen? she said, lifting Alfred's arm and trying to imagine the cuts on the inside of his hand.She realized his wrist was swollen and bruised.The professor turned to her and shook his head.Well, as Alfred said, he fell off the horse.I understand that! she snapped.Forgive me.These are the salient details.We were near the Cousinos', in a meadow maybe fifty yards in from the road.We were just out hacking, really, giving Mesa some exercise, and--who knows exactly how these things happen--one minute the boy was in the saddle, and the next he was on the ground.I thought you were just walking the horse, Laura said.A little trotting, Paul admitted.Since when?Monday.Go on, Laura said.There's really nothing more to tell.Maybe Alfred encouraged Mesa at the exact moment she hit a patch of ice under the snow.Maybe the horse just slipped--it all took about a second, a second and a half--and your boy here went head over teacup.Or whatever that expression is.You should see my glove.It looks like an animal ripped it apart.The professor shook his head.It doesn't look that bad.But it is pretty useless now.I think we should go to the doctor, she said.If it would make you feel better, Paul agreed.But we did call and speak to the nurse, and she didn't see any cause for alarm.The boy doesn't need stitches, and his wrist isn't broken or sprained.How do you know that?Well, I don't.At least not for a certainty.But the swelling isn't huge and he can move it pretty well.Right?Right.And his head? Laura asked.The nurse said to keep ice on it for a bit.So far he doesn't have any signs it's going to be more serious than a goose egg.Was he wearing his helmet? She didn't like how angry she sounded, but she couldn't help herself.I was, Alfred said, although the question had been directed at Paul.And you still conked your head?Might have been considerably more troublesome if he hadn't had the helmet on, Paul said.When did this happen?About an hour ago.An hour! She thought to herself how an hour ago, the moment when Alfred had fallen from the horse, she was holding a plastic cup of punch in one hand, and a twelve-year-old terrier named Lucky in the other.Lucky had been brought in earlier that week after his elderly owner died and the woman's only son proved allergic to dogs.He came with a red dog sweater the woman had knit, and he was wearing it that afternoon to the party [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]