Good Hope Road (9 page)

I stood up and stumbled a few steps away, trying to catch my breath, a sense of panic spiraling through me.
You’re lucky you didn’t kill him. . . .
Old Mrs. Sibley was right. I couldn’t believe what I had just done.

I picked up the tattered sack of pictures, watching as Doc Howard helped Dr. Albright carry Caleb inside while Mrs. Sibley mopped his forehead with a towel.

I followed them up the concrete steps onto the loading dock of the armory and stood there, wondering if I should go inside. The sounds from the dim interior were clear and horrible. Moans, sobs, voices I recognized, Caleb groaning as the doctor helped him onto a cot.

I stepped through the door and stared at the maze of army cots lining the walls of the huge, open room. Overhead, sunlight beamed through high glass-brick windows, lighting the scene like a setting from one of the old war movies Daddy liked to watch late at night.

“Jenilee Lane.” I looked down to see old man Jaans, the neighbor whose cows had walked the fence with me, lying on a cot near the door. It seemed like days since I had passed by his place, but it must have been just an hour or two ago.

Old man Jaans shivered beneath his blanket, even though the day was already warm. I squatted down next to him, the bag crinkling in my lap. “Hi, Mr. Jaans.” He held his hand out, and I slipped mine around it. It seemed strange to touch him, to be that close. When he had come to our place to bring milk and eggs for Mama, he always stayed outside the fence. Just like everyone else.

He coughed, wincing in pain, then drew in a slow, raspy breath. “Is your family all right?” The words were whispered so softly I could barely hear them.

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “Daddy and Nate were gone to the cattle sale when the tornado hit. They haven’t made it back yet.” I bit my lip. “The roads are blocked and all the phones are out. They’re probably just stuck somewhere.” As if saying it with conviction would make it so. “Our house made it through, and I saw this morning that your place looks all right.”

His eyebrows rose, deepening the leathery furrows in his forehead. Shifting painfully, he put his other hand, cold and trembling, on my arm. “What about my cows? Did you see my cows?”

I had a sudden memory of my grandfather touching me that way, his fingers cold against my skin. My heart remembered for a moment how much I loved him, and I smiled at Mr. Jaans, patting his hand. “Your cows looked fine. They’re hungry, though. They followed me down the fence.”

“Oh, praise be!” He let his head fall against the pillow and closed his eyes. “I was on my way home when this thing hit, and I just knowed it had got my cows. Did you see my old white bull, Charlie? He’s scared of storms, you know. Busts loose every time the weather’s bad.”

“No, I didn’t see Charlie, but your cows looked fine.” Amid all the suffering, I felt joy in this one small happy ending, and an unusual tenderness toward Mr. Jaans. “Don’t worry about your bull. You know he always comes home. I’ll go by and feed the cows and look for Charlie when I get home. I’ll watch after them for a few days, all right?”

He smiled, and his hand fell from mine. I tucked my bag of pictures under his bed as his eyes fell closed.

“Watch these for me,” I whispered, but he didn’t answer.

I sat watching him sleep for a moment, wondering what to do next.

A vehicle roared up outside, horn blaring, and across the room Doc Howard and Dr. Albright left Caleb’s cot and ran toward the door.

“We need help!” I heard someone holler outside amid a screech of brakes. “We’ve got three badly injured! We need help!”

A pair of emergency workers burst through the door carrying two little girls. Outside, I heard a woman screaming, “My daughters! My daughters!”

I ran out the door and down the steps to the pickup truck outside. A blond-haired woman was struggling to drag herself from the truck.

“Wait!” I pushed her back. “Wait, let me get some help!”

She grabbed the front of my T-shirt. “My daughters! I have to get to my daughters!”

“It’s all right,” I said, trying to calm her as I would a frightened animal. I smoothed her blood-streaked hair from her bruised face, and recognized her, though I couldn’t remember her name. Her husband was a lawyer from Springfield, and they owned one of the fancy new weekend homes on the lake. Last year they’d sued Mr. Potts because they said his fence was five feet over their property line.

Now here she lay, as helpless as the rest of us. “It’s all right; you have to be calm. We’ll get you inside just as soon as we can.” I felt guilty for every mean thing that had been said around town about her and her husband and their big new house. I felt like our meanness had somehow brought this terrible tragedy on their family.

