Searching for Yesterday

by Valerie Sherrard

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  My mom and dad were sitting in the kitchen, coffee cups in front of them. Both looked up at me when I walked in, but their expressions weren’t quite what I’d been expecting. They didn’t have that angry/disappointed look I’d seen anytime I’d messed up in the past. Mom spoke first, gesturing toward the chair beside her. “Come and sit down, honey.”

  It was all wrong: their faces, Mom’s words, the whole atmosphere. Something uneasy stirred in me, but I said nothing. I crossed the room and took the seat Mom had indicated. Fear was beginning to grip me.

  Dad cleared his throat.

  “Shelby,” he said quietly, “there’s been an accident.”

  And then I knew.

  “Betts!” I cried.

  Mom nodded, reaching for my hand, but I was already on my feet, yelling that it was a mistake and insisting, in spite of the cold dread I felt, that Betts was okay, that she had to be okay.

  Dad was up and at my side in seconds. His arms circled my shoulders but I shoved him away and stepped back. “Tell me!” I yelled.

  “She’s alive,” Dad said. “But it’s serious. That’s all we know at this point.”

  “She won’t die, though, right?”

  He couldn’t look at me when he said, “It’s too soon to say. It was pretty bad.”

  “What happened? Do you know what happened?” I suddenly felt wooden, removed. It was like a switch had been thrown, completely shutting down my emotions.

  “Guy she was with ran a red light,” Dad told me. “The car was hit on her side — no airbag.”

  “He walked away from it,” Mom said. I’d never heard such a bitter tone from her before.

  “I want to go to the hospital,” I said. I could feel my heart beating hard. Ka-thunk, ka-thunk, ka-thunk. I could hear it.

  “You won’t be able to see her,” Mom said. “She’ll be in surgery, or the trauma unit, but they definitely won’t let you in.”

  I turned away from her, turned to face my father. “Dad? I have to go.”

  He nodded. He left the kitchen to get his jacket. At the table, Mom began to cry and tried, through her tears, to pray.

  “Dear Lord, oh, dear Lord ... our little Betts ....” Her voice trailed off, small and broken, and she slumped forward and laid her face on the table and just let the tears come.

  Dad was back, keys in hand, ready to go. I stopped to put my arms around Mom, a fleeting hug before slipping out the door and into the car. Dad and I said nothing as we headed to the hospital. The night seemed eerily still and dark until we reached the parking lot, where the white glow of light from the emergency department stood out against the natural order of things.

  I leapt from the car and raced to the entrance, where the wide doors slid open in front of me. I hesitated, turned to see my father coming toward me, and waited until he’d reached my side. He put an arm around my shoulders and we stepped inside, approaching the desk together.

  “My best friend, Betts Thompson,” I said, “can you tell me anything about her?”

  “I can’t tell you anything, but you can find her family upstairs on fourth, in the waiting area. Unit G,” the woman at the desk said. “The elevators are down the hall to your left. When you get to fourth, just follow the orange arrows.”

  “Do you know what’s on the fourth floor?” I asked Dad a moment later as we stood in the elevator.

  “Surgery, I think, but I don’t know what else.”

  The dinging sound the elevator made as it came to a stop startled me with its cheerful tone. I couldn’t help but think they should change it to something quiet and sombre.

  We followed the orange arrows as instructed and after several turns down long hallways a room came into view off to one side. Mr. and Mrs. Thompson were there, sitting side by side on a couch. He was slumped forward, his head in his hands, while Mrs. Thompson sat very straight and still. She looked over at me, but there was a delay before she reacted.

  “Oh, Shelby. I didn’t ....” She shook her head, as though she wasn’t even sure about whatever she’d been going to say. But she patted the space beside her and told me to come and sit down.

  Dad hung back while I crossed the waiting area and sat beside Mrs. Thompson. She turned to me while I was trying to form the right question to ask about Betts, but she only got a couple of incoherent words out and then broke down crying.

