by Bobbi Marolt
“Kings of Pop wear them, too,” she said.
Blair took the belt and snapped it into position. “You know, if this plane goes down, that belt won’t do jack for me.”
“And if you don’t wear it, you’ll be thrown off the flight, and I’m not going with you. Isn’t it grand that life offers choices?” Helen smiled at Blair’s kiss-my-ass expression.
The flurry of boarding passengers grew louder, and soon the attendants instructed the standard lifesaving techniques. The captain welcomed his passengers and announced they were cleared for takeoff. All passengers were instructed to remain in their seats, belts fastened, and please observe the no smoking regulation.
Minutes afterward, thundering engines increased power and hurtled the aircraft down the runway. Blair grabbed a firm hold of Helen’s hand. “Do you mind? Takeoff scares me.”
Helen didn’t mind.
The nose of the craft tilted upward and the landing gear tucked into the bowels of the plane. Helen squeezed Blair’s hand. “You okay?” Blair nodded.
A sudden and violent yank on Helen’s belt told her the worst: wind shear. A wing tipped right. Claws from hell ripped the jet downward. They dropped. One hundred feet. Two hundred feet. Helen knew. No way out. Blair and Helen locked eyes. She pushed Blair down by the shoulder. Sounds of heavy metal clashed with concrete; ten thousand screaming nails on chalkboard scratched a path through darkness.
*
A burst of wind freckled snow onto Helen’s face and awakened her. Dark. Sounds and smells. Sirens wailed; voices screamed. Smoke, fuel. Warmth beneath her. Nerves blasted pain throughout her body, and consciousness fell into darkness.
“Over there!”
She awakened to the shout of a rescue member. A light over her shoulder revealed her provider of warmth.
“Blair,” she whispered and closed her eyes.
Jolted conscious again, she heard steel jaws chew through metal behind her.
Alive. An explosion pierced her ears.
“Keep that fire out of here!” a rescue member yelled.
A fine mist dampened her. She felt on fire, and then felt no more until she heard the joyous whoop of her attending emergency medical technician.
“Good heart rhythm,” he said. “Gotta watch the BP. Eighty-eight over seventy-three.”
A fractured fraction.
Someone switched on the siren and they sped off. Classical music played within the ambulance.
Chapter Seventeen
Helen heard distant whispers. Soft footsteps. A squeaky wheel. A closer, intentional voice fully disturbed her sleep. A hand pressed against her shoulder.
“Helen, can you hear me?” a man asked.
Helen tried to speak but wanted more to sleep.
“Do you know where you are?” He grasped her hand. “Squeeze if you can hear me.”
She had no energy or desire to squeeze. Helen took a breath. “Hosp’al.”
“That’s right. I’m Dr. O’Brien, and you’ve been our surgical guest for the last eight hours. You’re in recovery and we’ll take you to a room shortly. Do you know what happened?”
“Pla’e. Pla’e,” she said again, desperate to complete the word. The longer she remained conscious, the greater her pain from head to toes. Her entire right side felt engulfed in flames. Her flesh boiled. Her head was about to burst from tight bandages. Her teeth hurt. She groaned. “Pai—nuh.”
“Pain. Okay. I’ll raise your morphine dosage.”
She faded out and fell into a slippery slope of muddy dreams. Blair was beneath her. Cory played manically on a piano with no keys. On a wing of the Princess, Marty danced a windless ballet. Sam flashed his furry eyebrows. “They could stonewall you.”
She had hit the wall.
*
Was it another day? A different hour? September? Somewhere in time, her oral oxygen tube had been replaced with a simple tube that hissed life-sustaining air into her nose. Voices cluttered her sleep.
“Go ahead, Cory,” a woman said, “you won’t hurt her.”
Her drugged brain processed the name. Cory. Cory…Chamberlain. Richard Chamberlain. Richard…Cory? He glittered. Bullet in his head.
Two warm hands cradled Helen’s left hand. “I’m here, Helen. Stacey’s here. She wants you to come out and play.”
An odd beep sounded from an apparatus.
