There Will Come a Time

by Carrie Arcos

  We watch the colors morph and continue to change the sky.

  “Come on,” I say. “Let’s use the echo phone.”

  “What’s that?”

  “There’s a natural echo across the canyon, over there.” I point to the mountain on the other side of us. “They put up a phone that you speak into and your voice carries even more.” I lead her to the brown device, which is about Hanna’s height. It’s a very simple contraption, just a straight metal base and a funnel at the top, like a megaphone.

  I think about what to say, and shout, “Hello!” into the mouthpiece. Yes, very clever. In a couple of seconds my voice echoes twice from across the canyon.

  “Grace!” I yell into the echo phone. Her name reverberates against the rock walls three times before it fades from our hearing. I picture the sound traveling until it reaches her.

  I look back at Hanna and she’s holding her temple with her hand.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah.” She shakes her head as if she’s trying to wake up. “Just a little light-headed. What should I say?”

  “Whatever you want.” I step aside.

  She puts her mouth to the phone and says, “I miss you.” It’s not as clear as a single word, but Hanna’s voice fills the canyon. Hanna moves back from the echo phone to let me have another turn. I say a bunch of silly things, like, “Cheeseburgers” and “Yo Santos!” and stuff.

  “Your turn,” I tell Hanna, but she doesn’t respond. She’s staring into the canyon, and lets out a big yawn.

  “No. I’m done.”

  “We did get up before dawn.” I take a drink of water and offer her some, thinking maybe she’s a little dehydrated.

  “I’m fine,” she says with an edge and walks back to the cliff with the view of the valley and sits down in the dirt.

  I get this buzzing in the back of my mind, a red flag. “How are you doing? You need something?”

  “I wish you would stop doing that. I said I was fine. I’m not a child.”

  I haven’t heard Pepe go off or anything, but Hanna’s acting ornery, like she’s low.

  “I know you’re not a kid.” I keep my voice calm, so I don’t irritate her. “But you seem a little off.”

  “I’m fine,” she says again, but her head droops and she suddenly seems very tired, almost loopy.

  Now I’m worried. I’ve seen Hanna get this way before when she needed something high in sugar quick. “You want to check Pepe for me?”

  “I’m fine.” She folds her arms across her chest and stares straight ahead.

  I try a different tactic. “How about we make a bet?”

  “I don’t like bets.”

  “Since when? If I win, you take something. If you win, I owe you twenty bucks.” I look around for her bag, then remember she left it in my car. She probably has a protein bar in her pocket.

  She pats her side. “Pepe is under control.”

  I bend down next to her and get close to her face. “Hanna, let me see Pepe.”

  “No.” She holds an arm against her side, shielding her insulin pump from me.

  “Please?” I plead. She’s getting more difficult, so I know it is serious.

  “No.”

  I remember what her mom had told me about when she gets stubborn, I needed to be firm.

  “Hanna, I am going to check Pepe.” I place my hand on her arm to move it, and she pouts, but she doesn’t give me much resistance. Sure enough, her pump’s lower than fifty-five, which I think is really low. I make her look. “See? I’m right. I win. Not that I want to gloat or anything.”

  She takes an exasperated breath and glares at me.

  “So why don’t you eat something, okay?” I use the voice that I use with Fern when she needs a little coaxing. “Let’s see what you’ve got with you. Can you stand up, please?” I help her to her feet. She pats her pockets.

  “Oops,” she says, and giggles. “I think I forgot.”

  “What?” I start searching her pockets, even though she’s swatting my hands away.

  “Hey, stop that.”

  She doesn’t have any food, a sugar packet, or even her glycogen pen, which she usually carries for emergencies. I bet it’s all in her bag back in the car. Why didn’t she bring it with her?

  “Hanna, Hanna, listen to me.” I’m level with her now, right in her face, which has gone pale. Her eyes are looking at me but not looking at me. Her pupils are dilated. “Your sugar is very low. We need to figure out how we’re going to get it back to normal.” I’m trying to be calm for her, but I’m starting to freak out. It’s a long way back to the car. There’s nothing around us. How are we going to get down the mountain?

