by Alana Terry
Kennedy blinked herself awake. How long had she been knocked out? Her eyes were dry, as if her contacts had crusted onto her corneas.
Thirsty. She was thirsty.
“Easy, now.” The voice was garbled somehow, like someone talking at her through a wall of water. An enormous hand covered with a yellow glove held her down.
She tried to ask for a drink, but all that came out was, Wifter.
“Calm down. You were injured, but you’re going to be just fine.”
Kennedy’s eyes traveled up from the hands to the giant rubber suit. The hazmat helmet.
“Where am I?” This time, the words came out more clearly.
“You’re in an isolation unit.”
She blinked as memories coursed and flooded through her brain.
The explosion. The lockdown. The epidemic.
“Am I sick?”
She didn’t know if the healthcare worker was avoiding her gaze or if the helmet just distorted the view.
“Am I sick?” she repeated, assessing her beaten, battered body. Her arm throbbed. She couldn’t turn her head without experiencing a horrific muscle spasm throughout her entire neck. The entire right half of her body felt so heavy she was sure it must be swollen to twice its usual size. A piercing headache. Her heart fluttering slightly and her lungs still stinging from the aftershocks of terror and smoke. Bruises on her hip. An excruciating pain radiating outward from her tailbone. At least she didn’t feel feverish. That must be a good sign.
“No, you’re not sick. This is just a precaution. You were potentially exposed before the accident,” the nurse explained. “We’re treating your injuries in isolation just to be safe.”
It took Kennedy a few seconds to piece everything together, to remember why she’d ended up at the hospital in the first place. The epidemic. The man with the gun. The news reports. “Is Woong ok?”
“The little boy you were babysitting? We’re keeping him under quarantine until we get the lab results back. He’s got the right symptoms for Nipah, but it will be another day until we know for sure. The good news is if you remain symptom-free, you can be released from isolation tomorrow evening.”
Tomorrow? Kennedy didn't even know what day it was. The bomb, the lockdown — how much time had passed? Had she slept a whole day through? Maybe more? Heavy plastic curtains were drawn on all sides of her bed. There were no windows, no clocks. It could just as easily be suppertime Monday night or first thing Wednesday morning or the middle of the night a week later.
Pain pulsed through her temples, behind her eyes, pounding on her optical nerves. She just wanted to sleep. Forget. Wake up in the morning in the Lindgrens’ guest room to find this entire ordeal had been a terrible dream.
The nurse fidgeted with Kennedy’s throbbing arm, adjusting some sort of a bandage. “You just rest up now and try not to worry.”
Try not to worry? After everything she had gone through? The epidemic. The lockdown. The explosion...
“Where’s Dominic?”
The nurse’s face was completely shielded through the thick visor of her hazmat suit.
“The chaplain,” Kennedy pressed. “He was there, too. When can I see him?” Her lungs clenched off, and she coughed trying to force a breath.
“Just calm down now, ok? There’s a detective waiting to talk to you. He’ll fill you in on everything that happened, and I know he’s got some questions for you too. There’s no rush, though. He said he’d wait as long as he needed until you felt like talking.”
“I’m ready now.”
Kennedy felt rather than saw the nurse frown at her. “You just woke up. It might be a good idea to save your strength.”
“I’ll talk to the detective. Answer any questions he’s got.”
“You’ve got some shrapnel in your arm. Cuts on your shoulder. Bruises and burns.”
“I said I’ll talk to him now.”
“Ok.” The nurse’s voice was uncertain, but she pulled back one of the curtains and pointed to the tall man standing on the other side of a thick window. “This is Detective Drisklay. Says you already know him.”
“Yeah.” Kennedy’s voice was flat. The nurse was probably right. She should have slept some more before voluntarily hopping into the witness chair with someone like Drisklay. He held up a Styrofoam coffee cup in silent greeting.
“There’s a phone by your bedside you can use to talk to him through the glass. You sure you’re up for this?” the nurse asked one last time.
