Sparking Sara (The Men on Fire Series)

by Samantha Christy

  “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, rig
ht 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.”

  Justin points his fork at J.D. “See? Months,” he says to Brett. “Months, not years. Amanda is playing you.”

  Brett gets up off the couch and then curses when he walks using his sore toe.

  “You think she’s got something on the side?” he says defensively. “What are you trying to say, Justin? That she’s stepping out on me?”

  Justin holds up his hands in surrender. “I’m not saying that at all,” he says. “I just wonder how long you’re going to continue to be a doormat. You do everything for Leo. You handle the finances. You pay the nanny. You schedule his wellness visits. What is Amanda even contributing to your lives, other than her paychecks?”

  The alarm goes off, but it’s only for EMS. It has effectively ended the conversation, however. Brett stares at Justin like maybe something he said has gotten to him.

  My phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out to see Joelle’s name and quickly get up, making my way to the bunk room for privacy.

  “Joelle, what’s up?”

  “She’s awake,” she says.

  “Sara’s awake?” I ask in disbelief. “As in, she’s talking?”

  “Well, she’s not talking, but she’s communicating with head nods and hand signals. She’s exhausted, but she seems aware.”

  “How do you know she’s aware?”

  “Because we’ve been asking her questions about her life.”

  “She’s cognizant?”

  “Yes and no.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Are you coming by today? I’ll explain everything when you get here.”

  I look at the clock. “My shift is over in twenty minutes. I’ll be there shortly afterward.”

  After we hang up, I stare at the clock.

  Twenty minutes have never gone by so slowly.

  ~ ~ ~

  Joelle is outside Sara’s hospital room talking with the doctor when I arrive.

  “What did you mean by she’s cognizant but she’s not?” I ask, walking up and interrupting their conversation.

  “Hi, Denver,” Joelle says. “We think Sara has experienced some memory loss.”

  “If she’s not talking, how can you know that?”

  “Because she’s able to respond to commands,” she tells me.

  Dr. Miller tries to explain. “We’ve asked Sara a series of yes and no questions. Easy ones like ‘Is my lab coat purple?’ or ‘Is the wall yellow?’ We instructed her to give us a thumbs up for yes and a thumbs down for no. Or a nod of her head vs a shake. And she’s able to follow those simple instructions.”

  “So how can you tell she has memory loss?” I ask the doctor.

  “Remember how I said the MRI showed damage to parts of the brain? Some of that damage was to the hippocampus—the area of the brain dealing with memory. Damage to this area of the brain is likely to cause some type of memory destruction, be it the inability to make new memories, or the inability to recall old ones.”

  “But won’t she remember things over time?” I ask.

  “If her trauma were psychological, perhaps. But being that it’s physical, it’s unlikely. In these cases, anything that does ‘come back’ is merely a confabulation.”

  “Confabulation?” I ask. “You’ve lost me.”

  “A memory error,” he says. “A fabrication of a memory based on what other people have said.”

  “So what doesn’t she remember?”

  “A lot,” Joelle says sadly.

  “We think she may have lost several years of her memory,” Dr. Miller says.

  “How could you possibly know that if Sara can’t speak?”

  “I asked her a series of questions about her life,” Joelle says.

  “Like what?”

  “I asked about Oliver.”

  “She doesn’t remember him?” I ask.

  She shakes her head. “Not even after I told her how they met. I told her as much about him as I knew. I told her we’ve contacted him, and I was sure he’s worried about her and trying his best to get here.”

  “How long did you say they’d been dating?”

  “More than a year.”

  “What else did you ask her?”

  “I asked if she knew Anna, the driver of the car. She doesn’t.”

  I sigh. “That may be the silver lining here.”

  “I suppose.”

  “Does she remember her parents’ deaths?” I ask.

  “Thankfully, yes. I’d hate to have to break that to her and have her relive it all over again. And she remembers Lydia. I think she remembers her fondly, so we can assume she’s not aware of their falling out a few years back.”

  “She lost somewhere between two and four years?” I ask.

  “Three as fa
r as I can tell,” she says. “I showed her some pictures of her paintings I found on-line. She only remembers the ones she did before she started selling them.”

  “Maybe if you show her pictures of Oliver and Anna,” I ask.

  “I don’t have any. I guess we could try to find some. Do you think that would help spark her memory, Dr. Miller?”

  He shakes his head. “It’s unlikely, but not impossible. As I’ve said a dozen times, brain injuries are all different. Sometimes what you think will happen, doesn’t. However, I wouldn’t go getting your hopes up—or hers, because I wouldn’t bet on it.”

  “But it wouldn’t hurt to try?” I ask.

  “No. It wouldn’t hurt to try. I’m sure she’ll have a lot of questions about her life. To Sara, yesterday was three years ago. She’ll want to try and piece together everything she missed. Any photos or letters or videos you have may help her not feel so disconnected from her life.”

  “Can I see her?” I ask. “Did you say anything about me?”

  “I told her the firefighter who rescued her had come by to check on her.”

  I motion to the door. “Would you mind?”

  “Go right ahead. I’ll come with you in case she gets scared.”

  “I’m not that ugly, am I?” I joke.

  She laughs. “No. You’re definitely not that ugly.”

  I approach Sara’s bed with caution. They have the head of the bed elevated, but they have bumpers on either side of her to keep her in place. It makes me wonder if she’s regained any muscle control at all since my brief visit yesterday morning. Her eyes are closed, but I see they’ve taken the soft restraints off her wrists.

  “She’s been sleeping most of the time,” Joelle says as we make our way to the bed. “Her PT sessions are very tiring, as is the increased time off the vent.”

  Joelle catches me noticing that the ventilator is not breathing for Sara at the moment. “Over four hours,” she says. “She’s going for the record.”

  That a girl, I think as I look down at Sara.

  Then her eyes flutter open. They are glassy at first, but as she looks from Joelle to me, her eyes seem to gain focus. I see the numbers on the heart monitor over her head go up as her heart rate accelerates and she fully wakes.