  Mr. Thompson reached over and patted her on the knee, kind of cleared his throat and said, “It was real nice of you to come, Shelby.”

  Dad, in the meantime, came in and sat down in a chair next to the couch. He asked the Thompsons if he could get them anything from the machines in the cafeteria: coffee or tea or maybe something cold to drink.

  “I think we’re all right, Randall, but thanks,” Mr. Thompson said.

  Dad nodded. “Have you heard anything yet?” he asked.

  Mrs. Thompson had seemed to be getting herself under control, but she started sobbing hard again. It was Mr. Thompson who answered.

  “They don’t know. She’s hurt pretty bad — the car was hit from her side. The doctor told us she’s in critical condition and they’re in there working on her now. That’s all we know, really.”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Thompson?”

  We all turned to see a tall man with thinning hair and a moustache standing there. Mr. Thompson stood, though he looked as though his knees were going to give out, and faced him.

  “Yes?” he said.

  “I’m Reverend Simmons,” the man said. “I was over on Palliative Care and when I went downstairs to leave the nurses told me about your daughter. I wondered if I might sit with you for a few minutes and have a word of prayer.”

  “Of course,” Mr. Thompson said. He sank back into his chair like all the strength had left his legs.

  The pastor sat down, but it was a moment before he said anything. When he spoke his voice was gentle.

  “How old is your daughter?”

  “Seventeen,” Mr. Thompson answered.

  “And her name is Betts? Is that right?”

  Both of the Thompsons nodded.

  Pastor Simmons said he was going to pray for Betts then, and he did. He prayed for her and for her parents and for the doctors who were labouring to save her life, that God would guide them to do the right things. Then he said that Betts’s life was in God’s hands and that we were asking that in His mercy he would see fit to spare her and raise her back up to health.

  When he said “Amen,” we all repeated it. I opened my eyes and looked up and I saw that Mr. Thompson’s head was still down and his shoulders were shaking, and that made me cry, too.

  Pastor Simmons stayed for a while, even though he’d finished praying and didn’t know Betts or her parents. Later, when he left, he told them he would be praying for Betts and that if they wanted him to come back at any time they just had to call. They took his card and thanked him, but I wasn’t sure that what he’d said had really registered.

  My dad got up when the pastor was leaving and walked down the hall with him, disappearing for ten minutes or so. When he came back he had cups of coffee and bottles of orange and apple juice and water with him. We all took something to drink and I was surprised to realize how thirsty I’d been.

  The time ticked by. A large round clock on the wall showed the minutes passing, the hands clicking slowly but steadily forward. For all we knew, any one of those ticks could be marking the last minute of Betts’s life.

  It occurred to me then that it wasn’t so bad, waiting. As long as we were waiting there’d been no bad news and we could keep hoping that everything was going to be fine. But once they came out and told us, well, if the news wasn’t good, there’d be no more hoping for anything, no more moments without that terrible thing being true.

  I pushed those thoughts away and prayed silently.

  And then, just before five in the morning, a doctor came through the doors from surgery. I think we all stopped breathing for a moment when she first came i
nto sight and then Mrs. Thompson let out a sort of moan and we all stood up. Dad came to my side and took my hand.

  “She’s alive,” was the first thing the doctor said, but none of us missed the fact that she wasn’t smiling. She held out her hand to the Thompsons then and introduced herself as Dr. Nowlan.

  “Do you mind if we all sit down for a moment?” she continued. “It’s been a long night.”

  We sat with robotic obedience, never taking our eyes off Dr. Nowlan. She started off slowly.

  “Betts was in shock when she was brought in. There was a great deal of internal bleeding from a ruptured spleen, which was the immediate threat to her life. We got it out and stabilized her enough to proceed with the other injuries.”

  “You removed her spleen?” Mrs. Thompson said.

  “That’s right.”

  “What exactly does the spleen do?”

