A Quiet Death (3 page)

With the dying, I had read somewhere, hearing may be the last of the senses to go.
Now and at the hour of our death.
I hoped Skip heard and that the words would be a comfort to him.

‘Skip?' I asked after a while. ‘Are you curious about how I can recite the rosary, not being Catholic?' His hand was still warm, thank God, but his fingernails looked pale, bluish. ‘My dad was in the navy,' I rattled on while gently stroking his hand, desperate to restore circulation. ‘When I was in the third grade, we were stationed in Norfolk, Virginia, and my best friend was a girl from New Orleans. I sometimes went to mass with her family.'

The tension had drained from his face. He looked relaxed, completely at peace. Was Skip sleeping, in a coma, or had he died? I shivered and tore my eyes away. Outside the window, police cars, fire trucks and ambulances were lining up, lights flashing red and orange and blue. While a bone-thin stray watched warily from a patch of weeds, a cutter like a Transformer toy began to chew through the chain-link fence that bordered the tracks.

It seemed like hours before our first rescuer appeared, climbing through the makeshift window that Sergeant Boyer had created. He wore blue coveralls, a fluorescent green reflective vest, and a yellow helmet. Another firefighter followed. Then another. ‘Let's get to it!' one of them yelled.

‘They're here now,' I told Skip, squeezing his hand reassuringly. ‘Hang on.'

To the firefighters, I mouthed, ‘Hurry!' then moved out of their way as quickly as I could so they could get to work. I slumped, relieved but exhausted, against a crumpled wall, totally defeated by the oppressive heat.

While I tried to remain invisible, two firefighters concentrated on freeing Skip, using prying tools and hacksaws to saw through the twisted metal that imprisoned him. Before long, they were joined by rescuers from other companies, some wearing brown pants held up by suspenders, and jackets with reflective stripes. The men swarmed over the car, calling out, prying up seats to look for victims.

‘Are you hurt?'

I opened my eyes. The firefighter asking the question had ‘DCF & EMSD' scrawled across the entire expanse of his black work shirt. You need a bigger shirt or a shorter name, I thought to myself, feeling giddy.

I held out my arm, winced. ‘It's throbbing like a son of a gun.'

‘That's a broken arm,' he said, after a brief examination.

‘I sorta thought so.'

‘How many people were on the train with you, do you remember?'

‘Four people already got out,' I told him. I rubbed a hand over my eyes. Oh, God, who was missing? ‘There was a couple in front, looking at a map,' I continued. ‘A kid listening to a Nano. A woman in a floppy hat. Maybe three or four others.'

He patted my hand. ‘Thanks. Now stay put. I'm going to get a splint for your arm. I'll be right back.'

I was light-headed, exhausted. I leaned sideways against what remained of a seat cushion and closed my eyes. I found my mind drifting, floating, rising above the heat and the pain, until something wet and warm began sliding down my cheek. I wiped it away, then, curious, opened my eyes and examined my hand.

Blood!

My heart flopped, quivered, then flopped again. I glanced in confusion from my hand down to my chest. A circle of blood was slowly spreading across the front of my dress. I reached up and touched my head, running my fingers through my hair, feeling for the wound. ‘Oh, God, I'm bleeding, but I don't know from where.' I took one unsteady breath, then another. My head swam. I bit my lower lip, hard, trying to hold on to reality. The last thing I wanted to do was pass out.

Feeling helpless, I stared at the blood on my hand as even more blood trickled warmly down my neck.

‘I'm bleeding,' I called out to one of the firefighters. ‘Can you help?'

Suddenly, two firefighters loomed over me, superheroes in hardhats and suspenders. ‘I think she's shocking!' one of them said. He peeled off his gloves and kneeled in front of me, taking my chin firmly in his hands, his eyes boring into mine. With his other hand, he smoothed back my hair. ‘Don't move!'

‘I'm bleeding,' I sobbed, ‘and I don't know where it's coming from.'

The firefighter's eyes drifted from mine to the roof of the ruined car. Following his lead, I looked up, too, to a ragged gash where the ceiling had been sheared back, as if a giant can opener had peeled it open. ‘It's not yours, ma'am,' the firefighter said.

