On the matter of fight or flight, I’ve always been a flight kind of guy. Scared of monsters under the bed, scared of heights. Spiders, the dark. Clowns. You name it, it’s made me sprint like I’m two again and Sawyer is leaping across the trampoline, licking at my shrieking mouth, wretched claws pawing at my little chest.
Charlie though? Charlie Du loves a fight. Takes every chance she gets to throw a punch and then some. We’ve been trying to work it out of her system the past three hundred days. Now we’re in the ICU. Or at least she is. I’m just slowly melting into this leather-bound chair in the waiting room. The whole working it “out” thing is not going very well.
A year ago, around this time, she came up to me at the gym. All cocky and confident, in the way only a sixteen-year-old can be.
I know it’s ironic. If I’m such a track star, why would I choose boxing? It’s for the same reason I imagine Charlie chose it. When you’re running from something bigger and badder, it’s easy to run into a fight.
“I want to box,” she announced, toothpick perched between her lips. I wanted to tell her to spit it out. Instead, I said, “Okay, kid.”
That first month was tough. She wanted the slick slide of real gloves, and I told her to shut up. Knuckle down. Be patient. There would be time for it when her skinny arms filled in a little and her thighs stopped protesting the morning after cardio.
Through practise, blind rage was replaced with killer aim. Charlie became pliable. We moved on to gloves. Sparred, just the two of us. She was still too volatile and unskilled for anyone else I was training. Still, she managed to surprise me. Quick to the jump. Slick. Easy. Punch, parry, duck. Ready before she was ready. Or maybe… look, I don’t like to think I pushed her too hard. But Charlie’s been on fire. Even before the matches, before the punching bag, before the training, before she ever met me or the fella who recommended me. Charlie Du is like a girl burning. The spluttering of a seizing plug, confused for a sparkler on a happy day.
Then, this fight. Oh, this fucking fight man. She was electric. Every punch, drive, parry. You could see the sparks flying. With every sharp snap of leather against a cheek the wire pulled taught. Each huff of breath, the threat of flames grew wilder. I really thought she was ready.
A hard knock to the teeth was all it took to put Charlie Du out. For a moment, it was like we were sharing a body. Little Chinese girl, flying through the air. My ears were ringing. My whole body went numb. My lungs refused to expand against the air rushing past. Thunk. Everything fucking exploded.
So much blood. I couldn’t tell if it was coming from her nose or her mouth. We got her on her side, and it immediately formed a small puddle on the mat. Someone was calling 999. A first responder was asking for her guardian.
“I’m her coach,” I said. She nodded and guided me into the ambulance behind Charlie’s prone form. Still bleeding. I didn’t know a little girl had that much blood to give.
You can probably imagine the rest. This chair is killing. Sticky and warm. My hands are sweating profusely where they grip the intake form. I can barely fill it in. Name, gender, and phone number are easy. The rest… I don’t know her birthday. Had to call our home gym for her emergency contact.
Xiaowen Du. Relationship: Mother.
I’ve never met her mom before, so I don’t really know what I’m looking for. There’re a few ladies around me who could fill the gaps in the faceless canvas I’ve built up in my head, but none of them look worried enough to be here for Charlie.
Suddenly, the elevator door erupts with a shout. A woman rushes up to the nurse’s station. She’s carrying too much. Two shopping bags, a backpack, a loose phone in hand. A lanyard swings from her wrist.
“My daughter,” she tells the receptionist in English. “Du Lanying.”
Bingo.
“Sorry, ma’am,” I peel myself off the couch. She doesn’t hear me over the sound of her own voice rattling off, now in Mandarin.
“Ma’am?” I try again when I get closer. “Are you here for Charlie Du?”
She stills. Doesn’t look at me. There’s an air conditioner right above the nurse’s station. My sweat stills in its tracks down my face.
“Lanying,” she responds, tone flat. “Her name is Lanying.”
“Uh. Yeah,” I don’t really know what is happening. “Well, she’s busy with the doctors. You’re her mom?”
“She awake?”
“Not yet,” I say. “I’m her coach; I came in with her. I’ve got the intake form right here, but we have to wait.”
“How long?” she turns to look me in the eye. Whatever she sees startles her for a moment. Probably the whole blonde hair, blue eyes, twenty-five-year-old sweating profusely through his basketball vest thing. She quickly schools her expression.
“Not sure. I’ve been here for two hours already.”
Nodding stiffly, she gestures for me to pass her the intake form.
“I’m sorry,” I say while I hand it over. I don’t know why I say it. It’s not my fault.
She nods again, lips pursed. Turns and starts filling in the gaps. I linger for a minute but it’s clear she doesn’t need me, so I go back to the couch. My thighs left sticky marks on the leather. Out of politeness, I sit back down on the stains.
My hands are sweating into themselves. Even when the form is finished, Xiaowen Du lingers at the desk. Bouncing on her heels. I tap my foot impatiently. The longer we wait the more it feels like we’re at the starting line for something bigger than I signed up for when I said “okay” to taming the flames a year ago. Like I’m intruding on the part of the process I’m not privy to: Watching the kindling.
Bile builds in the back of my throat, and I wonder if the blood in Charlie’s mouth tasted the same. Bitter. The thought is awful. Xiaowen Du begins to pace. I realise it’s only a matter of time before the starting pistol cries out.
So, I sit forward, forearms on my knees. Ready for take-off.