Her eyes, bruised and nearly swollen closed, looked into mine, terrified, pleading. “My girls,” she sobbed.

“I know.” I cradled her face as the rescue workers hurried from the building to bring her inside. “It’ll be all right,” I said, holding her hand as they lifted her and carried her up the steps. “It’s going to be all right.”

“Code blue! We’ve got a code blue on the little girl!” I heard Doc Howard scream as the rescuers laid the woman on the floor. She moaned in pain, and struggled to see her daughter as Doc Howard prepared to begin CPR.

“She’s not breathing!” Doc Howard tilted the little girl’s head back as Dr. Albright turned from the older girl to the younger one, his movements careful, measured, calm compared to Doc Howard’s.

I thought of how many times Doc Howard had dealt with animal emergencies at the vet clinic, and how he got nearly frantic every time. Doc didn’t like to see anything die. It was one of the reasons I liked him so much. He cared about every living thing. Even me.

By contrast, Dr. Albright was cool, detached. He reminded me of the doctors who treated Mama in the big hospitals—the ones who never looked her in the eye once they realized she was a Medicaid case.

“I’m starting CPR,” Doc Howard said.

The woman moaned and opened her eyes, trying to rise to get to her daughters. “Lie still, ma’am,” I said, pressing against her shoulders. I looked into her eyes, and my mind flashed back to when Mama was in the hospital.

“My . . . girls . . .” Her voice was little more than a whisper through swollen, bloodied lips.

“They’ll be all right.”
Please let it be so
. “The doctors are doing everything they can.”

“Oh, God,” she moaned, sobbing as her eyes filled with tears.

“They’ll be all right. Ssshhh. Lie still.”

Doc Howard paused to check the little girl’s pulse. “Come on,” he muttered.

Dr. Albright turned to the rescuer who had brought her in. “When did she stop breathing?”

“Just now. Just before we brought her inside.”

Dr. Albright glanced at Doc Howard, muttering, “There’s no defibrillator. Continue CPR. This one is the most critical. The other girl is breathing, but nonresponsive, probable internal injury, slow internal bleed, flail chest injury.” He moved efficiently, checking the younger girl’s injuries as Doc Howard continued CPR.

“Come on, breathe,” Doc Howard coaxed.

“Probable rib fracture. Probably internal puncture, deflated lung,” Dr. Albright assessed quickly.

“Oh, God!” the woman sobbed, her arms flailing and hitting Dr. Albright in the shoulder.

“Keep her still, or get her out of here!” he shouted, the first sign of emotion he had shown.

I wrapped my arms around her shoulders, half hugging her, half pinning her down, stroking her hair. “You have to be still so the doctors can work.” I looked into her eyes. The soft green centers were barely visible in her swollen, bruised face. “What’s your first name?” I asked, remembering how the recovery room nurses used to ask that of Mama when they wanted her to settle down and focus.

“Linda,” she whispered, her lips drawing back from her teeth in a grimace of pain. “Linda Whittrock. The girls are Crystal and Jennifer. My husband . . .” She winced again, groaning deep in her throat. “Is my husband here?”

“I’m not sure, Linda.” I didn’t want to tell her that she and her girls had come in alone.

“We were on the lake,” she said, looking sideways at her daughters. “The girls and I pulled the boat up to shore and ran for cover when we saw it coming . . . and . . . God, I don’t know what happened. We ran into a shelter. I can’t remember. . . . How did we get here? Is my husband here? James Whittrock? He was back at our lake house, I think.”

“We’ll find him.” I put my other hand over hers, trying to pour warmth into her cold, damp fingers. “We’ll find him.”

“We have respiration. Heartbeat,” I heard Doc Howard say.

Dr. Albright nodded, barely glancing up from his examination. “Call for LifeFlight ASAP. Tell them we’ve got two females, prox ages seven and nine, critical, multiple internal injuries on both, one with a deflated lung and respiratory arrest.” He spoke with as little emotion as he might have used to order a cheeseburger at a drive-through.

