Flumes Vol. 4: Issue 1, Summer 2019 | Page 52

After several minutes, we bought a few items, said our good-byes in Arabic—ma salaama—and headed back to the hotel—to our room. As we lay in bed, Fadi turned to me, “I like New York.”

A group of sailors rocked on the dock of Liberty Ferry until the plank moved off my foot. “Stay still,” they yelled to the passengers behind me.

When my foot was free, the sailors carried me across the plank to Battery Park. Police on horseback were already waiting. One of the cops removed my sandal to reveal a foot as black as anthracite coal. Swollen to two times its normal size, a purple mark was spreading, radiating from the middle and out. The imprint of the metal inlay of my sandal was etched deep into my foot.

“Ice. My wife,” Fadi pointed to me. “Ice,” he sputtered, and a vendor in Battery Park reacted, filling a bag full for my husband.

“Ten thousand pounds,” the New York City policeman was saying, shaking his head in disbelief. “Ten thousand pounds,” he pointed to the ferry and then back at my foot; “landed on your foot.”

“Oh,” I responded in too much pain to consider what he was saying.

“Lucky she didn’t try to pull it out,” he said to Fadi who was only then placing the ice on my foot.

“No,” I screamed and pushed the ice off.

“Mom,” Collin winced.

“If she had pulled it, she’d a ripped the skin off,” the officer continued.

“You need to keep it on,” Fadi said, redistributing the ice gently over my foot.

“Do it, mom. He’s right.”

“The bones might a come too,” the policeman droned on.

Fadi nodded absently.

“It hurts,” I cried.

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