The next thing I know, I’m flat on my back staring up at a ceiling with four fluorescent panel lights in it and a large exam light on a swivel arm. I blink and make out the top of an IV pole with a bag of IV fluids hanging from it on my left. I raise that arm and see tubing snaking its way into the bend of my elbow, where a transparent dressing is covering an IV catheter. My nose feels dry and I realize there are oxygen prongs poking into each nostril.
I hear a strange female voice say, “Look, she’s awake.”
Suddenly Hurley’s worried face is above mine, staring down at me.
“Winston? Are you okay? Can you hear me?”
I nod, and then I try my voice. “I can hear you,” I croak through a raw, parched throat. “What happened?”
“You stepped on a fire ant nest back along the interstate when we stopped for the flat tire. They stung you all over your body. The doc said you had a flax reaction . . . or something like that.”
I smile. “Anaphylaxis,” I say.
“Yeah, that’s it,” Hurley says. “You were barely breathing when we got you here.” He sighs heavily and swipes at his brow. “You scared the crap out of me, Winston.”
The curtain, which is surrounding my bed, parts, and a dark-haired, ponytailed, short woman enters. “Welcome back to the land of the living,” she says. “I’m Dr. Tennyson, and your friends told me that you’re an ER nurse.”
“Used to be,” I say.
“Do you remember what happened?”
I shake my head. “I remember the ants, and I vaguely remember getting shoved into a car, but after that . . . nothing.”
“I’m not surprised,” Tennyson says. “You were bitten several hundred times by fire ants and you went into anaphylactic shock. I damn near had to intubate you, but the epinephrine and Benadryl kicked in fast enough to turn things around.”
“Thank you,” I say.
“I think you’ll be fine now, but I want to keep you here for another hour or so to make sure you don’t have any rebound.”
I nod my understanding.
“I’ll check back with you in a little while,” Tennyson says, and then she’s gone.
I look over at Hurley and ask, “What time is it?”
“A little after nine.”
I wince and close my eyes. “I’m so sorry.”
“You don’t need to apologize,” he says. “It wasn’t your fault.”
“But the conference . . .”
“Screw the conference,” Hurley says. “This whole trip has been jinxed from the get-go. First the plane nearly crashes, then Candy’s luggage goes missing, and now this.” He shakes his head in dismay. “The only place we’re going when you get sprung out of here is home.”
“We could still make tomorrow’s sessions,” I say.
Hurley shakes his head again. “No way. I’m taking you home.”
“Where’s Candy?”
“She went to make some phone calls. She should be back anytime.”
As if on cue, Candy appears. “Mattie, thank goodness! Are you okay?” she asks.
“I will be,” I say, scratching away at my skin. “But these damn bites still burn like a bitch.”
Hurley fills her in on the doctor’s report and his plans to call off the trip and head home.
“That’s fine by me,” Candy says, “but I’m not getting on another plane. If you two are planning to fly home, I’ll drive the rental car back.”
This plan momentarily buoys my spirits, since it means I might finally get Hurley to myself, but then Hurley says, “We should stay together. I’ll call the rental company and tell them we’re changing our plans. I’m sure it won’t be a problem.”
As I listen to this conversation, it’s all I can do to keep my eyes open. My eyelids feel like they have tiny weights on them, pulling them down, down, down. No doubt, it’s the effects of the Benadryl I was given.
“How long will it take to drive back?” I ask.
Hurley says, “It’s somewhere around eighteen hours, I think. If we take turns behind the wheel, we should be able to do it all in one day.”
“I don’t think I’ll be able to drive for a while because of the drugs.”
“That’s okay,” Candy says. “Steve and I can handle it.”
Though I know she is trying to reassure me, the implication that the two of them are a team annoys me. But the drugs have my brain so fogged up, I can’t drum up any real ire. Instead, I give in to the enticing pull of a drugged slumber and let myself drift off.