  “Basically, it filters blood, removes impurities, helps fight infection. She can live without a spleen, though she’ll need some special immunizations.”

  Dr. Nowlan paused, but when there were no more questions about that, she continued.

  “We dealt with some other internal injuries, but the most serious damage was to Betts’s right arm. It was very badly crushed below the elbow. I’m afraid we couldn’t save it.”

  There were a few gasps; Mrs. Thompson started to cry again but somehow pulled herself together.

  Dr. Nowlan’s head dropped for a moment. It looked like she was resting while we absorbed what she’d just told us. Or maybe she just felt terrible because she’d worked all night on Betts and hadn’t been able to save her arm.

  “Betts is right handed,” Mrs. Thompson said in a flat voice.

  “She’ll learn to use her left hand,” Dr. Nowlan said simply. “It’ll just take time.”

  “Is she out of danger?” Mr. Thompson asked. “She’s stable at the moment and they’re moving her to Intensive Care. She’ll be there for a few days, at least.”

  “Can we see her?”

  “Yes, but Betts isn’t conscious and we’ll be keeping her sedated for a while. You can go in for a few moments — I know you need to see her, but be prepared. She’s hooked up to a lot of machines, and she’s pretty banged up. I’ll let them know you’re coming, but it will be half an hour or so before they’ll be ready to let you in.”

  The Thompsons thanked her and she left then.

  No one spoke for a few moments. I imagine we were all thinking the same things — how thankful we were that Betts was alive and, at the same time, how unbelievable it was that she’d gotten up that morning and everything was normal, and now she was lying in a bed in the intensive care unit, all battered and broken, with her spleen and her right arm gone.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  The next few days went by in a blur and I kept having to shake off the feeling of unreality. In less than two weeks, Annie had gone from being an abandoned child, to a girl whose mother had been killed, and Betts ... I could still hardly bear to think about that.

  Lenny was arrested and charged after he turned himself in. Brandon said he’d started talking right away about it just being an accident and insisting that he should only be charged with manslaughter and would probably be out in less than two years.

  I found it hard to believe that anyone could do what he did — not only to Gina but to Annie, too, and still think he should get off that easy. When Brandon told us about it, Annie and I started freaking out. Even Greg (who was there too) was getting upset, but then Brandon explained that were other things Lenny was being charged with — something to do with what he did with Gina’s body after he killed her, for one thing, and the fact that he’d unlawfully confined the four of us and threatened us with a deadly weapon and stuff.

  “I thought we weren’t going to say anything about that — we kind of promised him,” I said.

  Brandon looked at me like I was a half-wit.

  “You mean to tell me that you thought we really meant that?”

  I felt kind of foolish but had to admit that I had. “I meant it. But, you know, only if he let us go,” I said.

  “As opposed to, say, killing you and stuffing you down the well?” Greg asked. I didn’t find he was being very supportive just then.

  “But I meant it, too,” Annie said. We all turned to look at her then, to see if she was joking. She looked perfectly serious.

  “I believed what Lenny said about how my mother died, and even though it was a terrible thing and what he did afterward was terrible, I don’t think he meant to hurt her.”

  “I have to say, I think that’s an amazingly healthy attitude, and one you should be proud of” Brandon said. “But he’s still going to be charged with what he did to us. You can’t hold people at gunpoint and then not face the consequences of your actions. It just doesn’t work that way.”

  So, it looked as though Lenny was going to be locked away for a pretty long time even if he got off easy for Gina’s death. You’d think I’d have been happy about that, but all I felt was sad. For Annie, for her mother, and even, in some strange way, for Lenny.

  The police went out to the foundry and checked into the well. Annie’s mom was there all right, with suitcases and boxes of her stuff thrown in on top. Pretty horrifying, but at least Annie can say goodbye with a proper funeral for her mother.

  Betts had been doing well enough that they finally let her out of the Intensive Care Unit, which meant I was finally allowed to visit her.

