Page 39 of Redemption
Pulling my attention back to his chart, I read over the notes from last year. My brows dip the further I read. Mavis Jenkins was the nurse the previous year, but she retired. There’s something to be said about her organization, though, because she has every single time that Tanner visited for a headache during the year, signed and dated in his notes—and it’s a lot.
“Do you get headaches often, Tanner?” I ask as I click out of the notes and grab his prescribed medicine that is locked away in a cabinet above my head.
“Sometimes.”
Getting information out of this kid is like pulling teeth.
“Have you ever been to the doctor for them?”
“Sure. I went the first time I had a concussion.”
Second red flag.
“Did you ever do a follow-up with your doctor after that concussion?”
If I weren’t watching Tanner so closely, I would have missed the way his eyes flash to me for the tiniest of seconds before flicking back to his lap. Then he shrugs like the question is no big deal.
“Look,” he says, taking headphones out of his pocket and placing them in his ears. I don’t even think he has anything playing. He just wants to block me out, “can you just give me the medicine? I have a massive headache, and I can’t miss football practice tonight. I’m not good for much if I don’t make starter this year.”
And there’s the third red flag—this idea that his worth is merely the position he plays. The pit of my stomach drops to my toes.
“Maybe I can write you a note for football practice today. Coach Miller won’t kick you off as a starter just because you’re sick. He wants the healthiest players. Have you been having headaches over the summer?”
“Can you just mind your own business? I’m fine. It’s just a headache, lady,” he says, snatching the medicine out of my hand I have stretched towards him. He throws the pills in his mouth, swallows without a drink, and stomps toward the door, and I’m left watching after him with a sense of déjà vu that I desperately don’t want to feel.
As the door swings open and he starts to walk out, he runs directly into a girl waiting on the other side. Her arms flail, searching for something to grab onto, but only come up with air. Tanner’s hand shoots out, catching the girl by her waist before she hits the ground. In that one action, I see the boy that he has the potential to be, but once she’s on her feet, he grumbles, “Watch where you’re going next time.”
Then he’s gone, and the girl watches him leave. To her credit, she doesn’t let his gruffness deter her. With a bright smile, she steps into my office and claims, “That boy needs a little Jesus in his life. I think I’ll make that my mission this year.”
I bite the inside of my lip.
If it were that easy, then maybe God could forgive me for the mistakes I’ve made.
I keep that thought to myself, not wanting to ruin the girl’s hopes.
She takes her backpack off, sits it on a chair, and digs through it. After a few seconds of digging, she comes out with a slip of paper that’s no bigger than her hand.
“Here. You can have this.”
“What is it?” I ask, taking it from her.
“It’s a sticker.” Her grin takes up most of her face.
Looking down, I have to laugh when I see what it is. In my hand is a small band-aid sticker that reads “Jesus Heals.”
The girl is quirky, that’s for sure.
When my laughter is under control, I smile and ask, “What can I do for you today?”
Her sigh comes from the depths of her soul, and I know we will get along just fine. “It seems my monitor has expired. I hate changing it, so I was wondering if you could help me.”
She points to the white diabetes monitor on the back of her arm and winces.
“Sure,” I say, patting the seat beside my stool. “Why don’t you sit here so I can check it out? What’s your name, by the way?”
“Bella. It’s short for Isabella, but please don’t call me that. I might have to puke.”
I snort.