A little over an hour later, I am awake, disconnected from my IV, dressed, and ready to check out. My skin still burns in spots, so the doctor gives me a prescription for Vicodin, which Hurley gets filled at the hospital pharmacy. He decides to take the first shift behind the wheel. When we get to the car, I still feel groggy from the drugs, so I opt to take the backseat this time. My intent is to stay awake and keep an eye on the twosome in the front seat, but fatigue wins out over my jealousy, and soon I’m fast asleep.
At some point later, I’m jolted awake by a bang and shaking; I think I’m back in the plane again, riding the storm to certain death. I sit bolt upright and realize I’m in the car when I see Candy in front of me in the driver’s seat, and Hurley in the front passenger seat. I breathe a sigh of relief, wondering how much longer the plane ride from hell will continue to haunt me. I look out the windows and see we are parked next to a pump at a gas station/convenience store combo. Outside, the sky is dark and ominous. Tiny icicles are hanging off the carport roof above us, and sleety snow is pinging against the car. Judging from the wet spots on Hurley’s head and shoulders, I’m guessing he’s the one who pumped the gas.
“Well, hello there, Sleeping Beauty,” Hurley says with a smile. “How are you feeling?”
“Groggy,” I say, wiping the sleep from my eyes. “But otherwise okay.” I look at my arms and see that while the dozens of bites I have are red and itchy, the hives are in full retreat. “Where are we?”
“Somewhere in Tennessee,” Hurley says as Candy starts the car.
“Wow, how long was I asleep?”
“About eight hours. We had to stop to gas up and we’re going to grab a bite to eat. There’s a pizza place just up the road. Are you hungry?”
“Starving.” I’m glad to hear we’re not hitting the road right away, because I also have to pee.
When we arrive at the pizza place, we discover our food plans are dashed when the staff informs us they are closing early because of the weather, though I manage to convince them to let me use the bathroom. The weather outside is getting more ugly by the minute. By the time I return from the bathroom, frozen rain is pelting the roof, and small hailstones are bouncing in the parking lot.
Before we head back outside, Hurley says, “Candy, why don’t you let me drive. This weather is going to make for treacherous roads.”
Candy squares her shoulders, dons her feminist armor, and says, “I’m fine. I’ve driven the fire engine in stuff worse than this.”
Hurley looks like he’s about to object, but he purses his lips, instead, and stays quiet. The short trip to our car is a nasty one. Walking atop the hailstones in the parking lot is like trying to walk on ball bearings, and everything is covered in a thin sheet of ice. Hurley takes my arm as we negotiate the distance, but it’s small comfort. The stuff falling from the sky stings as it hits, and the air is bitterly cold.
Once we’re settled inside the car, the windows steam up from our radiating body heat. We have to wait a few minutes for the defroster to defog and melt the ice on the windshield. No one volunteers to get out and scrape.
The next hour is a white-knuckled drive for Candy, and an equally white-knuckled ride for Hurley and me. I can feel the tension radiating off all of us as we creep down the road with minimal visibility, passing dozens of cars off in the ditches. Candy seems to be playing it safe and sensible, going slowly and leaving plenty of room between our vehicle and the cars ahead.
The precipitation tur
ns to snow and comes down hard and fast, sticking to everything in sight. The fact that it’s no longer ice that’s falling seems to give the drivers a false sense of security because the speed of the traffic inches up a notch.
And then disaster strikes.
A semi in front of us brakes; and in a flash, it starts to skid. Its cab turns to the left, while the trailer continues its forward momentum. Candy, who is a good ways behind the truck, hits the brakes as well. I feel our car start a sickening slide. Candy pumps the brakes, trying to break out of the skid, but it has little effect. We all stare at the truck in front of us, which is now jackknifed across the road and looming ever closer. For several terrible seconds, it looks like we aren’t going to stop in time. But at the last moment, Candy turns the wheel a hair to the left and she’s able to stop the skid and come to a halt with us sideways in the road.
And then a pickup behind us crashes into Candy’s door, sending our car spinning across the road, down a small embankment, and into a huge rock wall.
