Leo and I got into an argument the morning he left for the motorbike competition. It was the last time, as far as I was concerned. I planned on breaking it off with him when he got back.
Right away I felt a massive relief. I was turning over that leaf after weeks of dithering. I could hardly wait to launch the new phase.
And then I received a phone call.
A man I did not know was shrieking and frantic, “You need to get over to Dover Hospital.” The man was screaming in a blur of static. I did not need it explained that this could only be about Leo.
I was not impressed. I sighed audibly and mumbled, “He better be half dead.” I hung up on him.
Driving the forty minutes to Dover Hospital I fumed and pictured Leo in a wheelchair doing wheelies up and down some ward corridor, driving everyone nuts and me having to waste time on a twisted ankle or some such nonsense.
I was feeling wholly uncharitable.
I was doubly annoyed becaus
e I was unsure if this turn of events would interfere with my decision to dump him. And triply annoyed with having to waste more time on him with this ridiculous trip to the hospital. As I drove I murmured, “He better be dying.”
Glowering at everyone and swaggering with chilly disdain I badgered nurses until they escorted me to Leo. I was led into a huge room filled with cots, and him on one, propped up with pillows and smiling cheerily at me. I was ready to strangle him when I saw the demolished foot.
The sight stopped me short, like a hand to my chest. His left leg was out from the sheet, and the end of it, where the foot was supposed to be, was what looked like a heap of raw hamburger meat with a huge French Fry sticking out of the middle of it. When it became clear that the raw hamburger meat was what was left of his flesh and the French Fry was a bone, I pitched forward and vomited like I was going for the gold, and then I fainted.