Tears sting my eyes and blur the light reflecting off the glass. I thought I’d become desensitized, but for the millionth time since the quake, I’m struck by how unfair it all is, how needlessly cruel. With a shaking hand, I reach for the bike rack as a handhold and step up.
“Help…”
My blood runs cold, and I listen as hard as I can. There are murmurs and shouts from outside, the crackle of a ravenous fire, but nothing faint like what I thought I heard. Is this just another hallucination meant to coddle my tortured brain?
“Hello?” the voice rasps.
I look down at the curly mop of hair beneath my feet, separated by a thin, cracked layer of glass. Was it her? With no time to mull it over, I slam my foot against the windshield in an attempt to break through. Unfortunately, automotive glass doesn’t just shatter. It becomes this filmy spider web of fractures that does its best to stay in a solid sheet.
She—no, he!—lifts his head with a vacant stare as I repeatedly kick toward his face and spit my flashlight into my sling hand. They must’ve had water with them to survive this long, but he looks like he’s barely hanging on.
“You’re going to be okay,” I assure him, though I’m not convinced either of us will make it. There’s still that lingering feeling in the back of my skull that maybe, just maybe, the Final Destinations movies were onto something. I survived our nation’s worst seismic event, in arguably the worst possible location, and now Death thinks I cheated him.
Then again, I’m exhausted, and we all know my brain is not to be trusted.
“The fire’s spreading!” someone yells to me from the outside. “Get out of there!”
Damn it! How did it get close that fast?
I snatch a loose steel bar and bash the middle of the glass out with a vengeance.
The woman in the driver’s seat startles and stares at my plunging weapon with a silent gasp.
They’re both alive? Holy crap. I know the responders have to attend to priority emergencies first, and they need to focus on those who have a shot at living, but there’s a whole pocket of people here who’ve been without outside contact for six days.
“Sorry!” I shout, forgetting my avalanche rule. “You’ll have to try and climb out. There’s one more survivor we need to get out before the fire reaches us.”
I nestle the bar through my sling and reach for the bike rack again. With just that detour, the flames have begun licking up the side of the mound. They’re dancing against the slab leaning precariously over my head, contrasting with the inky blue sky. In a way, it’s beautiful—the kind of resigned beauty you notice when hope has all but run out.
With a prayer and a sinking heart, I force myself over the roof—hitting my head in the process—and slide down onto the Outback’s windshield. No words are wasted as I retrieve the bar and slam it through the glass. I can’t get myself out of here with this sling on, let alone a grown man in need of rescue. But if he can climb, if he can muster just the slightest bit of strength, maybe he can make it back to Vincent. I cough against the smoke.
“Dominic?”
A man with thick blond hair and Vincent’s clear eyes blinks up at my flashlight with a barely responsive gaze. His lips are chapped, and his skin is borderline gray. “H-How do you… ?”
I bust out some more of the windshield and pass the bar off through the hole, sweating as I cast another panicked look at the fire. My body is spent. Only one of us has a chance to get out of here now. “Will you… will you tell Vincent I tried?”
When I close my eyes, I see my family. It’s Christmas, of all times. We’re in the old house, eating and laughing. Before we went our separate ways, before I took my job. I see Meg and her kids at the park near my house. I see Naveen and Gizmo being rolled to the helicopter. Red is singing. Vincent’s… mine.
I swallow my tears and fight a last-minute sob, giving the heavens one last weary glance. Crystalline streams catch the light and arch high overhead. They’re so beautiful. I could… touch them…
❇ ❇ ❇
Thwop, thwop, thwop, thwop, thwop…
I crack my eyes open to find a gray, molded ceiling, trailing down to handles, hooks, and screens of various sizes. Something warm tightens around my good hand, and I turn my head. Straps are holding my legs and chest down. “Vincent?”
My breath fogs the mask covering my mouth.
