Pieces of Hope

by Carter, Carolyn

  The officer on the opposite side of the street had to be nearly sixty feet away, but despite the blinding glare of the streetlamps, and beyond the indescribable mess between us—paramedics, ambulances, wreckage, bodies—I easily read his gold nametag: Deputy James Washpun. Clearly agitated, he stomped back and forth in front of the Police tape like a cat in a cage. Another cop, balding and shorter, approached him. As if I stood right beside them, and over the clamor of the crowd, I clearly heard the shorter officer ask the taller one, “Hey, Jim. Whaddawe got?”

  Deputy Washpun stopped, twisted his barrel-chest toward the second officer, then boomed like a Marine sergeant, “It’s a circus, man . . . a total mess!” I jumped a little, but the other officer didn’t flinch. “Try a two-car accident involving a pedestrian, two critical injuries, and one fatality . . .”

  The shorter deputy pursed his thin lips. I got the unmistakable impression he was less concerned about a fatality than he was about a long, grueling night of paperwork.

  “Seems the driver of the Cadillac had a heart attack at the wheel. Then the Caddy struck the Pontiac which rammed the pedestrian. And to top it all off”—he stabbed a stubby finger in the air, gesturing toward the beater with the broken windshield—“when it all went down, I was tailing that joker for his possible involvement in a string of burglaries!”

  “At least you didn’t lose the tail,” the shorter cop said obligingly, an idiotic smile crossing his face. Deputy Washpun turned away without comment, not looking the least bit amused.

  Behind them, I just caught sight of Claire. She must have known someone in the accident because she was screaming hysterically into her cell. I waved to her from behind the tall boy, but she didn’t see me. Then I remembered that I hadn’t returned with the dog yet and quickly dropped my hand.

  My eyes jumped back to the center of the street where two beefy paramedics were busily lifting the driver of the Pontiac into a waiting ambulance. This adrenaline kick was so powerful; it seemed I could feel other people’s emotions. I focused on the boy on the stretcher and a sense of despair caused me to double over. Beneath the blood, his young face seemed almost familiar. It tugged at a distant memory. But before I could locate it—doors slammed, sirens wailed, and the ambulance sped away. In that same split-second, I thought of the woman in the Cadillac—the fatality the cop had spoken of—and a missed anniversary passed through me and then out of me. But how did I know that the driver was a woman? Or sense these emotions from people I’d never met?

  Only one victim remained, tucked beneath a blue blanket in the dead center of the street, not moving, and apparently not breathing, either. Time and again, I watched as one paramedic pumped several times on the victim’s chest. And then the other—the one that blocked my view of the victim’s face—would lean down close enough for a kiss.

  I knew what that was like: the overwhelming fear, the rush of emotion, the notion that someone could die in your hands. I had performed CPR only once and, lucky for me, the woman had lived. The procedure was deceptively simple—thirty chest compressions followed by two short breaths.

  “Hold on,” the first paramedic said, and somehow I had detected the faint rhythm before he had. “I think we have a heart beat.”

  The second paramedic waited, still hovering near the person’s head. Although the blanketed form hadn’t moved, he announced, “She’s as stable as we’re gonna get her. I’ll get the cart.”

  He stood up and strode to the ambulance. Only now could I get a clear view of the girl’s small, even features. Long, dark hair matted with blood lay in a messy swirl around her head. I made to gasp, but the air got stuck in my throat. Something caught the second paramedic’s eye. In absolute horror, I watched as he slipped a single red sneaker between the girl’s feet.

  I had no sooner looked down at my missing sneaker when it happened. It felt as if a giant hand jerked me by the back of my coat, and was now forcibly dragging me toward the girl lying in the street. Panic pulsed through me as I became conscious of what had happened, what was about to happen, and the pain I was sure to suffer. I bumped into the tall boy in front of me, but then I slipped straight through him. In the brief instant that we were one, I felt this amazing love for some girl named Caroline . . . Who? But when he looked at the big-haired girl beside him, I knew. She was Caroline.

  Though I kicked and wailed and struggled to break free of the force that held me, I couldn’t fight the inevitable. “NO! This can’t be happening! Make it stop! Make it stop!”