“Her heart is strong,” the woman said in reassurance. “Maybe it’s her way of saying hello.”
“I saw the wreckage in the paper,” Stacey said. “I think coverage was greater with Helen and Blair so well known to the public.”
Stacey. Friend.
“Names sell,” Cory said. “Helen was right about that.”
A blanket was placed over Helen’s hand. There was a draft on her eyes and lips. The jangling of a cart drew her attention. Beneath closed eyelids, she shifted her eyes toward the sound.
“Your friend is doing well,” a different female said. “Helen’s breathing is upgraded, but her physician wants to use the external air for a while.”
Nurse.
“Has she been awake?” Cory asked.
“Awake, yes. Full of conversation, no. She watched on and off while I sponge bathed her.”
“Did she say anything?” Cory asked.
“She was funny. I was changing a dressing on her stomach and she said ‘Hurts.’ I told her she went through quite an ordeal. Then she said ‘Cramps.’ I nearly wet my pants from laughing.”
Helen’s good arm was moved and poked.
“She’s blown an IV. I’ll get someone from hematology up here.”
“Do you suppose she can hear us?” Cory asked.
Helen had been listening, in and out of sleep, but it required too much energy for her to stay awake. Her pain was intense, consciousness bearable only for so long, but she knew Cory was there.
Hello, baby.
She wondered if the crash burned her body. It felt so. Her right side throbbed with pain. Her face was itchy. Curiously, her left side felt good, not restricted by gauze and plaster.
Plaster. What color? And what’s that tube? It makes me want to pee. What’s the word? I can’t think. Catharsis? Cathode? Kathryn Howard? Katherine Parr?
Helen drifted.
“I have work to do,” the nurse said. “If you need me, push the button on the wall. I’ll turn off the video monitor for now, and you can have some privacy.”
Monitor. Catheter. Of Aragon. And Helen slept again.
*
Quiet room. Hungry. Sunday? Monday?
“I’ve brought you some scrubs and bath essentials, if you want to stay the night,” a female said. “These aren’t chic, but they’re fresh. Use Helen’s shower if you like.”
“Thanks, Linda.”
Glitter. She smiled internally.
*
The scent of generic soap grew stronger and stung Helen’s nose. The sound of a chair dragged across the floor, came close, and stopped at her bed. Two warm hands took hold of hers.
“I’ll stay with you tonight,” Cory said.
Helen summoned enough strength to squeeze Cory’s hand.
“Helen? Can you talk to me?”
Helen slowly opened her eyes and looked at her for the first time in—how long? It took all of her power, but she managed to pull Cory’s hand to her lips. She kissed a finger, not knowing if it was her hand, or Cory’s, her lips had touched.
“Sorry,” Helen whispered, tears in her eyes.
“For what?”
“Boston,” she managed to say.
“It’s not your fault.”
“Burned?” She struggled to touch her bandaged face.
Cory shook her head. “No. Your nose is broken.”
“Blair?” When Cory didn’t answer, Helen knew.
“We’ll talk about Blair when you’re feeling better.”
“Luhfyoo.” Her bandages caught her tears. She closed her eyes, welcoming sleep.
Cory nodded. “Luhfyoo, too.”
Chapter Eighteen
Brisk daytime voices nudged Helen from a light sleep. Carts, trays, and dishes clanged and chattered in the hall. The smell of bacon wafted directly to her brain. As much as she wanted to have a meal, sleep remained her best pain reliever.
Footsteps came near her bed.
“Good morning, Helen. It’s Dr. O’Brien again,” he said. “I have some students with me and we’ll review your injuries. Is that okay with you?”
Talk? Her? She forced her eyes open. “Okay,” she said with less force than their first meeting.
“Good. I hope you rested well last night. We’re going to give you an injection of Demerol first. The nurse will change your bandages during the briefing and you might feel some stinging.”
Was he kidding? All through the night, Helen had been stabbed with needles, disturbed with an annoying trucks-backing-up sounds when her monitors went haywire, and subjected to nurses’ station laughter from the amiable and bored night shift who took it upon themselves to play Twenty Questions at the expense of her R&R. And who in the hell scheduled her good limbs for physical therapy in the middle of the night? Had she slept well? Yes, a long, long time ago.