  “It’s not low. Leave me alone, Mark.” She staggers away from me.

  “Wait,” I say. I grab her arm, worried she might get too close to the edge.

  She shakes off my hand. “You always do this. Trying to take care of me all the time. You don’t know.” She waves her hand at me. Small sweat beads are starting to form along her forehead. “And I’m not going to make the cake. I won’t do it. It’s, I don’t know, not a good time. I’m not tired, don’t want to go to bed yet, and he is sometimes fun, but sometimes annoying.” She’s not making any sense. This is bad. This is really bad.

  My hand shakes as I dial 911, but there’s no service on my phone. I walk around, holding it out, trying to pick up a signal, but there’s nothing. We’re in the mountains. It’s almost impossible to get reception here. I get Hanna’s phone from her back pocket. Same. No signal.

  Hanna sits back down in the dirt. I can’t panic. I won’t panic. I know if I don’t get her help, she could pass out or worse. Fear grips me suddenly. I can’t think of worse. There’s not going to be a worse.

  “Okay, Hanna. Here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to get down this mountain.” I try to calculate the time in my head. It took us over an hour to hike up. It’s probably around two-point-five miles, but downhill we should be able to make it faster. We can even run.

  Hanna smiles lopsided as if she’s drunk, but at least she doesn’t try to fight me as I help her to her feet, put my arm around her waist, and pull her alongside me. She’s mumbling something, but I can’t really make it out.

  “Let’s go.”

  We start to make our way down. Hanna acts like she’s sleepwalking, stumbling more than walking. She’s awake but not entirely present. I have to guide her every step.

  “This’ll be a crazy story we can tell people one day. Just stay with me. You’re doing great.” As I say the words, Hanna’s body goes limp, and I catch her just before she falls. I slowly sink to the ground with her.

  “Hanna.” I hold her face. Her skin is balmy. Her eyes are closed. I place my head on her chest. She’s still breathing regularly and mumbling. She opens her eyes, but she’s out of it.

  We’re completely alone in the middle of nowhere. There aren’t even other hikers. My heart is racing and I don’t have time to think. I pick her up, cradling her like a child, and start moving as fast as I can down the mountain. The switchbacks are difficult carrying Hanna’s weight. My knees buckle as I try to run with her, and I have to slow my pace.

  I try to think about something else, anything other than how my arms are burning and my legs are ready to give out. I think of the first time I met Hanna. The day after she moved in across the street from us. Grace was so excited to have a girl her age in the neighborhood. I was disappointed she wasn’t a boy, but then she came over with her skateboard. Maybe that’s the day I fell for her. Pink helmet, pink-and-green board, knee and shoulder pads. She looked like a skater wannabe. But when she did her first jump off the ramp, she was the real deal.

  I look down at Hanna now, head back, mouth open, hair hanging limp. Not like this. She can’t die like this. My body has broken out in sweat. My pulse is racing too fast, beating so hard it’s pounding in my head. I have to stop and rest, laying her down on the ground.

  I scream out, “Help!”

 
This time there’s no echo because we’re out in the open on the side of a cliff with only brush and rock surrounding us.

  I scream again. “Help!”

  No one answers. No one is coming for us. Hanna is going to die. I get down next to her on the ground. She’s going to die in my arms. Hanna’s staring at me. She tries to speak, but it’s gibberish. I take out my phone again. I have a faint signal. One bar. I dial 911.

  An operator answers. “Nine-one-one, how may I be of assistance?”

  “I need help. I’ve got a diabetic. Her sugar’s low. She’s in trouble. I’m hiking at Echo Mountain Trail. Can you send an ambulance or something?”

  The operator on the line asks for my location again and I tell her. She keeps asking me questions about Hanna’s condition as if we have all the time in the world and wants me to stay on the phone with her until help comes. I tell her I can’t wait, and I keep the phone on but put it in my back pocket, figuring they can track it or something. I help Hanna to her feet and kind of throw her over my shoulder. I start running down the trail.