  I slammed into my broken body as if I’d been thrown, and when I tried to scream, no sound came out. Breath exploded in my ribcage. Pain erupted everywhere at once. My left leg—seemingly twisted at an impossible angle. My head—approaching the size of an over-inflated basketball. And there was something stiff and tight around my neck.

  “One two three,” the paramedics counted before lifting me onto the stretcher.

  Oh, the pain! It clawed and screamed at me with every tiny breath. It burned when I breathed. It throbbed when I didn’t. Please! Please! Make it stop!

  Time seemed to rewind . . . I saw the green beater sliding sideways toward me, its once-golden stripe glistening in the rain. Legs paralyzed, mind numb . . . I let my body go limp as I awaited the crash. The front fender crushed my left leg. I bounced twice across the hood before my head broke the windshield. My insides shattered like icicles striking granite. A low moan escaped me . . .

  Then everything went black.

  2 Confessions

  The next thing I knew I was standing beside a hospital bed, in a private room reeking of antiseptic, staring at myself. It didn’t take a mind-reader to know how awful the me in the bed felt. However, the me beside the bed felt better than perfect! And not only was I free from any physical pain, but the more devastating part, Mom’s death, no longer had me in the state of an oozing wound. In the absence of that, a thrilling new sensation replaced it, one I never would have anticipated. Somehow, I felt impossibly close to her, closer even than when she was alive. It seemed that if only I could have whirled fast enough, twisting my head just so and narrowing my focus, I would have caught her smiling at me from the edges of my eyes. But craziest of all, this feeling that I was more like my old self. Maybe better. And whole—no longer in pieces—was enough to make me giggle hysterically.

  I looked down to see that I was wearing my infamous red sneakers (both of them) along with my faded blue T-shirt and jeans. Though I was in spirit form, I was surprised to see that I looked quite solid—not transparent or ghost-like at all. I pinched myself and yelped, but my physical body showed no reaction.

  It was odd to see myself from this perspective. My body looked small in that giant hospital bed, but I was cuter in real life than I had known. Except for the numerous cords, tubes, and beeping machines, I seemed to be sleeping peacefully. I saw that my left leg—stretched up on some sort of traction device—finally looked straight. Several bruises and some gashes marred my face, but overall I didn’t look too bad. In truth, I’d expected to be hideous. Or (gulp) dead. It was good to know that I was neither, but where exactly did that leave me? What did they call this in-between place? And how long might I be here?

  Through the thick glass that made up the fourth wall of my room, I could hear and see Brody Alexander. He was good-enough looking, tall and fit, with skin the color of candy caramels. But, despite of the pretty wrapping, he would forever be the annoyingly peculiar brother I never had, but wished I did.

  He had this dream of becoming a world-famous African-American surfer, but his phobia of mega-sized bodies of water had prevented him from venturing anywhere near a surfboard. Next on his dream list was my sister. Though Brody wasn’t Claire’s type, I’d noticed the two of them getting cozier since Mom’s accident. It wasn’t the coupling of the decade, but for some unfathomable reason, I liked them together.

  “The timing’s kind of freaky, but it’s good to run into you, dude.” Brody’s voice, as usual, was animated and lively. Leave
it to him to remain upbeat even as I pounded on death’s door.

  But it wasn’t Brody’s voice that captured my attention—a second, deeper yet softer voice, spoke only now and again. Much like a small earthquake, I thought it might rattle pictures off the walls. It certainly rattled me.

  “Mmm . . . I get that a lot around here. More than you might imagine.” There was a pause, then the melodious voice spoke again. “Been doing any climbing lately?”

  “No, my climbing partner’s been . . . well, you could say a lot’s happened to her.” Brody exhaled heavily, his shoulder-length dreds bouncing as he glanced in my direction. At least he remembered I was still here. Normally, he had the attention span of a flea on speed.

  “Two weeks ago, her mom died in a fall.” Brody shook his head in disbelief. “The cops aren’t entirely sure it was an accident. Seems some idiot dialed 911 from inside the house. Can you imagine? The dude might as well have left his driver’s license. It’s only a matter of time before they catch him. And then yesterday, Hope landed in here when she tried to outrun a car. As you can see”—Brody managed a sad smile—“the car won.”