Kennedy swallowed. She had to find out what happened to Dominic.
“I’m ready.”
CHAPTER 23
“I hear they expect you to recover from your injuries.” Drisklay stared through Kennedy’s window.
She rested the hospital phone against her ear so she wouldn’t have to hold it in place. “Yeah, it’s nothing too serious, I guess. How’s Dominic?”
“What can you tell me about Brian Robertson?” Drisklay went on as if he hadn’t heard Kennedy’s question. Was the mouthpiece of her phone working?
She tried to remember what details she could give the detective. “He had a son. He was upset about the court order.” Kennedy squeezed her eyes shut, trying not to think about the young cancer patient. About how much sorrow the poor boy had already endured in his short life. About how horrific it must be for him to learn about what his father had done.
“We know about the son.” Drisklay took a sip out of his Styrofoam cup so noisily Kennedy could hear it through her phone. “We want to piece together what happened in the conference room. My coffee is just now kicking in, so you may as well start at the beginning.”
Kennedy’s thoughts were too disorganized, her brain too stunned for her to put her words into any coherent order.
“He had a vest. A bomb. With his phone.”
“When did you meet him?” Drisklay interrupted. “How long had you been in that room with him before he decided to blow himself to bits?”
“I don’t know.”
“Was he holding you hostage?”
“No. I mean, I’m not sure. He locked the door so I couldn’t get out.”
“So he was holding you hostage.”
“He didn’t want to hurt me.”
“Which is why he lit himself off like a firework? You’re one lucky young woman. You know that, don’t you?”
Lucky? She doubted her definition of the word would match the detective’s very closely.
“Did he say anything about any other explosives? Did he make any other threats?” Drisklay spoke in his regular monotone, but Kennedy could tell by the way he clenched his coffee cup that he was tense.
“No, the one he was wearing, that was the only bomb he mentioned.”
“And not a very strong one,” Drisklay added as an afterthought. His words gave Kennedy a small boost of hope.
“What about Dominic?”
The detective frowned. “Who?”
“The chaplain.” Her abs quivered. Even though she was reclining in the hospital bed, every single muscle in her body engaged at the same time.
“Martinez?” He shrugged. “You’re lucky he was there. Lucky he put his training to good use. Puny as the explosive was, you still would have been obliterated if Martinez hadn’t tackled Mr. Robertson. Absorbed eighty percent of the blast or more.” Drisklay nodded appreciatively. “Smart thinking.”
Kennedy wished the curtains on either side of her were open. She was suffocating in this cramped enclosure. She had to breathe. Had to find room for her lungs to expand. She tried to sit up, but the pain in her arm and shoulder was too intense. “What happened to him, then?” She stared at Drisklay’s expressionless face, searching, pleading, begging for any trace of softness or sympathy.
He took another noisy gulp of coffee. “Who, Martinez? Let’s just say the chaplain’s legacy and sacrifice will go down in history. It’s because of him that you and everyone else in the west corridor are alive and not in gallon-sized biohazardous waste baggies.”
> Legacy? Sacrifice? Did that mean ...
Drisklay shrugged. “Just be thankful it was one of our men and not someone you knew personally. Be thankful you’re safe and forget what anyone tells you about survivor’s guilt or myths like that.”
Was Drisklay really saying what she thought he was? She had to be imagining it. No creature could be that calloused.
“Just how bad was it?” She had to know.
Drisklay took another sip from his cup. “Let’s just say the chaplain will be getting a hero’s funeral, but it won’t be open-casket.”
CHAPTER 24
Tears. Somewhere behind Kennedy’s dry eyes were tears. Someplace beneath her shocked psyche was a grief that would threaten to carry her down to the pit of despair. Angry. Demanding God tell her why he took Dominic away. Devastated. Wondering how she could find healing after a loss like this.
But right now, there was nothing. The numbness was so tangible, so fierce even her limbs felt cold. Unmoving. Had her circulatory system shut down entirely?
Beep. Beep.
