Dale shifted over in the hospital bed and patted the space beside him. Emmett climbed up carefully, with his mother’s help, and snuggled against Dale’s side. Dale started the motorcycle rumble immediately.
Emmett sighed—a deep, contented sigh—and relaxed completely.
“Different kind of scary,” Dale said. “I’m scary on the outside—got the leather, the tattoos, the biker look. So his brain already expects me to be scary. Ain’t no surprise. But doctors and nurses? They look nice and safe, then they hurt him with needles and medicine. His brain can’t reconcile that. With me, what you see is what you get.”
Over the next two days, Jessica brought Emmett to Dale’s room four times a day. Each visit, Emmett would climb into bed with Dale, and they’d just sit there. Dale making his motorcycle rumble. Emmett finally getting the sensory regulation he needed. Sometimes they’d watch cartoons on Dale’s phone. Sometimes Emmett would just sleep. Sometimes he’d talk—single words mostly, but more than he’d spoken in months.
“Bike,” Emmett said on day two, pointing to a patch on Dale’s vest.
“That’s right, buddy. That’s a motorcycle. I ride one. Or used to, before I got sick.”
“Dale sick?”
“Yeah, buddy. Real sick.”
“Make better?” Emmett asked with heartbreaking hope.
Dale’s eyes filled with tears. “Can’t make me better, little man. But you know what? Sitting here with you makes me feel better. Not sick better. Heart better.”Continue reading…