  Please, God. Please, God. I say over and over in my head. Not like this. Not again. I’ll do anything. I start making deals, even though I know the chances of God needing to make a deal with me are slim. I still offer anything, everything I have. My car. My bass. I’ll never play music again, or, wait, I’ll play for church, every Sunday. Please don’t let Hanna die.

  I zigzag back and forth down the dirt trail, ignoring the pain in my knees. Hanna is not going to die. I can do this. I press through the burning and the exhaustion in my limbs. The sun is now up and everything is bright, but my mind takes me to where it is dark.

  • • • •

  It’s night. I’m upside down in the car. It takes me a few moments to understand what has just happened. We’ve had some kind of an accident. My head hurts and I reach up to touch the pain. It’s wet and sticky with blood.

  “Grace?” I say, and turn toward her. She’s upside down too, but crunched up, her head touching what was the ceiling of the car, and curved inward toward her chest. Her eyes are open.

  “Grace? You okay?”

  She doesn’t say anything. She just stares. Something about her gaze makes me sick to my stomach. I don’t think she’s breathing, so I wait a couple of seconds, watching her chest. It doesn’t seem to move. I unlatch my seat belt and try opening the door. I have to kick it a few times until it opens and I crawl out and over the broken glass.

  “Are you okay?” A man runs toward me. He’s bending down in my face. “Are you hurt? I’m so sorry. I didn’t even see you.” He helps me to my feet.

  “My sister,” I barely make out.

  I push past him to get to the passenger side. Her door is bent and busted as if someone took a huge fist and rammed it into the passenger side of the car. With the man’s help, I open it and get inside next to her. She’s still looking at something.

  “Grace.” I unlatch her belt and fall on her.

  “Wait. Should you move her? The ambulance is coming.” There’s fear in his voice, but I ignore the man and keep pulling Grace until she comes free from the car.

  “How is she? Help is coming.” He yells into his phone, “The Colorado Street Bridge. I don’t know. There’s two of them. One’s not moving.”

  I sit on the asphalt and hold Grace so she’s looking up into my eyes. There’s blood, lots of blood oozing from her head. It wets through my jeans where her head rests. I keep waiting, waiting for the breath.

  “Is she breathing? Oh God. Oh God. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

  “Grace. Grace, don’t leave me.” I smooth some of her dark hair from her face, but her eyes are vacant and tell me that she’s already gone.

  • • • •

  In the distance, I hear sirens. I hug her to me and stumble toward the sound. I break through the bottom of the trail and into the street.

  “Help me! Help.” I fall onto the asphalt with Hanna, confused for a moment because I thought I was holding Grace.

  A couple of EMTs rush up to me and grab Hanna.

  “She’s diabetic,” I force out.

  “We got her,” one of the EMTs says.

  They give Hanna a shot of something right away. As I watch them work on her, I can’t slow my breathing. My hands are tingly and I feel light-headed.

  My body shakes, as if it’s chilled to the bone, but I’m drenched with sweat. I try to ask the EMT who’s with me a question, but my teeth chatter too much.

  “She’s going to be okay,” the EMT says, and puts a thin blanket over my shoulders.

  Something cracks in the deepest part of me. I try to hold it together, but I’m not strong enough. The feeling rises in my throat. I try to cough it out. My eyes fill and the drops fall, running down my face. I wipe them away, but they keep coming. It’s like a dam has been removed. I can’t hold them back.

  “You carry her all the way down?”

  I nod. He sits next to me and pats me on the back.

  “You did good. You saved her life. But your body’s in shock. You’ll come out of it. See this bag? I want you to take some deep breaths for me. It’ll help you stop hyperventilating.”

  I can’t hold the bag because my hands are shaking too much, so he holds the bag to my lips. I breathe in as slowly as I can and follow it with a slow breath out. I do this a couple of times and it helps. But it doesn’t stop the tears. And the tears make it hard to breathe.

  “I’m—I’m sorry,” I stammer.

  “Nothing to be sorry about. You’ve been through a trauma. Crying is a way of releasing some of the tension. If you need to—”

  I bend over and throw up right on his feet.

