“Did you have a practice in Florida?”
He nods, eats the last of his sandwich, and then says, “I got my degree down there and opened a solo practice right out of school. It was mostly elderly patients with the typical aging and depression issues. It got boring after a while and to be honest, it was a bit of a challenge trying to make a go of it with the pathetic Medicare reimbursements. I’m sure there were wealthy retirees down there but as the new kid on the block, I couldn’t seem to attract them.”
“How is your practice doing here?”
“Better than expected. I had forgotten what a hotbed of dysfunction a small town can be,” he says with a practiced smile. “I’m hoping to move into a better office soon and then I’ll be looking for an assistant. But I haven’t one yet, so . . .” He makes a pointed glance toward his watch and I decide to let him off the hook, knowing I’m not likely to get much more out of him anyway.
“I appreciate you taking the time to talk to me,” I tell him, scooping up my disgusting cottage cheese dish and slapping the lid on it.
“No problem,” he says, though we both know he doesn’t mean it. “I suppose I’ll have to go over it all again when that cop comes by later.”
“Well, I’ll try to share what you’ve given me with him and maybe that will help to expedite things.”
“Thank you.”
“In the meantime, if you could get me a list of the patients you saw that day and permission to talk with them, I’d appreciate it.”
“I’ll do what I can but I’m not making any promises.”
“I’m sure you’ll find a way,” I say with forced sweetness. “You can assure all of them that I’ll keep the information in the strictest confidence.”
“I’ll let you know when I have something.”
“Please do.” I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he stalled on the matter, so I add, “And if I don’t hear from you in the next day or so, I’ll be back in touch.”
Back outside in my car, I take a moment to reflect on our conversation. My gut tells me Nelson wasn’t as forthcoming as he could have been and I suspect he might be holding back critical information. But until I can follow up on his alibis, there isn’t much else I can do here.
I can’t wait to talk to Hurley and let him know I beat him to the punch interviewing Nelson. Of course, I’ll do so under the guise of sharing information with him but that won’t stop me from gloating. I wonder if he’s planning on attending the Heinriches’ autopsies and decide to call and ask him.
The light at the approaching intersection turns green and I speed up to go through it. Since I haven’t yet figured out how to put anyone on speed dial, I am momentarily distracted by trying to find the right numbers to punch on my cell. As a result, I never see the car hurtling toward me from the side, its driver oblivious to the red light.
The impact knocks the wind out of me and my car is tipped up on the driver side wheels. It seems to teeter there for a second before it finally goes over the rest of the way, coming down hard on the roof, rolling and rolling like a barrel. I feel a blinding pain on the top of my head and then I don’t feel anything at all.
Chapter 19
I hear voices—one very loud one in particular—and the sounds of someone retching. The loud voice is yelling, “Get back! Move away, people. We need some space here.”
My eyes are glued shut and I can feel something sticky and gooey all over my face. At first I can’t remember where I am or how I got here, but then the male voice is speaking again, closer to me and softer in tone.
“Miss? Can you hear me? My name is Hal and I’m an EMT. You were in a car accident and we’re here to help you.”
I try to nod but a horrible pain knifes through my head and neck, freezing me in place. I manage a moan.
“Damn it, Chuck,” Hal says. “Get a grip and get in here. She’s got a pretty extensive head injury and I need some help.”
Then I hear another male voice, this one much shakier. “Sorry,” the second voice mutters. “It’s just that I’ve never seen brain matter all over the place like that.” With that he gags and I hear the retching sounds again.
Then his words sink in. Brain matter? Is he talking about me? That can’t be very good. How is it I’m able to think if my brains are leaking?
In order to survive as a nurse, particularly an ER nurse, there is a certain skill you must have: the ability to override your natural instinct to panic in highly stressful situations. For some it comes naturally; for others it must be learned. I am one of the lucky ones; my fight or flight reaction is so dulled that theoretically I should have been weaned from the gene pool centuries ago, my kind stomped to death by charging wooly mammoths. But a number of people like me survived the odds and you’ll find the majority of us in fields like emergency medicine, police work, and search and rescue.
That instinct kicks in now as I try to make sense of how I can hear, see, and feel things if my brains are playing Humpty Dumpty. Logic tells me it can’t happen but there’s no one else in my car.
Wait. Maybe I’m dead. Maybe this is what it’s like in the afterlife, or in those few moments before your soul says I’m outa here and flees the premises. Except I feel pain. Do dead people feel pain? Having never been dead before, this question momentarily stumps me.
Then I take a strange mental segue and remember how my hairdresser, Barbara, helped me plan out my funeral. I recall how good I looked when we were done and find some solace now in the knowledge that if I have to be dead, at least I’ll look stunning during those last good-byes. I have absolute faith in Barbara’s ability to put Humpty Dumpty back together again.
Then I hear another voice, one I recognize, one that makes my pulse quicken—though I suppose that could be because I’m hemorrhaging.
“Christ, that’s Winston,” Hurley says. His voice sounds a bit shaky.
“You know her?” Hal asks.
“I do. Is she okay?”
“Too soon to tell,” Hal says, sounding worried. “It appears she has a serious head injury and as soon as my partner here can get his stomach under control enough to help me, we’ll get her immobilized and out of the car. Then I might be able to give you a better idea of her condition. In the meantime, if you want to talk to her, offer some encouragement, there’s a good chance she’ll be able to hear you even if she’s in a coma. You never know what might make a difference.”
A second later I hear Hurley’s voice again. “Damn it, Winston. This is no time for games. You get it together now. And if you think this is going to get you out of our steak dinner bet, you have another think coming.”
I assume, based on the tremor in his voice, that this is what passes for concern in Hurley’s world. I’m touched, and I want to open my eyes and see him, but they are glued shut.
I hear the second EMT, Chuck, clear his throat and say, “I think I’m okay now, Hal. Let me help.”
Hands gently cradle and move my head as I feel the cold plastic of a cervical collar being slid into place behind my neck. As the collar is being secured, a gloved hand rubs up against my cheek, pushing something wet and sticky onto my upper lip. And then it hits me: the smell of strawberries. At first I think I might be having an olfactory hallucination, smelling things that aren’t there because of whatever damage has been done to my brain cells. Then another smell registers, one that bears a faint resemblance to sour milk.
Suddenly it all makes sense. I raise one of my hands and take a swipe at my eyes. It makes the smells intensify and I manage to get one eye open a slit’s worth, though the other one is staying stubbornly closed. Through the open one I can see a red haze mixed with a few whitish-gray chunks on my fingers. I stick them in my mouth and give the goo a tentative taste test.