The hospital monitor mocked her, reminding her seventy-two times a minute that she was alive. That she still had a pulse. That there was nowhere for her to go but forward. Forward without him. Without what could have been.
He’d died for her. Wasn’t that supposed to make her feel something? Guilty? Thankful? Wretched?
Beep. Beep.
She would never see him again. No more Sunday morning walks through Boston Commons. No more late-night phone calls asking him her most recent theological musings.
No more Dominic.
Beep. Beep.
And yet Kennedy lived on.
Beep.
Her heart pumped blood. Her lungs took in oxygen, albeit in short, shallow bursts.
Beep.
And she felt nothing at all.
CHAPTER 25
She didn’t know how long it had been since Detective Drisklay left when the phone by her bedside rang. There was nobody in the window in front of her room. Who was calling?
She reached her uninjured arm across her body and winced as she tried to pick up the receiver. “Hello?”
“Kennedy, sweetheart, thank God I got hold of you.” Sandy’s voice was breathless. Constantly bustling, just like her. “The nurses told me you were awake now. Has the detective come by, hon? I really want to talk to you before he gets ...”
“Yeah. We already talked.”
“Oh.” Her chipper voice fell flat. “So, he told you then?”
“Yeah. He told me.”
“Baby, I’m so, so sorry. I wish I could come over there and give you a big hug. You know that, don’t you? You know I would if it weren’t for the isolation rules, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Talk to me, precious. Tell me what you’re thinking. You don’t need to keep things bottled up, you know. Tell me everything. You know I’m always here for you.”
Kennedy’s throat seized up. She loved Sandy, but talking to her pastor’s wife on a hospital phone was no substitute for burying herself in her mother’s arms and crying. Releasing all that fear. That tension. The sorrow that hadn’t yet even crept up into her spirit. It was there, buried somewhere beneath the surface. She couldn’t access it now even if she wanted to. She felt as calloused as Detective Drisklay himself. So unfeeling.
So homesick.
“What are you thinking, baby?”
Kennedy bit her lip. If Sandy kept talking to her with so much compassion, so much concern, she’d start crying. And once she started ...
“I’m ok. I’m just glad more people weren’t hurt, you know?”
“Well, yes. We’re all praising God for that, I’m sure. But honey, you know what I’m asking about. I’m talking about Dominic. You do know that he ...”
“Yeah. The detective told me.”
“Honey, I’m so sorry. I begged the nurses to let me talk to you first. I thought maybe ...” Sandy’s voice caught. “I thought maybe it’d be easier for you coming from me. I’d come right in that room and hold you if they’d let me. You know that, right?”
“Uh-huh.”
“How you feeling, babe? Your injuries, are they pretty bad?”
God bless Sandy. It was infinitely easier to talk about her physical wounds. “My arm hurts a lot. And my shoulder. But it’s nothing too serious.”
Thanks to Dominic, she added silently. What was that verse in John? Greater love has no one than this ...
She couldn’t think about it. Not right now.
“Are you ok?” Kennedy hated herself for not asking sooner. “How’s Woong? And what about Carl? Is he all right?”
“Carl and I are fine, precious. In fact, he’s right here.” Sandy lowered her voice. “Here, babe. Say hi to Kennedy for a minute. It’s been a rough day for her.”
“It’s been a rough day for all of us,” came the pleasant-sounding grumble.
“Carl?” Kennedy wasn’t sure if he’d picked up the phone yet or if he was still bantering with his wife.
“Kennedy.” His voice boomed. She was grateful to hear the strength in his tone. “Hey, next time we ask you to babysit our son, I’ll try not to do it in the middle of an epidemic, all right?”
She smiled. “Sounds good.”
“Let’s plan to avoid any more hospital lockdowns while we’re at it, ok?” Good old Carl. Ready to remind Kennedy that joy still existed in spite of terror and heartache. Reminding her that one day she too would find courage to laugh again.
“Are you all right?” she asked. “We were really worried about you. All I heard was Sandy was driving you to the ER.”