  Brody couldn’t have heard it, but I detected the faintest sigh coming from the boy with the beautiful voice. It was the sort of sound that hinted at a history with someone, one that a close friend or family member might make, rather than a perfect stranger.

  “But you’d have to know Hope,” Brody continued with a slight pride. “She’s like a little pit bull. I’m sure she’s going to get better.” He paused, sneaking a glance over his shoulder to look at me. “Well, as soon as she wakes up from that coma.”

  Boy, that explained a lot. I was living in my own personal soap opera. Stay tuned for Hope Valenti starring in The Young and the Reckless.

  A pair of gorgeous green eyes glanced my way, then Brody’s friend said, “You’re right about that. Strong-willed people have a way of pulling through, especially when you least expect it.”

  My insides performed a back flip. I could feel something coming at me, a tingling of sorts. Though I could easily see and hear him, I felt an almost magnetic pull, some sort of need to get closer. Gathering my courage, I strode straight through the glass. It was somewhat strange to pass through a solid object, but following a strong tug, there was nothing to it. Walking through a person was drastically different—objects, I realized, had no emotions. Once I stood in the hallway, I maintained a safe distance, propping one foot against the wall, and folding my arms across my chest as I gaped openly at him.

  His eyes were the first thing I noticed—all green and golden—some hue that was hard to define. But everything about him read complicated. At once, he seemed laid-back and intense, restrained and impulsive, expressive and distant. He needed to come with his own warning label: high-voltage, maybe. Inches taller than Brody, he had wide shoulders and an athletic frame. His hair barely brushed the collar of his scrubs, all dark and messy. Not like he did it on purpose. More like he had better things to do. Light shimmered off a small plastic badge clipped near his collar. His name was nearly as beautiful as he was.

  Though no one could hear me, I whispered, “Ethan Reid . . .”

  But when he turned in my direction and stared into my open eyes, I wondered if a miracle was occurring. Could he hear me or sense my presence? He looked directly at me for a single heartbeat, but then he turned away and my hopes plummeted. The strength of my reaction startled me. My emotions were so theatrical since the accident. It was like I had twelve teenagers and a tsunami inside me.

  “Hey, Claire,” Brody called in a gooey voice. But though my sister slumped in a chair at the end of my bed, she appeared not to have heard him. A long second later, as if the sound had reached her at last, Claire turned slowly, almost hypnotically, and drifted toward Brody. Had it not been for him covering the few steps between them and securely wrapping an arm around her, I think she would have collapsed to the floor.

  Dressed in a black sweater and leggings that hugged her slender curves, porcelain skin and pale-blond hair in stark contrast, she looked both cool and fragile, as if she were encased in a thin sheet of ice that could shatter at any moment.

  “Reid, I’d like you meet my girl, Hope’s older sister,” Brody rambled on cheerily. There was a worried look in his eyes, but he did his best to hide it. “Ethan, this is Claire Valenti. Claire, meet Ethan Reid.”

  Claire stared off teary-eyed, her icy blue eyes haunting. They were the same color as Dad’s, but when she cried, they looked scarily otherworldly. As I looked on, Ethan extended his hand, then dropped it when she seemed not to notice. After a long moment she responded, something unintelligible even to my keen hearing.

  “I met Reid during a killer climb at Mount Rainier,” Brody crowed, still doing his best to cheer her up. “You should see him in action, babe. He’s like Spiderman!” Brody sounded impressed. “Come to think of it, he might even be able to out-climb Hope.”

  I eyeballed Ethan, studying the strength in his arms, his long fingers, the width of his shoulders. Okay, it was possible . . . maybe. Still, the way Brody was bragging made me think Ethan was his latest crush. Just one notch below Claire.

  “Oh, and he’s as smart as Hope, too! Reid’s only twenty, and he just graduated summa cum latte from some hotshot college out east.”

  “Summa cum laude,” I giggled at Brody. “He’s not a smart cup of coffee!” With a jolt, I watched Ethan’s eyes flit toward the sound of my voice. Maybe I wasn’t imagining it. Maybe he really did sense something.

