Sketches (13 page)

“I'm Beth,” she said. “Now, which one of you is Dana?”

I held up my hand.

“And you two are . . .?” she asked.

“We heard we didn't have to give our names,” Brent said.

“You don't, but first names are helpful. It stops me from saying, ‘Hey you, buddy' all the time,” she explained.

“She's Ashley and he's Brent.”

“Good to meet you both. So, let me hear about the problem,” she began.

“We already told everything to that receptionist, and now we have to tell you, and then we're going to have to explain it all to the doctor again and—”

“You
are
explaining it to the doctor,” she said, cutting Brent off.

“You're the doctor?” The amazement in his voice reflected my own shock.

“Yep. Do you want to see my stethoscope?” she asked as she pulled it out of the pocket of her lab coat.

“Yes! I mean, no. I mean, I just didn't think that you were a doctor,” he sputtered.

She laughed. “I get that all the time . . . maybe because I look young.”

“
Really
young,” Ashley added.

“Yeah, really young,” she agreed. “I guess when I get older that'll be a good thing, but for now it's a real pain. Okay, who am I going to see first?” she asked.

“Ashley,” Brent said. “She's worse than me.”

“Fine. Can you get up on my examination table, please?”

Ashley went over to the table and as she climbed up she let out a little whimper of pain. The doctor was looking at some papers—the papers the receptionist had drawn up.

“So your ribs are hurting you,” she said. “Which side?”

“Left.”

The doctor lifted up Ashley's shirt and started touching her bruised ribs. Ashley shrieked in pain as the doctor found a tender spot.

“Is something broken?” Ashley asked.

“Fractured. Two of your ribs. Maybe a third. This sort of injury is common . . . when somebody is kicked. Is that what happened?”
Ashley didn't answer right away, but then she nodded her head ever so slightly.

The doctor turned to Brent. “And it wasn't you who kicked her, was it?”

“Me?”

“No, it wasn't him!” Ashley snapped.

“Brent would never do that!” I protested.

“That's good to know. No offence . . . I just have to check. Lots of the injuries street kids have are caused by other street kids.”

“They were,” Brent said, “but I'd never hurt Ashley or Dana . . . or any female. I've never hit a female in my life and I never will.”

“A gentleman. That's good to hear.” She listened to Ashley's back with her stethoscope. “Take a deep breath.”

“I can't take a deep breath,” Ashley said. “It hurts.”

“Do it even if it does hurt.”

Ashley did what she was told and cringed in pain. “And again,” the doctor asked, and Ashley complied.

“Your lungs are clear right now. No pneumonia.”

“Why would I have pneumonia?” Ashley asked. “When people have broken ribs they tend to get pneumonia because of their lack of movement and the shallowness of their breath due to the pain. Pneumonia kills more street people than anything else. I'm going to give you something for the pain—enough for two days.”

“You mean it'll be better in two days?” Ashley asked.

“No. It'll probably hurt for at least a week, more likely two.”

“Then why are you only giving her enough painkillers for two days?” Brent asked.

“Clinic policy. Antibiotics we give out in large supplies. Anything that's to control pain is limited to two days. There's too great a risk that somebody is going use it to get high if we give out too much,” the doctor explained. “Don't take it personally. That's just the policy of our clinic. If you are still in pain after two days, come back. I'll reexamine you, make sure you're headed in the right direction, and then I'll give you another two days' worth of painkillers.”

“Are you going to put a cast on my ribs?” Ashley asked.

“In the olden days they used to tape them up, but then they found out that that actually caused pneumonia. What you can do is use your arms to support your ribs. Wrap them around yourself like this,” she said, as she sort of hugged herself. “And even if it hurts you still have to take deep breaths to keep the lungs clear. Understand?”

Ashley nodded. “Got it. And thanks.”

“No problem. So, who's next?”

“Me,” Brent said. He got up on the table as Ashley climbed down.

“I guess we should start with your nose . . . unless it always looks that bad.”

“Not before yesterday.”

She reached up and placed her fingers against the sides of Brent's nose. Gently she pushed it first to one side and then the other. I could tell that it hurt, but Brent was working hard not to show it.

“Broken, but there's not much that can be done about that. I'll get my nurse to clean it up and maybe pack it. Is it still bleeding?”

“A little bit every now and then.”

“Then packing it would work. Your face is also pretty scraped up. How did this happen?”

“I got kicked in the side of the head.”

“I'll get that cleaned up as well and give you some ointment to put on it so it doesn't get infected.” She looked down at her papers. “I'm more worried about the inside of your head.”

“He didn't kick me on the inside of my head,” Brent said.

“Is he always this funny?” the doctor asked me and Ashley.

“He always
thinks
he's funny,” Ashley replied.

The doctor pulled out a small flashlight. “Look at the light.” She held it in front of one eye and then the other. “Did you lose consciousness?”

“Nope.”

“Vomit?”

“Felt like it but I didn't.”

“Good. You've suffered from a concussion. If you'd come right after the assault I would have recommended that you be woken up every two hours or so.”

“I told you so,” I said.

“When did this happen?” the doctor asked.

“Last night,” Brent said.

“Then there's nothing else that needs to be done. You might have a headache for a couple of days. I'll give you something for pain as well. Two days' worth. I can see you both again in two days.”

Brent climbed down off the examination table and the doctor turned to me. “Do I need to examine you, too?”

“I'm fine, honestly.”

“I don't know about that. All three of you look like you could use a shower and a good meal and a warm place to sleep.”

“Are you asking me out on a date?” Brent asked.

The doctor broke into laughter. “I think I'll pass on that, although I know a couple of places where you can get a meal tonight.”