Staying awake suddenly seemed too hard. Everything was closing in – screaming sirens, bullhorn blaring, the shouts of rescuers as they pulled and sawed and pried. Nothing this man was saying made any sense.

Blue sky . . . and . . . and . . . somebody was lying on the roof of the car. Through the jagged opening, a pair of white ear buds dangled, and as I watched in growing horror, a rivulet of blood began a slow descent down the thin, white cord, collected for a moment on the earpiece, then dripped warmly into my hair.

Darkness came roaring down a long, narrow tunnel, and I welcomed it in.

THREE

I
awoke to singing.

I squinted into the glare of a powerful light that seemed to be floating in front of my face like a disembodied eye. I raised a hand to shield my eyes, but was brought up short by an IV that snaked into my wrist.

‘Ouch!'

‘Lie still now, sweetheart.'

I tried to turn my head in the direction of the voice, but something was preventing it. I could hear water running. Seconds later, a nurse's aide appeared at my side, holding a washcloth which she used to wipe off my face and forehead, gently and methodically, as if I were a small, muddy child. She wore lavender scrubs with cartoon cats printed on them. A laminated photo ID tag was clipped to her pocket.

‘You look better than your picture, Andrea,' I told the aide, whose long, apricot-colored hair was swept up in a twist held in place by a tortoiseshell claw.

‘Surprised they leave me alone with patients, a mug shot like that!' She worked the cloth around the creases of my nose, laid it for a moment – warm, wet and soothing – over each eyelid. ‘That feels wonderful,' I told her.

‘We're just cleaning you up a bit, sweetheart, so the doctor can get a good look at you.' Her smile dazzled, even in a room she shared with a 1000-watt light bulb.

‘What's your name, sweetheart?'

‘Hannah, Hannah Ives. Why can't I move my head?'

‘It's in a brace.' Andrea left for a moment, presumably to rinse out the washcloth, because I heard water running again. ‘Not to worry, sweetheart. It's just a precaution.'

‘My arm's broken,' I told her when she came back with a freshly dampened cloth. ‘I'm pretty sure about that.'

‘Does it hurt badly?'

‘Only if I . . .' I shifted my arm experimentally and the pain travelled up my arm in a white-hot flash, searing into my brain. Somebody had taped my forearm into a metal splint padded with cotton in order to immobilize it, but clearly the temporary measure wasn't working that well.

Andrea laid a comforting hand on my shoulder. ‘Don't
do
that, sweetheart. Just lie still. When the doctor comes, he'll give you something for the pain. Just hold on.'

‘Do you know what day it is?' she asked conversationally as she washed dried blood off my good hand.

I had to think. It seemed like a week had passed since the fund-raising luncheon, but it had probably been only a couple of hours. ‘It's Tuesday,' I said.

‘Do you know where you are?'

‘Actually, I don't. In a hospital, of course, but I don't know which one.'

‘Prince George's Hospital Center. You've been in a train crash.'

A cold fist of fear square in the solar plexus. A wave of images: panicked survivors, frantic rescuers, the injured, the dead. Blood everywhere.

Somebody else's blood.

‘There was a guy on the train with me,' I shivered. ‘Named Skip. Is he here?'

‘Sweetheart, they've carried victims of that crash to ERs all over the metropolitan area. Here, Med-Star, Shock Trauma in Baltimore. Was your friend hurt bad?'

I tried to nod, but the straps under my chin prevented it. ‘He was trapped under some seats. It didn't look good, I'm afraid.'

Andrea had finished with the washcloth. She stood next to the examination table, holding the stained cloth in one hand, her other hand still resting on my shoulder. ‘We're a regional trauma center, so he
could
have been brought here. Tell you what. I'll look around. See what I can find out.'

‘Thank you.' I shifted on the examination table and regretted it immediately. A lightning strike might have been less painful. I winced, blew air out through my lips twice, three times.

‘They're going to be taking you for a CAT scan soon. In the meantime, let me see if I can get you something for the pain.'

‘Bless you. Then maybe I'll have the strength to reach into my pocket and get out my cell phone.'

She patted my knee. ‘Sweetheart, there aren't any pockets in that dress you've got on.'