“Pshaw. I’m fine. You know me. God’s not about to call me home yet. Not with all the work he’s still got left for me to do.”
“What was wrong?” Was it rude for her to ask? Should she have worded the question more delicately?
Carl chuckled. “Well, turns out that being fifty pounds overweight and snacking on my lovely wife’s cookies and muffins for decades was enough to kill my pancreas, that’s all.”
“What?”
“He’s got diabetes, hon,” Sandy’s voice rang out in the background.
“Oh. Is it serious?”
“Not very,” Carl answered.
“His blood sugar levels were 485 when we admitted him.”
“I’ll be fine,” Carl thundered. “Like I said, God’s not even close to finished with me yet, and when it’s my time to go, there isn’t a soul in a hundred miles who could stop me. But until then, the devil can try to take me all he wants, but God’s not through with me, and I’m just gonna keep on giving him glory.”
“Except now you’ll be giving him glory with diet and exercise,” Sandy added.
“Woman, we got more important things to worry about right now than my insulin levels. Listen, first we get Woong over this infection, we get ourselves home as a family again, and then we’ll talk about my diet. Promise. Here. You take the phone again. I’m about to die of thirst. These hospital meals ...” His voice trailed off, and Sandy came back on the line.
“You still there, pumpkin? Sorry about that.” She lowered her voice. “He’s an ornery patient. Just ask his nurses.”
“I heard that.” There was laughter in Carl’s tone. Laughter that squeezed Kennedy’s heart between her ribs and sent pangs piercing through her spirit with the intensity of the nuclear explosion at the end of Armageddon.
“Did they say when they’re going to let you out of isolation?” Sandy asked.
“Tomorrow night if I don’t show any symptoms.”
“That’s good. It’s the same with me and Carl.”
“You’re in isolation, too?”
“Oh, yeah. It’s horrible, isn’t it? When I should be there taking care of Woong. But they’ve got us two rooms right next to each other, and speakers so you don’t even have to use phones to talk. And the nurses, they’re letting him play XBox when he’s got the energy for it, so he’s the happiest little patient in the histo
ry of Providence Hospital. When he’s awake,” she added quietly.
“How is he? Is he really sick?”
“We’re still waiting on his test results, hon.” Sandy’s voice betrayed her heaviness for the first time since they started talking. “Waiting and trusting in the good Lord to do what’s right. His teacher turns out to have a bad case of meningitis, but at least it’s not related to Nipah, so there’s hope there. It just breaks my mother’s heart thinking about all the things it could be, so I’m trying to focus on the fact that right now, right at this minute, Carl and me are together, and our son’s right next to us. He’s sleeping now, but when he wakes up, he’ll want nothing more than to play his silly racing games, big grin on his face. His fever’s down just a tad. So until the doctors tell me it’s time to worry, I’m sitting here counting my blessings.”
“That’s nice that you and Carl get to be by him.” Kennedy would give just about anything to have her parents with her right now, even if she could only see them through the glass.
“Oh, we wouldn’t have it any other way. At first, they wanted to split us all up. When the bomb scare went off, they would have just evacuated, you know. Sent everyone home except for the patients and workers who couldn’t leave. But by then, Woong had come down with this fever all of a sudden. We told them he was one of the students in Mrs. Winifred’s class, and that was before they got her test results in, so they realized they couldn’t just send everyone away. You should have seen the flurry over here. Running and racing and figuring out who’d been in contact with Woong. Once they got it sorted, they let most folks out, but a few of us they had to put in isolation. Problem was they wanted to keep us as far away from the ER as possible, back when they still thought the bomb was in there, and there weren’t enough isolation rooms for everyone. So me and Carl, we just told them to put us together. We said if our son’s sick, well, we’d rather all be sick together, come what may, than stand back and watch each other suffer from a distance. I just wish they’d found a way to put all three of us together, but that has as much to do with Carl still needing a hospital bed as anything else. He won’t tell you this himself, but he’s still hooked up to IVs. Still working to get his blood sugar under control.”