“We know all those places,” Brent said. “We like to take care of ourselves.”

“Independence is important,” the doctor said. “And so is knowing when you need some help. I'll see you in two days. Even if you're feeling better you come back. Promise?”

“We'll be here, Doc,” Ashley said.

“I'll make sure they come back,” I added.

WE LEFT THE EXAMINING ROOM
, cut through the waiting area, and exited onto the street.

“So,” Ashley said, “how are we going to take care of ourselves for supper?”

“We've still got a few hours before dark. Maybe we can do some panhandling,” Brent suggested.

“I'm hungry now, and my side is really hurting. I just want to sit down and have something to eat.”

“Then maybe we should,” I said. “My treat.”

“Your treat?” Brent and Ashley asked together.

“Would twenty-four dollars be enough to buy us all supper?” I asked innocently as I pulled the money out of my pocket.

“More than enough. Where did you get it?” Ashley asked.

“Let's eat,” I said. “Maybe tomorrow I'll show you how I did it.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

“
SO
,
COME ON
,
TELL US WHAT YOU HAVE IN MIND
,” Brent said.

“I told you. I think I know a way we can make some money,” I answered.

“Yeah, but how? Are we going to panhandle or squeegee or rip somebody off or—?”

“Get real, Brent. Can you see Dana ripping somebody off?” Ashley asked.

“I guess not . . . so . . .?”

I smiled. “I'm not
telling
you. But I will show you.”

I didn't know which part I was enjoying most—the fact that we were going to be making money doing art, the fact that I was going to prove to them that Sketches wasn't a waste of time, or the fact that I was finally doing something for them to pay back all that they had done for me.

We walked through the square between the big office towers till I found a good location. Then I took
my backpack off my shoulder and set it down on the pavement. “This is the perfect spot.”

“This?” Ashley asked.

I nodded.

“And just what makes this particular spot so perfect?” Brent wanted to know.

“For one thing, look how smooth and even the pavement is. And check out all the buildings around here,” I said, pointing to the four tall, black office buildings that both surrounded and towered over us. “It's ten o'clock. In about two hours these buildings are going to empty out as thousands and thousands of people go out for lunch.”

“So we
are
going to panhandle,” Brent said.

“No panhandling. No lying. No begging.”

I bent down and unzipped my backpack. I opened it up and pulled out a book and handed it to Brent.

“We're going to sell them a book?” he asked.

“Of course not. It's not even my book. I borrowed it from Sketches.”

“It's a big book . . . a heavy book. Are we going to hit them with the book if they don't give us money?” he joked.

“I was hoping to hit them with what's in the book.”

Brent turned it over. “It's like some kind of art book.” He started flipping through it.

I reached deeper into my bag and pulled out a little whisk broom, a tape measure, a straight edge, and a
package of pastels—all of which I'd borrowed from Sketches.

“I know,” Ashley said. “You're going to do a copy of one of those paintings on the pavement, right?”

I took the book back from Brent and opened it to the right page. “This painting.” I pointed to
Starry Night
by Van Gogh. It had worked before, so I thought it would work again.

“I think I know that one,” Brent said.

“You should. It's one of the most famous paintings in the entire world.”

“It's okay,” he said.

“Okay? Do you know how valuable this painting is?” I asked.

“How valuable?”

“Like, tens of millions of dollars of valuable.”

“Wow. Maybe I should have paid more attention in art class,” he said.

“Maybe you should have paid more attention in
all
of your classes,” Ashley joked.

“I guess the more important question is: how much is it worth to us?” Brent said.

“That depends on how good a job we do.”

“Then we're in real trouble. I can't even draw stick people,” he said.

“Me neither. I got no talent,” Ashley added.

“That's okay, I have enough talent for
all
of us.”

Ashley snorted. “And what exactly are we supposed to do while you're showing off all that talent?”

“Yeah, do we just stand around and watch?” Brent added.

“Not even close. The two of you ever use a colouring book?” I asked.

“Of course,” Ashley said.

“Yeah,” Brent answered, “but I wasn't so good at staying inside the lines.”

“Well, this is going to be a lot like drawing in a colouring book, only with bigger lines.” I tossed the whisk broom to Brent. “And you can start out by sweeping the pavement. Let's get to work!”

IT DIDN
'
T TAKE LONG
to measure the frame, mark the main points of the painting, and start to draw. People began to take notice of us immediately, slowing down, watching us create our picture. I stood up and stepped back to look at the work in progress. The book was propped up against a pole, open to the painting I was copying.

“It looks pretty good,” Ashley said.

“Not bad. I can see a couple of places where it could be better.”

“I can see one way where this
couldn't
be any better,” Brent said as he came over to join us.

“How?” I asked.

“Do you know how much money we've collected so far?” he asked.

I shook my head.

“Almost seventy-two bucks.”

“That is fantastic!” Ashley exclaimed. “We've never got that much begging before.”

“That's because we're not begging!” I said. “This is different.”

“The biggest difference I see is that we're making way more money,” Brent said.

“It's more than the money,” I said. “It's how we're making the money. They're giving us money because they appreciate what we're doing, and not because they feel sorry for us or want us to leave them alone. They give us money because they think we have talent.”

“You have talent,” Ashley pointed out.

“I'm not doing this by myself. We all worked together to create something worthwhile.”

“No argument there,” Brent said. “So far it's worth seventy-two bucks.”

“And it's going to be worth more as the day goes on,” Ashley said. “The more work we do, the better it looks.”

“Just wait until the end of the day when everybody comes out of the buildings to go home. We are going to make a fortune!” Brent exclaimed.

“That means we can get a great meal,” Ashley said. “And maybe a motel room tonight.”