Kasey Michaels: Bowled Over

He'd like to think that he had played a part, a rather large part, in this metamorphosis, this digging Maggie out of the figurative cave she'd resided in much too long. Alone, not realizing she was lonely. Needing some life in her life ... needing him in her life.

After all, she'd created him; her perfect hero. And now he would go out and slay a dragon for her. It was what he did.

He swung his sword cane up and onto his shoulder as he prepared to follow Maggie at his leisure. "I am, by and large, quite a remarkable fellow," he congratulated himself, smiling at his own smugness ... and then quickly broke into a run when he heard a crash some distance away, followed by a pithy, feminine curse.

Maggie sat on the litter of the Emergency Department of Lenox Hill Hospital—Saint Just's hospital of choice—her left leg straight out in front of her, glaring at the spot just below her ankle bone. The spot, area, whatever, on the outside of her foot that was turning a deep, suspicious blue, as opposed to the rest of her foot, which had puffed up like an angry blowfish.

"It's broken, right?"

"Fractured is the medical term we prefer. But, oh yeah, it's most certainly broken. You want to see? Most people want to see for themselves. It's the curse of too many medical reality shows on TV. Everyone's an expert," the young doctor said as he slammed two X-ray films up into the front of a light box.

"Cute," Maggie said, not feeling at all cute as she glared at the films. "Two left feet. Scratch any chance of appearing on Dancing with the Stars."

The doctor obviously didn't get the joke, but that was okay. It was, as jokes go, pretty lame. Then again, Maggie was feeling pretty lame. Whoops, that made two bad jokes. It was a good thing she had her mystery series; she wasn't about to knock 'em dead as a writer on Saturday Night Live, either.

And, obviously, she was a little hyper, her mind racing along, barely under her control. She took a slow, deep breath, trying to pull herself together.

It wasn't working.

"You can see, Margaret, right here, where you pulled off the tip of the bone. This little one, here, fifth meta—well, let's not be all technical, okay? You want to know what's next?"

Maggie was still squinting at the backlit X-rays. "Actually, I want pain meds. Heavy duty pain meds. Idiot that I am, I insisted it wasn't broken, and walked in here on that thing. I'm not proud, anymore. I'm even open to begging."

"I think we can arrange pain medication once we get the cast on. Now, about this fracture. It's a tricky one."

"I thought you said it was a little one," Maggie said, turning to look at the doctor, who probably got his medical degree at fourteen. It was scary, getting to an age where the doctors are younger than you.

She'd always liked Doctor Helsing, who'd taken care of her while she was growing up in Ocean City. Gray, a little paunch, smelled of peppermints. You could trust a man like Doctor Helsing.

Of course, the guy was probably either dead or drooling in some retirement villa in Boca—but when he said you were going to be all right, you believed him. This guy looked like he still lived with his mom—and she still cut the crusts off his peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

"Yes, Margaret, it is a small bone. But it's an important bone."

"Aren't they all important?"

"True. But some more than others. You rolled your foot over something, didn't you?"

Maggie was impressed. "Yes, I did. I was touring a house I plan to buy. An older house, and there was a metal doorstop nailed into the floor. A sort of round, metal thing. I didn't see it, stepped on it—just with the outside edge of my foot—and my foot sort of rolled over it as I tried to keep my balance. I didn't fall, either, which I thought was pretty spectacular. But the bone just hit the doorstop and broke, right? Well, the doorstop hit the bone. One of those two."

The doctor shook his head. "I don't think so. It was the torque, the rolling over, the attempt to regain your balance, actually, which did the damage. You see, you pulled the ligament away from the bone—the ligament taking part of the bone with it. I'm telling you this because I'm going to have to confine you to a non-weight-bearing cast, at least until you see me again. Let's say ten days, all right?"

"No," Maggie told him, her heart pounding, "let's not say. We're ... I'm leaving for Ocean City, New Jersey, sooner than that. For Christmas."

"But you'll come back to the city to see me," the doctor said confidently. "If you've been good, if you stay completely off that foot, I might be able to promote you to a walking cast—not full weight-bearing, but at least you'll be able to get around better. But if you don't behave?"

She waited, but he didn't say anything else.

"You could probably drag this out more, Doctor, if you really tried, turn it into a miniseries. Maybe if I faked a drumroll, we could get on with it?" Maggie said, her nerves fraying badly. She was always her snarkiest when she was scared; snarkiness was her single weapon of self-defense.

"I'm making a point, Margaret. I was pausing for effect. But I can sense that it isn't working for you."

"Maggie. Don't call me Margaret, please. I already feel like I'm back in second grade."

The doctor laughed. "That's it, keep your sense of humor. You're going to need it. Now, as I was saying? If you're good, if you listen, we'll X-ray again and possibly put you in that walking cast. And if you're not—well, I operate on Tuesdays and Fridays."

Maggie finally decided it was time to pay attention and stop wishing for Doctor Helsing—who would have given her a nice cherry-flavored lollipop by now. "Operate?"

The word came out as more of a bleat.

"Ah, the magic word. Works every time," the doctor said to a nurse who'd entered the cubicle. "Swing your legs over the side, please, and we can finish up. Is there any special color cast you'd like, Maggie? We've got pink, white, red, lime green, blue, black—"

"Black," Maggie said. "I'm not feeling particularly festive at the moment. And if I can't walk on the cast, how will I get around?"

"Crutches," the doctor said, snapping on latex gloves. "Although, looking at you, I'd think a walker would be safer. You fall often, Maggie?"

She looked at him in confusion. "No. Why? Do I look clumsy?"

He shook his head. "Never mind. Just some private research for my own benefit. You're holding onto the litter with both hands, as if you might otherwise fall off. I've noticed that sort of reaction from people who fall often."

Maggie wet her lips as he bent her ankle so that her toes were pointing slightly upward, and went for humor. "I'm afraid of heights, of falling. I get dizzy on a deep rug. I fell down the stairs, when I was a kid. Top to bottom. I can still remember that feeling of pitching straight into the air ... rolling head over heels ... lying at the bottom of the stairs with my mother looking down at me, yelling that I'd broken my neck."

"And had you?"

"No," Maggie said, thinking back to that day, and the expression on her mother's face. As if breaking her ten-year-old neck would inconvenience the hell out of the woman. "Are my friends out there?"

The doctor asked the nurse to check the waiting room and bring Saint Just and Sterling back to see her. "So I can give them the same sermon I'm going to give you again about keeping that foot off the floor. No weight-bearing, absolutely none. I'll know if you cheat, too, because the bottom of the cast will be flattened. And, like I said—Tuesdays and Fridays."

"Bet you aced your Bedside Manner course, huh?" Maggie grumbled, watching as he did his magic with white padding and the black wrap he wound around her from the base of her toes to just below her knee, her foot bent up at about a forty-five degree angle, so that if she did try to put her foot down, all that would touch would be the heel. "Ten days?"