I feel around for her hand, not wanting to avert my eyes from hers. I take her hand in mine. “It’s okay, Sara. You’re going to be okay. You were in an accident. You’re in the hospital now. You’re safe. It’s okay.”
I know I should call the nurse, but I can’t. I’m frozen in time. I can’t tear my eyes away from hers. I’m afraid if I even blink, her eyes will close. I just hold her hand and assure her she’s going to be okay.
And then, before another minute passes, she closes her eyes. But not before I feel her squeeze my hand. Well, it’s not a squeeze, per se, more like a weak attempt at one, but a squeeze no less.
“Sara? Sara?”
Her eyes don’t open again and her hand releases mine.
Finally, I reach down and press the call button for the nurse. Because it’s the only thing I can do. Because I’m overwhelmed by my feelings.
She woke up.
She. Woke. Up.
I back up and fall into the chair. And then I feel a drop of warm water on my cold hand. I bring my hand up to my face and realize I’m crying.
I close my eyes and sigh. Okay, yeah. Maybe it’s time to go talk to someone.
Chapter Eight
“Thank you for meeting with me so quickly, Reverend Feldworth.”
He directs me into a small hospital conference room and closes the door behind us. “Please, call me Marcus,” he says. “And it’s my job. I’m happy to be here.”
We sit at a table, opposite each other. He puts a bottle of water in front of me and keeps one for himself.
“Thank you,” I say, reaching for it.
“I find it helps. It lubricates the vocal chords and makes it easier to talk. For a lot of people, talking about what’s bothering them is stressful and anxiety dries out the mouth.”
I take a drink of water.
“So, what prompted you to call me?” he asks.
“People keep telling me I need to see a counselor. But I really don’t want it on my record that I saw a shrink.”
“You should know that at some point in their career, almost every firefighter uses counseling services. Believe me, it doesn’t get held against you. But I’m here to counsel as well. So why don’t you tell me what’s going on.”
“Do you know anything about me?”
He tries not to laugh. “There are eight FDNY chaplains and over fifteen thousand firefighters and EMTs. We work part time and also have our own church parishioners to deal with, so no, I’m afraid to say I don’t know anything about you. But I’d like to, if you’ll share your story with me.”
I tell him about my parents and about the hard time I have dealing with car crashes. I tell him how I used to be a cop in Kansas City. I even tell him about my arrest and subsequent probation and exoneration. Then I tell him about Sara.
“So you want me to tell you if it’s okay for you to sit by Sara’s side?”
“Yes. No.” I sigh. “I don’t know.”
“I can’t tell you that, Denver. Is it wrong for you to sit by a woman’s side who has no one else to sit with her? By the same token, is it okay for you to become emotionally attached to someone you helped rescue?” He looks me straight in the eye. “Are you in love with her?”
“In love with her? Why would you ask that? I don’t even know her.”
“It’s obvious to me that you’re experiencing intense feelings when it comes to this woman. It’s not uncommon for people to think they are in love with someone they’ve never had a relationship with.”
“I’m not in love with her,” I say. “She has a boyfriend. That’s not what this is about.”
“Well, what is it about, then?”
“If you ask Aspen, she’d say that I have the need to save Sara because I couldn’t save our parents.”
He nods as he listens to me. “And what do you think?”
“I don’t know. I mean, I guess she’s not entirely wrong. But I know I can’t save everyone.”
“Tell me about your childhood. Who were you before your parents died? Have you always been the kind of person to control and protect against danger?”
I laugh. “I was the kind of person to serve up danger,” I tell him. “I was wild and reckless.”
“You didn’t want to be a police officer or a firefighter before your parents died? You didn’t dress up as a civil servant on Halloween? You didn’t pretend to put out fires in your dad’s shed out back?”
“No. I wanted to be a rock star.”
“A rock star?”
“I played guitar when I was a kid. I wanted to be Richie Sambora.”
“Who is Richie Sambora?”
“Only one of the most prolific guitar players of his time.”
He gives me a blank stare.
“You know, the guitarist for Bon Jovi.”
“I see. And what happened to that dream?”
“I wasn’t good enough, for one. My sister is the one who got all the musical talent. She’s a prodigy on the piano. But I still play for fun sometimes.”
“What I’m getting from this is that the need to protect people began only after the death of your parents.”
“I guess it did.”
“Since the pattern of protecting people developed after they died, it makes a strong case for their accident being a significant factor in activating this pattern. In effect, your job exposes you to accidents and disasters that put you in a position to have the opportunity to succeed in rescuing people. This is probably in contrast to your perceived failure to save your parents.”
“But there is no way I could have saved my parents. I wasn’t even in the same state at the time.”
“I know that and, logically, you know it, too. But our behavior is not often dictated by actual facts.”
“So I’m crazy.”
“No, Denver, I’d say you’re anything but. What you do on a daily basis is exceptional. Some might even say heroic. But it’s your job to understand what drives you to do what you do. It’s possible that by putting yourself in situations that repeat the trauma of your parents, you are subconsciously attempting to master it.”
“Master what?”
