Rachel Seidman
When I was ten years old, I was in love with a boy named Steven Steinhoff. He had a thick mane of unruly golden hair, chubby cheeks, and an impish grin that made his eyes squint when he smiled. During recess when the girls played hopscotch, Double Dutch, and tag, Steven and his friends ran around in circles playing crack the whip and climbing perilously high on top of the playground equipment.
During the winter, we bundled up in our snow suits and boots. The girls put on their stylish knit stocking caps and winter gloves, and I shrieked with delight whenever Steven chased me around in the snow, yanking off my stocking cap and stomping it into the ground.
A few weeks before the end of the school year, we learned that Steven got into a fight and broke his arm. Our teacher told us that he had a bad fracture, that he was going to be in the hospital for at least a month and would not be coming back before the school year was over.
I was crestfallen, of course, and everyone sent Steven a “Get-Well” card. But I had other things on my mind now that summer had finally arrived. I was more interested in riding my new bike, jump roping, and playing in the alley with my friends.
However, just before the end of school, I fell over a chain link on my bike and sustained a serious injury to my arm. The break was just above the elbow, known as supracondylar fracture. It was the same injury that Steven had, only mine was worse.
After I fell, I was fortunate that a girl I knew from my school saw what happened to me, and she quickly located my mother who had just come home from work. Soon, my mother and I were off on a frantic journey to the emergency room at Michael Reese Hospital, where I was x-rayed and then sent to the girl’s ward to be put in traction.
When the attendants brought me upstairs, I glanced as quickly as I could down the hallway. I knew that Steven was there, somewhere on the ward, and I called out for him. But before I could reach him, I was scooped up screaming and kicking while the doctor and the nurses pinned me down so that they could secure my arm in traction.
The doctor told my parents that I would be in traction for at least a month. The first night in the hospital, the doctor stayed up all night with me by my bedside with the hope that my pulse would grow stronger and my arm would not be crippled. Fortunately, my pulse did grow stronger, and the doctor said my arm would recover.
This month was not easy for my parents. They were both working and also needed to take care of my little brother, but they came to see me almost every day and on the weekends.
Steven’s parents would also sometimes stop by when they were they were visiting him down the hall. I liked it when my parents and Steven’s parents were around and they laughed and talked at my bedside. I would try to envision what Steven was doing at that moment.
Finally, one quiet midday afternoon, when I was probably reading a book or writing letters, Steven’s mother came into the room pushing Steven in a wheelchair. I looked up at them, surprised.
“Steven is finally coming home today, Rachel,” his mother said cheerfully. “And he brought you a present.
“A present?” I said, trying not to blush. “For me?”
“That’s right,” she said. “Steven, give Rachel the present you got for her.” He mumbled something I couldn’t hear. He had his head down, and he was squirming uncomfortably in his chair. Finally, he handed me a wrapped box, which I opened. In it was an old-fashioned wooden doll in a colorful gingham dress with painted eyes and a red mouth. I fell in love with her instantly.
I played with this doll for many years. Although we were just ten-year-old children, there are some things that you never forget, like the people who have been kind to you, and also of course, your first crush.