“Told you I’d get you to Bend,” he whispers in a hoarse voice, crooking his lips behind a mask of his own.
“We get… the ‘copter ride… now?” God, my head hurts.
He nods, and I close my eyes, finally able to let my guard down. I don’t know what happened—I’m not even sure we’re not dead—but there are people here to watch over us now. I don’t have to fight the warm fog lulling my senses. I can just lay here and breathe. Re… lax…
I open my eyes again, and the walls morph into concrete. It’s bright now. Too bright.
Noise buzzes all around as people weave in and out of view. Not just any people, either. Saintly figures in scrubs. They’re writing notes at each cot, and—wait. Why are there so many people in here?
“You’re awake!” Naveen claps his hands together in my peripheral vision. “They said you would sleep much longer than this.”
“Ah, hell,” I grumble. “Are you dead, too?”
“Not the last time they checked, but they’re a little busy at the moment.”
That sense of humor—it is Naveen! “How did you know I was here?”
“Vincent sent someone to find me. Before you ask, he’s all right. Other than some cuts and bruises, he has a midshaft femur fracture from his”—he leans in and does an exaggerated wink—”accident”.
“Where is he?” I try to sit up, but my head says something along the lines of nice try.
“Once he was stable, they took him to surgery. They must need the bed. Did you know his brother’s here, too? St. Agatha is the closest trauma center, so everything seems to be getting routed here.”
“How’s the brother?” Man, my throat is dry. I always pictured waking up in a hospital being like it is on TV. You know, water at your bedside, remote for the bed, meal on a tray. Instead, I’m pretty sure they’ve turned a few conference rooms into triage centers.
“He’s good.” Naveen shrugs. “Dehydrated, but good—aside from some crush injuries and the whole psychological trauma of being buried alive. How are you feeling, Ms. Hero?”
Hero? I rub my head. “Confused… and sore.”
“You don’t remember climbing in after Vincent’s brother?”
“That, I remember,” I mumble. “It’s the rest that’s blurry.”
“Oh, it seemed Vincent’s signal worked. A fireboat came and put out the flames with water from the river. Then a crew was able to stabilize the rubble enough to extract you, Dominic, and two others. Once they found Vincent, they played radio tag until someone was able to get a medevac there. Now the gang’s all together again! Even your little sweetie.”
I thought he was in surgery?
“Gizmo,” Naveen announces joyously. “My parents have been caring for her in their hotel room. Really, they were fortunate to get one. If the hospital hadn’t contacted them so quickly, the whole city would have been booked.”
Did I just… ? Nope. Not worth the brainpower.
“What about you?” I ask, closing my eyes. “Do you know how long I’ve been worrying?”
“A week?” he offers with a grin.
I’m about to correct him—that he left on day two and this was day seven—but he cuts me off, “You’ve been out of it for a while.”
“Oh.”
“I had what is called a debridement, where they took off the dead tissue.” He gestures to the side of his gown. “Thankfully, I have not required a skin graft yet.”
“Should you even be up and wheeling around?”
“Probably not.”
A man wanders past, and Naveen leans in again. “And just a heads-up, they’re going to give
you counseling.”
“Great.”
It’s a little sarcastic, but I do feel grateful to be here—pain, hassles, and all. To get through all of that is just… unthinkable. There’s got to be some reason I’m here, and for the first time in my life, I’m ready to find it.
“Naveen,” I say, reaching over to pat his hand with my good one. “Thank you for everything.”
He gives me an awkward smile. “Of course. That’s what friends are for, right?”
Dionne Warwick sings in my head as I return his smile, filled with the warm and fuzzies. It’s strange how budding friendships seem to flourish under the most trying circumstances. Maybe surviving a disaster puts us in a special fraternity, or maybe it takes a brush with death to get our priorities straight. Either way… I’m pretty sure the hospital has me on good drugs.