One of the rescuers ran toward the door as Dr. Albright turned to examine the older sister again. The girl opened her eyes, deep and brown against her deathly pale face. She regarded the doctor with a strange calm.

“What’s your name?” he asked, the faintest hint of emotion softening his voice as he touched her abdomen.

“Jennifer.” She looked around drowsily, her eyes settling on Doc Howard. “Is . . . that . . . Santa?”

Dr. Albright moved his hand along her abdomen. “Tell me if this hurts, Jennifer.”

She moaned and tried to curl into a ball as he pressed into her stomach.

“That’s all,” he said to her, then turned to the second rescuer. “Get me a helicopter. Now.”

The rescuer nodded and headed to the door. Mazelle Sibley watched him hurry past, then looked back at the girls, staring at the scene like she was watching an episode of
ER
on television.

“Wait!” I called after the rescuer, but he was already out the door. Desperate, I turned to Mrs. Sibley. “The mother says her husband was at their lake house. Can you ask them to see if he’s been brought in? Ask them to put it on the radio.”
This might be his last chance to see his daughters. . . .

The mother squeezed my hand.

Mrs. Sibley didn’t move.

“Mrs. Sibley, please!” I pleaded.

The volume of my voice jolted her. She jumped, then widened her eyes at me, her nostrils flaring. “Jenilee Lane, you just—”

“Do what she says, Mazelle!” Doc Howard barked. “Just go ask them to put it on the radio!”

Mrs. Sibley gave me a scorching look, and my heart hammered in my chest. I’d spent most of my life ducking blows from people like her. “His . . . his name is James Whittrock.”

She didn’t answer, just spun around and waddled toward the door, her perfectly arranged gray-blue hair flouncing.

Dr. Howard shook his head as he smoothed pale strands of hair away from Crystal’s sleeping face.

Linda clung more tightly to my hand and wept. “Oh, God,” she said. “Please, God. I need my girls.”

I turned away, not knowing what to say.
God doesn’t listen to me. . . .

I realized that Dr. Albright was looking at me, sitting back on his heels, his blue-gray eyes fixed on me, as if he’d suddenly realized I was there. His expression narrowed for just an instant, accenting the frown lines at the corners of his eyes. Was he going to tell me to leave?

Instead, he hung his stethoscope around his neck and used the back of his arm to mop the perspiration from his face, then smooth back the wispy strands of thinning hair that had fallen over his forehead. He glanced at the gold watch on his wrist, as if the time might matter, then moved to Linda Whittrock’s side and began checking her injuries.

“What are her symptoms?”

I realized he was talking to me. “Umm . . . I think she has a broken leg, and something is wrong with her shoulder. Maybe her collarbone, or maybe a bruised rib. She’s hurting every time she moves it.” He caught my eyes, and I sat there, unsure of what else to say. There was a hard, emotionless look about him that reminded me of Daddy, maybe because he was about Daddy’s age. It made me draw back. “I’m not a doctor. I don’t know.”

He nodded, turning back to his work. “I’m aware that you’re not a doctor.” He took a breath to say something more, but one of the rescuers rushed in the door.

“LifeFlight will be here in twenty minutes,” he said. “The girl’s father has been here in the parking lot all night, looking for them. He’s on his way up the hill.”

Mrs. Whittrock turned her eyes toward the door, her eyelids fluttering with pain, until finally there in the doorway stood a man with Jennifer’s brown eyes.

He ran to his family and fell to his knees beside his daughters, kissing them gently, then hugging his wife and whispering, “I knew you were all right. I knew you were all right. Hi, Jennifer. Daddy’s here. . . .”

Watching the father gently kiss the foreheads of his daughters, a sense of power and awe came over me. Despite all the terrible things happening around us, there in the long beams of sunlight filtering through the high windows, something strong and powerful and timeless was present. For a moment there was no destruction, no pain, no injured to be tended. The world was hushed, and there was only the love of a father for his children.

I wondered how that kind of love would feel.

Dr. Albright glanced at me, and for an instant, I thought he was thinking the same thing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

I
held Mrs. Whittrock’s hand as she lay on a cot in the corner. Outside, the whir of the helicopter blades accelerated, and her daughters were lifted away.

“Oh, dear God, they’re gone,” she whispered. “They’re all alone.”