‘No, thank you,’ I interrupted, mildly annoyed that she was talking to my husband as if I were his elderly mother, or had suddenly left the room. ‘My husband’s taught at the Naval Academy for years. There are a number of sports doctors among our acquaintances.’
‘That’s good,’ the PA said, wrapping both of her hands around my colorful cast and pressing gently all along its length to seal it. That done, she straightened, stripped off the rubber gloves and tossed them into a trash receptacle. ‘You’re good to go.’
‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘Everyone here’s been great.’
‘It’s been a difficult night,’ the PA commented, glancing up from the sink where she was washing her hands. ‘We’re lucky, in a way. There were hundreds of injuries. Minor things, mostly – cuts, broken bones like yours, mild concussions – things we can fix. Have you watched the news?’
I shook my head. ‘Been kind of distracted.’
The PA smiled wearily, tucked a strand of her pale, shoulder-length hair back behind one ear. ‘They’re reporting seven fatalities, all in the first car.’
‘That’s where I was sitting,’ I said with a quick, sideways glance at my husband who visibly blanched at the news.
‘Then you have an angel in your pocket, Mrs Ives.’
‘Somebody was watching over me, that’s for sure.’ A vision of that empty seat and the youth sauntering past me to claim it shimmered hauntingly in my brain. I shivered, then swung my legs around, ready to hop down from the table.
The PA laid a restraining hand on my leg. ‘Not so fast! We need to put you in a wheelchair.’
‘Why? I can walk.’
‘Hospital policy.’
I rolled my eyes, but was secretly relieved. It was nearly midnight and I felt like a zombie, sleepwalking my way through what little remained of the day. While Paul trundled off after the PA to fill out some paperwork and pick up my prescription for hydrocodone tablets, I leaned my head against the paper-covered headrest and dozed.
At one point, the nurse’s aide, Andrea, popped in to report that, alas, nobody with a name resembling ‘Skip’ had been brought in as a patient that day. ‘It would help if you had his last name,’ she said, but I didn’t, of course.
Andrea was still with me, speculating cheerfully on what name ‘Skip’ could be short for when Paul returned, pushing an empty wheelchair.
‘Your chariot awaits,’ he quipped. Andrea helped me down from the table and got me comfortably settled in the wheelchair while Paul went off to fetch the car.
‘Where are my things?’ I asked as Andrea pushed me down the hallway like an invalid, through a pair of automatic doors into the humid night air.
‘Don’t worry, they’re right here,’ she said, indicating a large plastic sack hanging by its drawstring from the back of the wheelchair.
After Paul pulled up, she waited until I got settled in the front passenger seat, then leaned across me to fasten the seatbelt.
‘Bye, and thanks,’ I called after her through the open window as she pushed the chair back toward the hospital entrance. She turned and gave me a wave.
Paul slid into the driver’s seat. I suddenly remembered my car, sitting in the parking garage at New Carrollton where I’d left it, oh, sometime in the last century. ‘What about the Volvo?’
‘Later,’ Paul sighed, sounding exhausted, too. ‘We’ll deal with that later.’
‘Good,’ I said as he pulled out of the hospital drive and headed east on 202 toward Route 50. ‘The only thing I can deal with right now is home. And sleep.’
The next morning, I popped a pain pill in the upstairs bathroom, then staggered down to the kitchen a few minutes before eight thirty, lured by the aroma of freshly brewed coffee that had wafted its way up, tendril-like, to the bedroom. I found my husband sitting at the kitchen table, the front page of the Washington Post spread out in front of him.
‘Hey,’ I said, making a beeline for the coffee pot, holding my throbbing arm aloft. Paul had set a clean mug out on the countertop for me, and I filled it gratefully.
When I joined him at the table, he folded the section over on itself and pushed the newspaper aside.
‘Why’d you do that?’ I asked, indicating the banished Post.
‘Do you think you’re ready to read about the accident?’ he asked.
I usually wrap both hands around my mug, appreciating the warmth, but that morning I could only hold on to it one-handed. ‘Someday, but maybe not today.’
‘Ruth’s driving me to retrieve the car,’ he said, changing the subject. ‘Can you tell me where you parked it?’
Yesterday seemed like forever ago. In that distant past, I’d driven in circles inside the multi-story parking garage, twice, maybe three times around. ‘A couple of floors up in the garage nearest the Amtrak station,’ I said at last.
Paul groaned. ‘That certainly pinpoints it nicely.’
‘Aim the keys and push the button,’ I said, pumping my thumb as if I were holding a keyless remote. ‘You’ll find the car eventually.’
‘Where are the keys?’
I had to think for a moment. The keys had been in my handbag, and my handbag was now… where? Through the fog of the previous evening, I suddenly remembered something about another bag. ‘Didn’t the hospital give you a plastic sack with all my stuff in it?’
‘Oh, you’re right. When we came in last night, I set it down in the hall.’ While Paul went off to retrieve my handbag, I slid the Post toward me and opened it up.
They’d identified the first victim, the driver of the train. His picture stared out at me from the right-hand column of the front page: Walter Kramer. A pleasant-looking, bald-headed man with fair skin, smiling green eyes and a spotless, ten-year driving record.
Just above the fold was a chilling picture of our train. Just short of New Carrollton, it had smashed into a stationary train, climbed up its rear, gnashing and grinding, disintegrating along the way.
I stared at Kramer’s photograph. Were you responsible for this carnage, Walter? Surprisingly, I felt no anger, only sadness that this man – who had a wife and two young children – had lost his life, like the other victims, in such a tragic way.
Had he had a heart attack? Autopsy results were not yet available.
Had he been texting on a cell phone? The investigation was continuing.
Was there a system failure? NTSB was on the case.
I heard Paul padding back down the hall, so I shoved the paper aside.
‘Here you go,’ he said, tugging open the plastic drawstring and upending the sack on the table in front of me. Out tumbled my handbag, a clip-on name-tag, a canvas tote of freebies from the fashion show luncheon, and a shopping bag from Julius Garfinkel & Co.
FOUR
‘Oh. My. God.’
Still holding the sack by a bottom corner, Paul gaped at me as if I’d lost my marbles. ‘Is something wrong?’
‘That Garfinkel’s bag. It isn’t mine.’
Paul balled up the plastic sack Prince George’s Hospital Center had provided and tossed it into the trash bin under the sink. ‘Whose is it, then?’
‘Skip’s. The guy on the train I told you about.’
‘Damn! So how did it get in with your stuff?’
‘It was probably lying on the floor next to me when I passed out. The paramedics must have assumed…’
‘Garfinkel’s.’ Paul picked up the bag and peeked inside. ‘I haven’t thought about them for years. They’re out of business now, right?’
I nodded. ‘Late nineteen eighties or thereabouts. What’s inside?’ I asked, my curiosity piqued.
Studying me over the edge of the bag, Paul grinned impishly. ‘What’s in it for me?’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake,’ I laughed. ‘Tell me what’s in there!’
‘A box.’ He spread the opening wider, peered down into its depth. ‘Looks like one of those cardboard boxes that Christmas shirts come in.’