I look down to find my duct-tape sling has been exchanged for a proper one, and, somehow, they’ve changed my dirty, worn clothes in favor of a white gown with teal polka dots. Fuzzy socks with traction padding adorn my feet, and I’ve even gotten an admission bracelet. Jane Doe.
Crap.
Maybe I should talk to someone.
“Well, I’ll leave you to it,” Naveen says, wheeling backward to maneuver around the cot beside me. “The nurse over there seems to have noticed I don’t belong on this floor, and I don’t want to lose my room—no offense.”
I laugh. “None taken. Good luck getting back undetected.”
As he makes for the door, the nurse crosses the room, muttering under her breath as she shakes her head. The curls in her short brown hair have stayed in for the most part, despite what has had to have been a grueling shift, but her eyes are bloodshot. To her credit, she plasters on a smile before she stops at my cot. “You’re awake five minutes, and you’ve already had a visitor… in triage. Something tells me we’re going to find out your name isn’t Jane.”
“Elena,” I tell her, “Elena Maria Cordova Ruiz.”
The nurse’s eyes widen, and she bites her lip. “Oh.”
Oh?
“Okay, um…” She points to herself, and then points to the door. “I go find translator, okay? I no hablo español, so you stay here. Okay? You stay.”
“Okay,” I agree. “Did you need me to sit and beg, too, or are we just working on stay now?”
Pink warms her tired features, and she covers her face with her hands. “Oh my gosh. I am so sorry. I just… it’s been a long shift.”
“It happens more than you’d think.” I yawn. “No problem here. I’m guessing you need some information?”
She shoots me a grateful smile, and taps something on her tablet. “Just a few questions…”
Twenty minutes later, she knows enough about me to fill out my chart and write my biography. Then I’m passed off to the counselor, who passes me off to a doctor, who wants to run a scan. Or three.
It’s not until the next morning, when I finally score a room, that I’m given a hint at what’s wrong with me.
“So, the good news,” one of my more handsome doctors tells me, taking a seat on the edge of my bed, “is we can rule out the lesion we considered, and I don’t believe the hallucinations are related to the concussion you sustained from your fall.”
That’s good… ish?
“The not-so-good news,” he goes on, “is you’ve had to witness some pretty upsetting things over the past week, and that’s made your brain a bit more defensive than it might usually be.”
“Defensive?” I’m picturing my brain at an intervention, surrounded by its organ friends, yelling that it doesn’t have a drinking problem—but I’m guessing that’s not what he means.
“Your brain… think of it as having wrapped itself in a protective layer of Bubble Wrap when it felt things threaten your mental well-being. That’s the gist of how bereavement-related hallucinations work. They provide comfort until you’re able to process what happened.”
Huh. Well, that sounds efficient.
He spreads his hands in a wide gesture. “And, since we weren’t able to work up any further hallucinations, I’m not too concerned with it. We’ll get you set up with some pain meds for that arm of yours, and you should be able to get out of here sometime this afternoon.”
I let out a sigh of relief, thanking him as he goes, but then it hits me. Where am I going to go? Seattle is a five or six hour drive on a good day, and there’s no way I’ll find a rental now. If there’s an airport around here, I doubt they’ll take someone with no money or identification. I don’t even know if I have a place to go home to.
I guess it doesn’t matter. Either way, I’m on my own now. Naveen has his family here, and Vincent has Dominic back. The hospital finally got through to my folks this morning, long enough to tell them I’m okay, but the phones are still a work in progress. Knowing I made it will have to be enough for them. They don’t need to be out here in this mess.
A nurse slips in with a little cup of pills and a smile. “I heard you got good news.”
“Yeah… good.”
She hands me a paper cup of water from my stand. “It won’t be so bad. Maybe you can stop by room 503 on your way out.”
I take my pills like a good girl and scrunch up my face. “What’s in 503?”
“A patient named Malcolm who won’t stop harassing the staff to see you.”