  “It’s not as impressive as you make it sound,” Ethan admitted, seeming to dislike the attention. “I’m either all-in or all-out. I don’t spend much time in the middle.” When he turned his attention to Claire, his eyes momentarily reflected her pain. As if he could hear her thoughts, he said, “It’s life-changing to watch someone wake up in here. No one dwells on what might have happened before. They’re just so happy to be alive.”

  His words soothed her immensely. The pain in her eyes lessened and she heaved an exhausted exhale, as if she’d finally been given permission to stop holding her breath. Then his voice dipped lower, softer, like a whisper on my skin. Those green eyes flicked again in my direction. “But it isn’t easy, is it? Waiting on someone we love. Sometimes it can feel like a lifetime.”

  Claire didn’t seem to notice, but I got the idea that he was hinting at something, or maybe it was wishful thinking on my part. Either way, I needed to get closer. Instantly, I floated beside him. It was amazing how effortlessly, how fluidly, I travelled. Thought and result. Just like that. Putting on my best third-grade moves, I brushed my fingertips along the top of his hand, then gaped in childlike amazement when he rubbed the spot where I touched him, almost as if it had tickled.

  Lost in my beautiful distraction, I missed the moment they had changed topics. “And how is it you know Dr. Allen?” Claire asked, now slightly more coherent. Then, seeming to see Ethan for the first time, she gave a violent shake of her head. “I’m sorry, I haven’t slept all night and I’m really not thinking straight. Are you . . . Hope’s nurse?”

  “So what if he is?” Brody declared in a loud voice. “He’s still a total dude! The ICU isn’t like regular”—he almost choked on the word—“nursing. It’s a tough job—a manly job. People die in here every day!” Claire’s face drained of its little color. Brody knew he’d screwed up. He tried to pull her closer, stammering, “Not—not Hope!—She’s tougher than most guys I know!” As Claire pushed him away, Brody’s face fell. In a low whisper he said, “I didn’t mean it like that, babe. Hope’s going to be just fine.”

  Ethan’s gaze drifted to my still form. Unnerving in his directness, he stared at me slightly longer than what was politely acceptable. The hair on my arms stood up.

  “Did you hear who else was in the accident?” Brody’s surprising question caught Ethan off-guard. “It’s . . . it’s freakish!” He scowled as he searched for another adjective. Not finding one, Brody muttered, “Let’s just say Hope
would die if she knew.”

  Claire shot him a dirty look. “Could you please stop saying that?”

  “I didn’t mean it literally, babe.” Brody kissed her cheek. “But really, you have to admit it’s, well, movies don’t get better than this. Makes a person think twice about being a good Somalian.”

  “Somalia’s a country in east Africa,” Claire snapped, taking over my usual role. “You mean Samaritan . . . a good Samaritan.”

  “Yeah.” Brody shrugged, shaking his dreads. “That’s what I just said, Claire.”

  For the first time in my life, I couldn’t wait for Brody to say something. Who else was in the accident? That boy, the one I couldn’t place . . . and the woman?

  Before he could answer, the sounds of hurrying footsteps disrupted the stillness of the ICU. Brody’s parents and two younger brothers had arrived. I heaved a frustrated sigh as all heads turned in their direction.

  “We got here as fast as we could. How’s she doing?” Clarence Alexander looked frazzled, almost paler than Claire. But he sounded like himself. Brody often joked that his father’s voice could put insomniac crickets to sleep. And in my present state, it did sound eerily soothing.

  “Nothing’s changed since last night,” Brody said. “Hope’s still out.”

  Linda Alexander was a few steps behind, Tyler and Derek, seven and nine, in tow. All three boys looked just like Linda—caramel skin, wide-set eyes. How Clarence had landed such a beautiful wife was anyone’s guess. She hurriedly released her sons’ hands and embraced Claire. “Where are David and Gigi?” she asked, casting a look around for my father and grandmother.

  “Cafeteria,” Brody said. “We were heading that way. I was going to make Claire eat something.” Claire rolled her eyes. “Oh, hey . . . Mom, Dad, this is my friend, Ethan. He, uh . . . he works here.”