Helen didn’t answer. The effects of a new dose of pain reliever erased her brain enough to enjoy intermittent moments of rest but also enlightenment to the extent of her injuries.
“Her right side took the brunt of the accident. Her femur was broken in three places, and her foot was nearly severed at the ankle. The ankle has since been rebuilt with titanium and there has been no rejection by the surrounding tissue…
“…slash on her abdomen exposed the colon…no organs were damaged, but the right kidney was bruised…internal bleeding was limited to the bowel…right shoulder dislocated…forearm was broken…multiple lacerations and avulsions…”
I survived this?
Bandages were peeled from her face.
“…broken nose was her only direct facial injury…but she suffered a deep gash from her chin along…general bruising and scrapes along her right side.”
“Was she burned?” an unfamiliar voice asked. “Did she suffer any spinal injuries?”
“Surprisingly not,” Dr. O’Brien said. “…in and out of consciousness for five days…progress is good…vital signs are holding steadily…turning her over to her private physician…I’ll check on her, as will the orthopedic surgeon.”
She slept for what felt like hours. No voices came and went. She still smelled bacon, and her mouth watered. The steady rhythm of a monitor lulled her back to sleep.
*
“She’s pleased with the vitals,” the nurse said.
“Yes, I am. I’m Dr. Santos, and you are…?”
“Cory Chamberlain.”
Helen’s ears prickled toward the sound of Cory’s voice.
“I’d like to speak to Ms. Chamberlain alone.” She removed the oxygen tube from Helen’s nose. “Helen’s a good friend of mine, and she’s told me about you. It’s nice meeting you.”
“Thank you, Doctor.”
“Teresa.”
“Call me Cory. What has she told you?”
“You’re lovers.”
“Thank God.” She sounded relieved. “I won’t have to be clever with the way I word questions and answers.”
“Helen’s chart is remarkable,” Teresa said. “Heart rate: sixty-eight. Blood pressure: one twenty-two over eighty. Respiration: seventeen. Temperature: ninety-nine point three. Other than a slight elevation in temperature, do you know what this tells me?”
“She’s sleeping,” Cory said.
“Exactly. She could have a quick recovery, but her brain tells her to reject the pain. It’s acceptable for some people, but I don’t want her to hide. I’ve been her physician for twelve years. I know her body and habits. If she’s conscious and dealing with her injuries, she’ll be out of here in record time.”
“Nobody wants to be aware of pain. She knows what she’s doing,” Cory said. She took Helen’s left hand into hers.
“I have no doubt. It wouldn’t even surprise me if she was listening.”
Damn.
“What do you suggest, then?”
“You could wake her up.”
“Can I do that?”
“Why not?”
“She looks so fragile. Can’t we let her sleep?”
Sleep. Night-night.
“She’s hiding. Wake her up and she’ll recover quickly. That would be the strength of Helen’s will.”
Will Penny. Penny candy. Candy. I read that. Oh, Daddy.
“I don’t want her to hurt.”
Teresa countered. “I won’t say it again, Cory. Being conscious could mean a vast difference in time for her healing process.”
Pasteurized process?
“Why saddle me with this decision?”
“Because you love her. Because you want her back. Think selfishly if you have to.”
Appeal to the heart. Double major in psych? Major minor? Major pain.
“You do it,” Cory said. “I’ve already caused her enough pain.”
I miss you, baby.
“I’m her physician, and she’ll fight me. You’re her reason. Go ahead, Cory. Wake her up.”
She took a deep breath, grasped Helen’s shoulder, and shook it slightly. “Helen,” she said with a quiver in her voice.
Teresa was stern. “You aren’t going to hurt her. Wake her up.”
“I can’t.”
“Do you love her?”
“Yes.”
I love you, baby.
“Do you want her out of this bed?”
“Yes.”
“Then wake her up.”
“Helen.” Cory shook her shoulder with more fervor. “Come on.”