My grippy socks hit the floor, and she stands aside. “Go ahead. Maybe he’ll stop yelling in Spanish.”
I stifle a grin. I knew I shouldn’t have taught him only the bad words.
A quick elevator ride brings me to the fifth floor, where I’m forced to hold the back of my gown closed as I hurry down the hall. I feel like I’m meeting someone for a first date after talking online. Will we interact as well in a different environment? What if it’s awkward?
I knock on the doorframe as I head in, nodding at the old-timer in the other bed before crossing the room. “So, I heard your football career is over.”
Vincent jerks his chin in my direction, and a drugged grin tugs at his features. “Yours too. No more sixty-yard passes with that shoulder.”
“How are you feeling?” I ask, plopping down in the chair beside his bed. “You look like crap.”
Actually, he looks even more handsome cleaned up, if that’s possible. Not many men can pull off the gown look.
“Ah, is that why the nurses fought over who got to give me a sponge bath?” He rubs his chin. “I guess I’m all right, all things considered.”
Creído…
“Yes, that smacks of professionalism. I’m sure that’s what happened.” I roll my eyes. “So, how long are you in for?”
“I don’t know. Maybe a week? I get to chase my hospital stay with a shit ton of physical therapy for the next four to six months, though. Know anywhere that sells lottery tickets?”
Aw, man. I didn’t consider the cost, and I’m sure he didn’t either when he was trying to save his brother. Speaking of which, the guy is noticeably absent. “We’ll just have to find you a desk job.”
“Yeah, I heard there’s a big demand for guys with no office skills.”
“Hey, I know people,” I counter. “You think I’ve spent this long in HR without earning a few favors? Besides, Seattle’s great this time of year.”
Plus, if Vincent’s with me, I can make sure he actually follows through with his care instructions and goes to therapy—maybe even find him a program to help offset some of the PTSD issues. That is, unless making up with his brother means their home is going to be open to him again, once they rebuild. Is that what he asked me here to tell me? He’s going back to Portland?
“You’re making a face,” he announces, turning just enough to punch his pillow into shape.
“So, where’s Dominic?”
“I don’t know. The hospital helped him connect with Missie and Paige, and they’re going to meet somewhere, once they make arrangements and he’s released.”
My brow puckers. “Then what?”
“I don’t
know. He didn’t lay it out for me.” He looks away. “He just said thanks and he was glad I was ‘better,’ whatever that means.”
Seriously? “So, you risked your life to save his, he barely acknowledged you, and then he made plans to ride off into the sunset? I’m sorry. I know he’s your brother, but menudo capullo egoísta.”
I’m restraining myself, but the heat is already rising within. So help me, if that selfish brother of his were here…
Vincent clears his throat. “Yeah, well, family. You’ll have that. So, what’s your prognosis?”
“I’ll live. They’re giving me something for the pain, and I can follow up with my doctor in Seattle—you know, assuming she survived and still has a practice.”
His brows furrow. “So, you’re getting out?”
“Feel free to be jealous.”
Silence.
We’re talking clock-ticks level of awkwardness.
I want to get to the heart of what we’re both dancing around, to finish the question I started before we got jumped on the highway, but I don’t want to spook him. Do I want him to come and stay with me? Of course. I know that much without a doubt. But no matter how I phrase it, it’s going to come across as forward, or worse, as charity.
“So, after this—” he starts at the same time I do.
“Would you consider—?”
We both cut off and laugh. He runs a hand back over his hair, and looks up at the ceiling. “This isn’t easy.”
“What isn’t?” Are we breaking up? We’re not even together. Can that happen? Maybe he’s trying to say goodbye or—
“Elena!” He groans. “Stop making those faces. You’re killing me.”
“And you’re both killing me!” the old man on the other side of the curtain bellows. “She wants you to move in with her, but she doesn’t want to scare you off. He wants your help, but he’d like to keep his cojones intact. End of story.”
As We Know It Page 23