  “Yeah, I was just getting to that.” He pats my back in a soothing rhythm. “That’s okay. You’re going to be fine. She’s going to be fine. You did the right thing. Everything’s going to be all right.”

  The EMT helps me into the ambulance next to Hanna. She’s lying down, strapped to a gurney. She moans and opens her eyes. I see she hasn’t left me like I feared. The ambulance begins to move, and I remember this scene, but it’s Grace on the gurney. I’ve got a bandage around my head and the EMT is telling me to lie back down, but I’m not listening. I’m telling him to get out of my way, that I’ve got to get to my sister. Her eyes are closed. Why are her eyes closed? She’s got all kinds of tubes in her arms and she’s wearing some kind of mask that’s too big for her face. I can’t see her. He finally lets me hold her hand. It’s cold, so cold, but I hold it tightly, warming it with my own. I ignore the smell of the blood that’s all over me and her and the ambulance.

  Hanna’s trying to say something. I move close and take her hand. She smiles at me through her mask.

  “You’re going to be okay,” I tell her.

  She’s speaking again, so I bend my head toward her.

  “Thank you,” she whispers.

  My forehead touches hers and some of my tears streak her face.

  Twenty-Seven

  Dad and Jenny come to the hospital. Dad grabs me in a violent hug. Jenny is a little gentler. Their terror and relief almost kills me.

  “When I got the call . . .” Dad starts but can’t finish.

  “I know, Dad. I know. I’m okay, just in shock.” I tell them about Hanna getting low and me carrying her down the mountain.

  “Is she all right?” Jenny asks.

  “I think so. She was coherent during the ambulance ride, though we didn’t talk much. She rested.”

  “Proud of you, son,” Dad says. He squeezes my arm.

  I suddenly have to get out of there. The idea of spending any more time in the ER is too much for me. I keep thinking about the last time I was here. My back was against a wall, blood all over, not wanting anyone to touch me, not even Dad and Jenny when they came rushing up to me, waiting to hear what was happening with Grace behind one of the doors. I couldn’t tell them that she was already dead. How could I tell them that?

  “Yeah, well, can we go? I’ve got to
go get my car.”

  “The car can wait,” Jenny says. “Want to see Hanna?”

  “No,” I say. Even the smell of the hospital is getting to me. “I need to leave. It’s this place. . . .”

  As if my dad gets it, he says, “Sure, of course. Let me clear you with the doctor.” He goes to the nurse’s desk.

  “That must have been scary seeing Hanna that way,” Jenny says.

  Thinking about Hanna almost dying, I start to feel the pressure build behind my eyes. I shrug, afraid to speak about it because I’ll start crying again.

  Jenny takes my hand. “Is Hanna’s mom here?”

  “Yeah, she’s with Hanna.” Hanna’s mom rushed all frantic into the waiting room. She saw me and I told her what happened. Before going to see Hanna, she hugged and thanked me for saving her little girl’s life.

  Dad returns to us. “We’re good to go. You were never admitted or else it’d take forever to check you out. So we can leave, or if you want to say good-bye to Hanna first, we can wait.”

  “No, I’m good.” I can’t face Hanna yet. Everything’s just too close and jumbled and confusing.

  We leave the ER in a chain, with me in the middle and Jenny’s and Dad’s arms linked through mine. Normally I’d mind all the attention, but today I don’t. Today it makes me feel loved and I need that.

  Dad drives us back to the trail’s entrance so I can get my car. He starts to insist that he drive and I ride with Jenny, but I tell them I’m fine for the hundredth time and that I’d really like to be alone.

  They look hurt, so I assure them, “It’s nothing personal. I need to, you know, clear my head. Please.”

  Jenny and Dad exchange a glance.

  Dad says, “Keep your phone on.” He tries to keep the worry out of his voice, but I hear it.

  “Of course.”

  They pull away, and I sit for a few moments in my car. The street is almost lined with parked cars, a direct contrast to the morning. I can’t believe it was only a couple of hours ago that I was parking and Hanna and I were beginning our hike. How quickly everything can change. Hanna will be hurt that I didn’t see her in the hospital, even though she knows I hate hospitals. But I push that thought away.