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.’
‘With a supply of good drugs, I hope.’
Vaughan grinned, made a ‘V’ with his fingers. ‘Peace now,’ he said.
By the time Paul caught up with me, the CAT scan was over, perfectly painlessly, as it turned out. They’d rolled me down the hall and into an elevator, hauled me out on another floor, then pushed me into a chamber where a huge white donut of a machine loomed, pulsing with energy, like a transporter on the Starship Enterprise. The gurney, with me on it, slid slowly in, slid slowly out, while I hummed my way through as many Beatles songs as I could remember.
‘How long did the CAT scan take?’ Paul asked me later as my fingernails were digging into his arm against the pain while they X-rayed mine.
‘Two “Hard Day’s Night,” one “Ticket to Ride” and a chorus of “Michelle,”’ I told him, wincing, wondering when the pain meds the doctor had given me were going to kick in.
‘Good to know,’ he grinned.
The X-raying of my arm took longer than I expected – above the joint, below the joint, now ninety degrees to the right, if you please. To the left, to the right again. Thank you. Sheer agony, and more tears.
‘“It Won’t Be Long,” dum-dum-dum, “It Won’t Be Long,”’ Paul crooned in his gravelly baritone, trying to distract me while a nurse got permission to up the dose.
By the time Dr Vaughan got around to setting the bone, I was feeling no pain. I hadn’t been so high since… well, never mind. What happened in the 1970s stays in the 1970s. Applying the cast was a breeze, too, efficient and painless, requiring no Fab Four diversions. While I perched on the end of an examination table holding my arm steady, a physician’s assistant, wearing purple gloves, wrapped it up to my palm in long strips of what looked like white, self-adhesive bubble wrap. Then she applied layer upon layer of fiberglass cast tape, thin as gauze and watermelon pink. ‘The warmth you’re feeling now will go away in a couple of hours,’ she told me as she snipped the tape half through with a pair of blunt scissors and threaded it between my thumb and forefinger, adjusting it to fit. ‘Spread your fingers for me, now, please.’ She glanced up for a moment. ‘The cast will need to stay on for about four weeks.’
‘Your wife should see an orthopedist,’ she advised Paul a few minutes later. ‘Do you need a referral?’