Chapter 25
When we come to a stop, I see that the driver’s side of the hood is crumpled beneath a large rock outcropping. Smoke or steam—I can’t tell which—is spewing from the engine. I do a quick self-assessment, find everything in working order, and then focus on the other two.
“Hurley? Candy? Are you two okay?”
Hurley answers first. “I think I’m okay.” He undoes his seat belt and moves his legs tentatively. “I’m a bit banged up, but everything seems to be working.” He looks over at Candy, whose face is pinched with pain.
“I think my leg is broken,” she says.
I peer over the backseat and see that the engine compartment has been pushed back into her knees.
I undo my own seat belt and try to open the door to my left. It’s stuck, so I shift to the other side and try that one. It opens and I carefully climb out of the car and make my way around to Candy. Hurley gets out, too, and joins me. Together, we try to open Candy’s door, but it is buckled and dented so badly it won’t budge.
“Shit!” Hurley says.
We hear the sounds of other crashes behind us as two more cars collide with the stopped traffic. The road is impassable, thanks to the jackknifed truck. As far as I can see, there’s a nightmare of stopped cars and wreckage, all of which is rapidly getting buried in snow.
Hurley takes out his cell phone and looks for a signal. “Damn it, I got nothing,” he mutters.
I try mine and get the same result. I see the driver of the semi climb out of his truck, apparently unhurt. “Go and see if that trucker can call for help on his CB.” Hurley nods and starts to climb up the small incline to the shoulder. “But be careful,” I tell him. “There’s no telling how bad this might get.”
I watch as Hurley carefully makes his way up onto the shoulder and across the road. The night sky is alight with falling snow and the beams from dozens of headlights, creating an apocalyptic landscape. I make my way back around to the passenger side of the car and climb in through the front door. Candy looks pale, and her face is frozen into a grimace.
“Candy, tell me where you hurt.”
“My leg.”
“Okay, I’ll get to that in a minute. How about your neck?”
“No, it’s fine,” she says. Her eyes are pinched closed in pain. I run my fingers gently down her spinal bones, feeling for any deformity. Then I palpate her head, looking for scalp injuries. Next I open her jacket and push on her sternum and ribs. “How about here?” I ask. “Any pain?”
“Just the leg,” she says irritably.
“Okay, good.” I palpate her belly, which feels soft, and then I lift her shirt, looking for bruises. Fortunately, I don’t see any.
“Candy, everything else looks okay for now, so I’m going to try to get a peek at your legs, okay?”
She nods, but says nothing; her lips are tight with agony.
I kneel on the floorboard and maneuver my head behind the steering wheel, which has been pushed back a few inches. There I see the underside of the dash resting atop Candy’s left leg, and the front of it is pushed into her right knee. The right leg below the knee appears relatively straight, but the left one has a bend in the middle of the calf, and the left foot is turned at a very unnatural angle. I manage to palpate the right leg with one hand, and everything feels proper and intact. Then, as gingerly as I can, I pull up on Candy’s left pant leg, trying to expose the injured area.
She lets out a yelp of pain, making me wince.
“I’m sorry, Candy. I don’t want to hurt you, but your left leg is definitely broken. I need to check it to make sure there’s no bleeding and that your circulation isn’t compromised.”
“Okay,” she says through gritted teeth.
Inch by inch, I work her pant leg up, until I have all of the injured area exposed. It’s a bad break—two of them, in fact, as her ankle appears to be broken, too—but the skin is intact, warm, and pink.
I wiggle my way back to a sitting position just as Hurley returns.
“Did you ask the trucker to call for help?”
“He already had, but they told him it might take a while for anyone to get here. Fortunately, none of the folks up there on the road have anything more than minor injuries.”
“She’s in an awful lot of pain,” I say, nodding toward Candy. “I think her left leg is pinned.”
“Is she going to be okay?”
“I think so. The leg seems to be the only injury, but she’s in a lot of pain.”