“Saving people,” he says. “Which is something I’m here to tell you can’t be mastered.”
“So what do I do?”
“Talk to people. Talk to me. Your sister. A psychiatrist, maybe. Because talking about it will eventually help you to realistically deal with how it feels when you can’t save everyone, which may be what is holding you back when it comes to performing your job.”
“But what about Sara?” I ask.
“Are you hurting anyone by sitting with her?”
“No.”
“Are you avoiding any responsibilities?”
“I don’t really have any responsibilities outside of work.”
“Do you have any unusual expectations about what will happen when and if she gets better?” he asks.
I narrow my brows at him. “What do you mean?”
“I mean if she gets better and walks out of this hospital and out of your life, are you willing to accept that?”
“Of course I am. That’s all I want for her. It would be incredible if that were to happen.”
“And do you feel guilty about sitting with her?”
“No. I feel guilty when I’m not sitting with her.”
“Let’s go back to my earlier question. Do you still need someone to tell you that it’s okay to sit by Sara’s side?”
I shake my head. “No. So, uh …”
“What is it?” he asks.
“Do you think I’ll be okay someday, you know, if I just talk about it?”
“I do. Just make sure you talk about it with people who can listen to you and not judge you. Someone you trust and who you can be honest with. And you’re already making progress. You helped Sara at the accident. You didn’t freeze up. You climbed into the back seat of the car and did your job.”
“I threw up,” I remind him.
“You did. But did
that stop you from doing what you needed to do?”
I shake my head.
“It’s a step in the right direction. That’s all you can hope for, small steps.”
I push my chair back and stand up, offering him my hand. “Thanks, Marcus.”
“Anytime,” he says. “I mean that. You have my number and can use it day or night. And if it’s not me, make sure you find someone else to talk to.”
“I will. Thanks.”
“Can I walk you out?” he asks.
“No. I’m headed back up to the sixth floor.”
“Give Sara my best wishes.”
“Will do.”
In Sara’s room, I put my coat back on and take a seat next to her bed. I think about what Marcus said about me needing to talk to someone who will listen but not judge. Well, who better than the woman lying in this hospital bed?
For the next few hours, I talk to her. I tell her what Marcus told me about me putting myself into a position to save people because I couldn’t save my parents. I tell her more about my childhood. About my being a cop. About Kendall. About Aspen and how she came to marry a baseball star.
What I don’t talk about is Oliver. Not that there’s anything to talk about, but with the possibility of him being at the bottom of the river, I don’t want to give her hope that he’ll show up.
Sara’s fingers twitch a few times. Her head moves once like it’s sore from being in the same position. And every time I see or feel her move, I think of how monumental such little things are. Things you wouldn’t even think about until you’ve been in a cold hospital room for days on end looking at a comatose person. Things that mean she’s coming out from under the sedation. Small steps that mean big progress.
Sara opens her eyes a few more times. And every time she does, I stand up and tell her where she is and that she’ll be okay. Sometimes when her eyes open, they just seemed glazed over. But sometimes she seems focused. Focused on me.
The doctor comes into the room. “We’re going to try and take her off the vent for an hour,” he tells me. “She’s been breathing over it more and more. We need to rebuild her lung and diaphragm strength after all this time of the machine breathing for her.”
I hold my breath when he turns off the machine and detaches the tube from her trach. It becomes almost eerily quiet in the room. I watch her chest intently to see if she’s going to breathe. I start breathing again when I see it go up and down without the help of the machine.
“Tomorrow, physical therapy will be visiting Sara to get her sitting up in a chair.”
I look at him sideways. “Sitting up? She isn’t even awake yet.”
“Don’t worry, they will strap her in and help her. Sitting her up is important to get her lungs working properly. When you lie down too long, your lungs deflate and the insides stick together like an old balloon. When we get her sitting up, her lungs will unstick and completely fill with air, and eventually she’ll find it easier to breathe again. And being in a chair will help re-strengthen her core muscles.”
“So you think she’ll recover?”
“It’s too soon to tell. But we’re going to do everything we can to make that happen.”
Dr. Miller stays in the room for a few more minutes until he’s happy she’s breathing at the rate he wanted to see. “They can monitor her breathing from the nurses’ station,” he says. “If it gets too hard for her before the hour is up, they’ll turn the vent back on.”
When he leaves, I watch her breathe on her own for several minutes. I find it hard not to get emotional again. She’s breathing.
“You’re doing great, Sara,” I tell her.
She opens her eyes as if she heard me.
“It’s okay. You were in an accident. You’re in the hospital and you’re going to be okay. You’re breathing. You’re going to be fine.”
She focuses on me and we just watch each other. For how long, I don’t know. But long.
Then her eyes flutter. I can tell she’s trying to keep them open, but she’s losing the battle. Then an alarm goes off and a nurse comes in to reattach Sara’s tube and turn the ventilator back on.
“She did great,” Krista says. “She just about made it the full hour. She’s probably exhausted.”
“She is?”
“For twenty-four years, her lungs and diaphragm had been working non-stop, and then for six days, they didn’t have to do any work at all. What she just did, breathing on her own for an hour after being on the vent for so long, it’s like running a marathon.”