“Go on. Don’t be nice. Tell her you need her. Tell her to stop thinking about herself.”
“It’s only been five days!”
“Five days that will turn quickly into five weeks. Damn it, Cory, wake her up! Take her back. Don’t let her have her escape.”
Baby?
Teresa wouldn’t back off. Helen expected her to tell her to tell Cory to stop acting like a child and get on with it. But instead, gentleness returned to her voice.
“It’s all right.”
Cory grasped Helen’s shoulder tightly.
“Listen to me, Helen. Teresa says you’re sleeping too much.” She shook Helen’s shoulder. “Wake up. We have to get you better.”
“Come on out, Helen,” Teresa said. Helen shifted an arm. “That’s it.”
Words were Helen’s power, and she fought with association.
It…Stephen King…Kingston Trio…Trilogy of Terror…Karen Black…Gail Brown…Another World…Mac Cory…Cory…Cory’s talking…Pay attention.
“You have a show to produce. People need you. I need you.” Cory rubbed Helen’s healthy arm. “Please wake up.”
Helen groaned and her eyes fluttered. Cory brushed her fingers across Helen’s left palm. The feeling drove Helen crazy in a conscious state and invited reaction now. Helen squeezed her hand shut and she scratched her palm.
“Do it again,” Santos coaxed her, and sounded pleased when Helen shook the second tickle away. “Excellent.”
Cory reacted more positively. “Come on, that’s it. Wake up, baby.”
Helen shifted a leg and slowly turned her head toward Cory’s voice. She wanted to come out of her sluggishness. She loathed lying there. She wanted bacon. Come on, brain. Do it. Helen opened her eyes enough to see Cory.
“You’re baby,” Helen whispered.
“Why did she say that, I wonder?” Teresa asked.
“I never call her baby. That’s right.” She squeezed Helen’s hand. “I’m baby.”
“Helen? It’s Teresa Santos. Can you turn your head to me?”
Helen turned toward the voice and saw the thick, lush hair of her physician silhouetted from the window’s light.
“Yes,” she said. “Bitch.” She smiled weakly, and reache
d toward her. Teresa grasped her hand, smiled back, and nodded.
“I can be. Welcome back, Helen. How do you feel?”
“Stomach hurts. Leg hurts here.” She pointed to her right thigh. “Face is itchy.”
“I can remove your facial bandages, but you have to keep the nose piece. We can’t have you breaking it all over again.” Teresa carefully removed the gauze and placed it on the table beside the bed. “Does that feel better?”
“Better.” She touched the dressings on her jaw and neck. “These?”
“They have to stay. You have a nasty injury.”
“Cory?” She turned her head slowly to find her.
“Yeah, I’m here.”
“Feed…” She took a shallow breath. “…fish.”
Cory kissed her cheek. “I promise.”
Chapter Nineteen
After a week of consciousness, Helen had grown increasingly restless and fed up with patient life. Needles were removed from her arm, which was then stabbed with a replacement. Blood withdrawal or IV, it didn’t matter. Whoever poked her experienced difficulty in finding a good vein, and it hurt like hell.
Lemon ice was on her list of “get that crap away from me.” If she saw another paper cup of frozen yellow in her lifetime, it would be too soon. And broth, although she did appreciate the fresh brew and its miniscule flecks of chicken that floated about. It almost tasted like food. It wasn’t bacon, but it filled her tummy.
Physicians wanted her to get more rest, but the hospital remained noisiest during the night. There was no serenity for the ill and recovering, and she’d had enough. Although her strength improved daily from her meager meals and catnaps, as did her stubbornness, she wanted to be released.
She glared at Teresa. “I’m gonna pass out.”
“Breathe slowly. You’re hyperventilating,” she said in a no-nonsense voice.
Translation: If she didn’t cooperate and cough up on demand, she would require some serious chest stomping from a nasty head nurse. Clear the lungs or drown.
Reluctantly, she took the plastic piece into her mouth. After three breaths, she coughed and immediately grabbed her hurting stomach. Thick phlegm escaped from her throat. She spat it into a plastic bowl.
“That’s disgusting.”