Southampton Spectacular by M. C. Soutter Page B

shook his head slowly. Gingerly. “Sounds like an exciting day, except for the last part.”
    The doctor was in the room with them now, taking notes on a chart clamped into his clipboard, and he agreed. “The last part was not good,” he said. “A few more pounds of pressure, and your skull would have given way completely.”
    “Austin caught you,” Devon added, completing the story for the hundredth time. “At the last second he caught you. And here you are. Good as new.”
    The doctor nodded, not quite sharing the good cheer. His intimate knowledge of what might have happened – of having seen, with his own eyes, how close Mr. Hall’s skull had been to simply shattering inward like a windshield with a brick thrown through it – kept him grounded. “That boy probably saved your life,” the doctor said quietly.
    There was a brief silence in the room at this, and then Peter carried on: “Wonderful. So, next question. Tell me again how long I’ve been in here. What’s the date?”
    “You were fully out for a week,” Cynthia said.
    “And it’s June 27th today,” the doctor said. “Friday. You’ve been in the hospital for twelve days so far. Two more and we’ll discharge you. We can do the rest with follow-up visits.”
    Peter’s eyes widened in mock surprise, and he looked at Devon. “June 27th!” he said to her, as if they had all forgotten something essential. “What about the tournament?”
    Devon laughed. The idea that she would leave the hospital for the sake of a tennis tournament at the Meadow Club was ridiculous. Which her father knew, of course. But this was his idea of resuming his parenting duties. “I’ve been a little busy,” she pointed out. “Father in a coma. Edge of death. Whatnot.”
    Her father was having none of it. “I’ve been awake for four days!” he cried, throwing his hands up. “You didn’t have to be here the whole time!”
    Devon did her best to play along. “I tried to get away, but then I realized all my tennis clothes were dirty.”
    “Okay,” Peter said, sounding placated. But then he put up a finger. “You still have to go watch the finals,” he said. “James and Barnes?”
    Devon shrugged. “I assume. Who else has a chance?”
    “Tomorrow?”
    “I think.”
    “Fine. So you should go. Your mother and I – ” He pulled Cynthia closer to the bed and began stroking her back. “ – have a lot of catching up to do.”
    Devon rolled her eyes in disbelief. This was something that both her parents thought was fair game, but she could never get used to it: talking about their sex lives in front of people. Even their own daughter.
    “Dad. For crying out loud. You’ve got a metal plate in your head.”
    The doctor glanced up from his clipboard, a serious expression on his face. “She’s right,” he said sternly. “No sexual activity for at least a month. A surge in blood pressure could kill you.”
    “What about heavy canoodling?” Peter said, and patted his wife’s butt.
    The doctor shrugged and returned his attention demurely to his clipboard. “Suit yourself,” he said. “Just keep your heart rate down.”
    Peter looked back triumphantly at his daughter, who shook her head and puffed out her cheeks. “Fine,” she said. “I’m getting out of here. I’ll see you two tomorrow.” She picked up her backpack and gave each of them a kiss. “Dad, go easy,” she added.
    Cynthia gave her a smile. “Go back to your friends. Back to your summer.”
    Devon walked out the door, and the two of them watched her go. When she had left, the doctor looked up at them again. He gave them a questioning look.
    Peter shrugged. “Right. So, we kicked her out. She shouldn’t be spending her time in a hospital, that’s all.”
    The doctor nodded. True enough.
    “Besides,” Peter said, giving his wife’s arm a little squeeze, “I really could use some canoodling. Whatever that means. I’ll take anything I can get.”
    Cynthia giggled, sounding far younger