“What can we do?”
“We need to make sure she stays warm and doesn’t go into shock. Get some clothes out of the suitcases so we can use them to cover her.”
Hurley does as instructed, while I zip Candy’s jacket back up. Candy moans, and then I remember the Vicodin prescription I have. I climb into the backseat, find my purse on the floor, and dig out the bottle of pills. There is also a bottle of water on the floor, so I grab that, too. When Hurley returns with his arms full of stuff from the suitcases, we wrap Candy up in a clothing burrito. I give her two of the Vicodin pills with some water to wash them down. Then we do the only other thing we can. We wait.
Hurley climbs into the backseat, leaving me in the front next to Candy. Minutes turn into half an hour, then an hour, then two. The pain pills kick in and Candy stops moaning, but they also make her drowsy. I have to check her pulse and shake her every so often to make sure she’s still okay. The weather outside continues its furious assault; up on the road, everyone is inside their vehicles, huddled against the maelstrom. I keep rousting Candy and reassessing her situation every ten minutes. So far, she’s proving to be a trouper by maintaining a positive attitude, but her growing lethargy worries me. I feel a twinge of guilt for all the mean thoughts I’ve had about her.
Fear, cold, and desperation color my thoughts, and I find myself going off on weird tangents. How long might we be stranded here? Could it stretch into days? Is there a chance Candy might die? My stomach growls hungrily, but I’m not very worried for myself. I figure I can outlast a lot of other folks based on reserves alone. My fat will not only provide extra insulation against the cold, but it will provide a source of nourishment for my body for a good while before I start seriously digesting myself. Then I start thinking about the rugby team whose plane crashed in the Andes years ago, forcing them to cannibalize the dead passengers. I look over at Candy and figure we’re screwed. She’s much too skinny to sustain us for long.
I give myself a mental shake, chastising myself for such idiotic thoughts and wondering if I’m losing my mind. When I see a flashing light up on the road, I’m not sure if it’s real or if my mind conjured it up out of hope.
But then Hurley sees it, too, and he’s out of the car and climbing up to the road. Moments later, he returns with a police officer in tow; the two of them skid and slide their way down to our car.
“Help is here,” I tell Candy. “Hang in there.” I get out of the car and brace myself against the howling wind and snow, y
elling over the top of the car to the policeman. “We need to get her to a hospital right away. She’s pinned inside and has multiple leg fractures.”
The officer nods and yells back, “Fire and rescue are on the way! We’ll get on it as soon as they get here.”
I nod my understanding and get back inside the car with Candy as Hurley climbs back up to the road with the policeman. “We’re going to get you out of here,” I tell Candy. “Just a little bit longer.”
She nods weakly and turns her head to look at me. “Thank you for helping me.”
“I haven’t really done anything.”
She reaches over and takes my hand, giving it a little squeeze. “But you have. You made me feel safe,” she says. “And you helped me deal with the pain.”
The guilt her words trigger is so overwhelming that I’m about to confess that I was not only eyeing her like a rib roast a short while ago, but I also found her lacking. I’m saved from myself when I see men dressed in snow gear sliding down the hill toward us and carrying the “Jaws of Life.”
By ten P.M., Hurley and I are warm, fed, perked up with coffee, and sitting in a hospital waiting room. I put in a call to Izzy to let him know what’s going on; he updates me on our cases, telling me that the tox screen on Donald Strommen is still pending and that the cops haven’t found Catherine.
I hang up, and as I’m sharing this information with Hurley, an ER nurse comes out to us and says, “Your friend is fine. She has a comminuted tib-fib fracture and a dislocated ankle, but we’ve made her comfortable and we’re prepping her for surgery. You can go in and see her, if you like.”
We find Candy propped up on a hospital stretcher with her leg splinted, IVs snaking into her arms, and a glazed look in her eyes. “Hey, guys,” she says with a slightly slurred voice. “It looks like I’m going to be here awhile.”
Lucky Stiff Page 22