Designer dresses, designer handbags, designer shoes. Well-kept women nattering over curried chicken salad and lemon-lime sorbet about escalating private school tuitions and how hard it is to keep good help. It seemed like a century ago in another world, maybe even on another planet.

And none of those women had been wearing . . . somebody else's blood.

Hot tears began to roll sideways down my cheeks and into my ears.

‘I need my cell phone,' I sobbed. ‘I have to call my husband. He'll be worried.'

‘You had a shoulder bag when you came in. Would the phone be in there?'

‘It's . . .' I began, and then I remembered. I'd been texting a reply to Emily when the train crashed. My iPhone had gone flying. ‘Never mind,' I quickly added. ‘I was holding it when . . . I'm afraid it's still on the train.'

Even though we shared a tiny room, Andrea suddenly disappeared from view. ‘Now don't go telling anybody,' she said when she popped back into my line of sight, ‘because you aren't allowed to use cell phones in here, but . . .' She flipped open her phone. ‘What's your husband's number?'

I gave her our home phone number and she punched it in. She listened for a long while, then said, ‘Dang! Voicemail.'

‘Try his cell,' I suggested.

This time, Paul answered on the first ring. ‘Ives.'

‘Mr Ives, I have your wife here. She'd like to speak to you.'

‘Thank God!' Paul exclaimed, so loudly that I heard it all the way across the room. Andrea punched the speaker button, then set her open cell phone on my chest.

‘Talk to me, Hannah,' Paul ordered.

‘There was a train crash.'

‘Jesus, I know. It's all over the news. I tried to call you, but when you didn't answer, I feared the worst and decided to come looking for you. I'm on Route 50 now. Are you all right?'

‘Well, I won't be playing tennis any time soon.'

‘Damn it, Hannah, don't joke. Over the past two hours, I've been out of my mind with worry. Besides, you don't play tennis.'

‘I know. I'm sorry. It's just . . .' Hearing my husband's voice, so calm and reassuring in spite of the seriousness of the situation, sent me off on another crying jag. ‘My arm's broken,' I snuffled, ‘but otherwise I think I'm OK.'

‘Where did they take you?'

‘Prince George's Hospital Center. I'm not sure where that is exactly.'

Andrea leaned forward, cutting in. ‘In Cheverly, near the intersection of 202 and the BW Parkway.'

‘Got it. I'm almost there, Hannah. Ten minutes, max.'

‘Paul,' I sobbed, ‘I love you.'

‘I love you, too, sweetheart.'

When the doctor popped his head into the examination room two minutes later, I was still bawling.

He grabbed my chart out of a box mounted on the wall next to the door, scanned it quickly. ‘Hannah Ives?'

‘Uh, huh,' I sniffled.

The doctor approached the examination table, studying me over the rims of a pair of clear, plastic-framed reading glasses. ‘I'm Doctor Vaughan, and I'll take that as a “yes.”' Dr Vaughan turned to the nurse's aide and asked, ‘Has anybody done a neurological?'

‘Yes. Other than the broken arm, she seems to be fine.'

Dr Vaughan checked my eyes, ran his hands along the length of both legs, squeezing gently, then pressed the fingers of both hands into my belly. ‘Take a deep breath,' he instructed as he felt around my waist and abdomen. ‘Another.'

I didn't scream in agony, which I imagine he took as a good sign. ‘All seems to be normal in that department.'

After he listened to my heart, the doctor said, ‘I've ordered a CAT scan – cervical, lumbar and thoracic. Nothing to be worried about, Hannah, we just want to make sure there's no contusions or hairline fractures.' He patted my leg. ‘You OK with that?'

I nodded.

‘We also have to X-ray that arm. Would you like something for the pain before we proceed?'

I nodded again. ‘I was at Woodstock, doctor. I'm one hundred percent in favor of good drugs.'

Dr Vaughan grunted, scribbled something on my chart, then turned to go.

‘Doctor?' I asked. ‘When will I be able to go home?'

‘One step at a time, Hannah. One step at a time. We're pretty slammed here, as you can imagine, but if the CAT scan turns out negative, once we get your arm set, we'll be sending you home.'