  I felt nervous as I got to the hospital and stepped into the elevator, pushing the button for the second floor. I hadn’t seen or spoken to Betts since the night she called, so angry with me, and I really didn’t know what to expect.

  Annie and Kayla had done up a beautiful bouquet of flowers for me to take to her, and Kayla wouldn’t even let me pay for them. But looking at them, I felt a little foolish. It wasn’t as though a cluster of flowers could do anything to make what Betts was going through easier.

  I swallowed hard as I reached her room and stepped through the doorway. Betts was in the first bed. It was in an upright position, but she was lying back with her eyes closed. A blanket was pulled up to chest level, obscuring her right arm, though her left one was out and her hand rested on top of the covers. She looked small and frail and I had to fight to keep from crying.

  I went quietly to the side of the bed and said her name very softly. Her eyes fluttered open but recognition registered slowly. I figured she must be groggy from whatever they were giving her for pain and stuff.

  “Shelby,” she said, her voice a hoarse whisper.

  “Hi.” I sat the flowers on the table beside her and stepped closer to the edge of the bed. “I wanted to come before, but I wasn’t allowed when you were still in ICU.”

  “I know. My parents told me you and your dad came the night of the accident, and stayed with them. They said they didn’t know how they’d have got through that night without someone there with them.”

  “It was pretty scary for everyone,” I said. I felt my throat tighten as I remembered how fearful I’d been.

  “We haven’t talked since ... that night I called,” she said. “I said some pretty rotten things to you.”

  “Forget it.”

  “I don’t know what I was thinking.” Her eyes closed for a moment and then struggled back open. “You know what? They keep sending me red Jell-O in here. I don’t like red.”

  That startled me. I was trying to form some kind of answer when she spoke again.

  “My arm is gone. Half of it, that is. I guess you already know that.”

  “I know, Betts, and I’m really sorry.” I got that much out and then found I couldn’t go on. There was silence for a bit — while I worked on keeping it together and Betts, it seemed, worked on staying awake. She kept looking like she’d fallen asleep, but then she’d force her eyes open and manage to focus.

  “I thought I was dead,” she said suddenly, her voice so soft I almost missed it.

  “When
we went through the light and I saw that other car hurdling toward me, and I knew it was going to hit me ...”

  “But you’re okay,” I managed. “Thank God!”

  “I’m alive,” she said, “and I’m glad for that ... but my arm is gone — did I already tell you that? Oh, you knew didn’t you, because you were here that night. My mom told me ... you and your dad came.”

  Just then a nurse came into the room to check Betts’s blood pressure and temperature. While that was going on, Betts told me again about the red Jell-O.

  “You’re repeating yourself,” I teased. At the same time, I raised an eyebrow questioningly to the nurse.

  “She’s on a lot of pain medication,” the nurse said, patting Betts’s shoulder. “But there’s no neurological damage, if you were wondering about that.”

  As the nurse left the room, Betts’s eyes slid closed and stayed that way for what seemed ten minutes. I was about to slip out of the room to let her rest when she spoke again.

  “He wanted me to say I was driving ... did you know that?” She opened her eyes and looked at me. “Because he’d had a few drinks and he might lose his licence.”

  “When did he ...?”

  “Right there, before I lost consciousness. He was leaning over me, trying to get my seatbelt off so he could drag me across the driver’s side, I guess. Me, smashed up, covered in blood and that’s what he thought about — how he could stay out of trouble.”

  I wondered if that was true, or if she’d dreamt or imagined it through the shock and horror of what had happened. It seemed impossible to me that anyone could sink that low, but I couldn’t ask Betts anything, even if she’d been clearheaded. She’d already drifted again.

  When I knew for sure she was asleep, I kissed her forehead and slipped out.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Pearl Norton moved through the room, quietly asking if she could get anyone coffee or tea, offering food from trays of sandwiches and assorted platters of vegetables and sweets and, every now and then, passing close enough to Annie to gently touch her cheek or arm.