I look down at Sara, suddenly so proud of what she accomplished today. Someone should be here to see it. Someone she loves.
“Did you hear that, Sara? You’re a fucking rock star.”
Krista looks at me, shocked by my choice of words.
“What?” I ask. “She is.”
“She’s lucky to have you cheering for her.”
My eyes scan all the medical equipment in the room. “I’d hardly call her lucky,” I say.
“I see a lot of patients in comas,” she says. “So believe me when I tell you she is. Your being here and talking to her. Reading to her. Singing to her. It just might be the one thing that makes all the difference.”
My eyes snap to hers, embarrassed that she knows I was singing the other day.
She laughs. “I’m her nurse. I know everything. Now, why don’t you go home and get some sleep. I’ll take care of our girl.”
Chapter Nine
The past few days have been filled with both accomplishments and setbacks. The day after Sara opened her eyes, the physical therapists came in to sit her up. She was still in a daze and had little muscle control. They moved her to a special bed, strapped her in securely, and then the bed could do everything from standing her upright to morphing into a chair for her to sit in.
Her head had to be supported, just like a new baby’s would. It was hard to watch. She looked so helpless in the chair that it broke my heart. But it’s all part of her recovery.
She also was able to be off the ventilator for several hours at a time. And once, she made a very purposeful movement, trying to grab the ventilator tube going into her neck. That caused the nurse to put soft arm restraints on Sara so she couldn’t pull the tube out.
But her trying to pull the tube out is a good thing. Purposeful movement is a huge step.
On the downside, she spiked a high fever. They’re worried about pneumonia or possibly an infection from the trach or feeding tube surgery. So despite their hope of having her room feeling more like Florida in winter instead of the North Pole, she’s still being iced down.
Joelle was able to go back to the hospital yesterday and sit with Sara for an hour or so. I was grateful she wasn’t alone when I was on shift. And I did get to pop in for an update when Engine 319 decided to take a field trip to her hospital to check on an injured firefighter from a neighboring firehouse.
We’re eating breakfast at the station, about to finish up shift when Brett gets a call that clearly upsets him. He gets up from the table and walks out into the hallway, but we can all hear a few choice words he says to whomever is on the other end of the phone.
“Goddamn it!” he says, right before it sounds like he kicks something down the hallway.
We all look at each other across the table. Bass shrugs his shoulders. We eat the rest of our breakfast in relative silence. I’ve only been here for a few shifts, but I already know an outburst like that is not in character for Lt. Brett Cash.
“Everything okay?” Bass asks when Brett comes back into the room.
Brett sits on the couch next to the table and takes off his shoe. “I think I broke my damn toe.”
Debbe, one of the paramedics, goes over to take a look. “What did you kick?” she asks.
“Trash can.”
“Does this hurt?” she asks, manipulating his toe.
“No.”
“How about here?”
“A little bit.”
“I don’t think it�
��s broken,” Debbe says. “You probably jammed it. Just ice and elevate. But if it’s not better by tomorrow, you might want to go in for an x-ray.”
“Great,” Brett says, rubbing a hand across his chest. “I’ll add that to the list of other things she broke.”
“She?” I ask.
“Amanda.”
“That was Amanda on the phone?” Bass asks. “Wasn’t she supposed to be on a plane flying back from California this morning?”
“Yeah,” Brett says. “She was. She was out there for training, but she’s decided to stay for another week. She says she wants to shadow their head buyer.” He air-quotes his last few words like he doesn’t believe them. He shakes his head.
“But you don’t buy it?” Bass asks.
“I don’t doubt that’s what she’s going to do. I mean, she’s been trying to get a promotion for months. But it’s just another excuse to be away from home.”
“I don’t understand why you put up with this shit from her,” Justin Neal says.
Bass scoffs at Justin. “Says the guy who’s never been married and dates a different chick every week.”
“Exactly,” Brett says. “I have a kid with her. We’ve been married for five years. You don’t just walk away from that when things are hard.”
“Yeah, but you’ve been complaining about Amanda ever since she had Leo. How old is he now?”
“Fifteen months.”
“You’ve been dealing with this shit for over a year, Lieutenant,” Justin says. “Definitely time to cut bait.”
“Amanda is not bait, you asshole. She’s my wife. And there’s no way I’d risk losing Leo.”
“I hate to be the one to break it to you, man, but she doesn’t want Leo,” Justin says. “She ignores him. Hell, she ignores you.”
“It’s post-partum depression. That’s all,” Brett says.
Justin laughs. “Seriously? Is that what she tells you? And five years from now, when she’s still feeding you that bullshit, will you believe it then?”
Captain Dickerson puts down his coffee and chimes in. “Kelly had post-partum depression,” he says. “But no way could she have worked. I’m not saying it’s the same for everyone, Cash. But with Kelly, all she did was lie in bed. She didn’t want to hold James. But she didn’t want to do anything else, either. It’s like she couldn’t do anything else. Took a few weeks for her to get over it. But I’ve been told we were lucky, a lot of women have it for months.”
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