Leave No Child Behind

by Randy Overbeck

  “Where am I?” My voice was so raspy that I didn’t think it could be heard outside my head.

  Why is it people always ask that? I mean, like, duh, I knew where I had to be, but I asked it anyway.

  She reached across me and handed me a bottle of water with a stem. She squirted some into my mouth. “Why, honey, you’re in Canfield Community Hospital.” Then she added, “And my name is Dawn and I’m here to take care of you.”

  My glance wandered around the room and out the window. Beyond the green and yellow plaid curtains, I could see only a gray haziness. It was impossible to tell whether dawn or dusk was crowding the window, or whether the dim light was merely the paleness of another gray, cold day in northern Ohio. I saw no clock in the room and returned my gaze to my visitor.

  I tried my voice again. “What...” I got out and then had to clear my throat. “Uh-huh, what time is it?”

  Dawn must have heard the raspiness in my voice. She lifted the bottle of water to my lips again, as she answered my question. “Well, I don’t know,” she said and glanced at the watch on her wrist, “it’s about 11:20.” She gave my left arm an affectionate pat.

  I reached up to take the glass and noticed for the first time that my right arm was held captive in a tight sling against my body. I switched to my left arm. I sucked through the straw and the water felt wonderfully cool on my throat. I drank greedily.

  “Easy, Miss Sterber,” said Nurse Dawn and her hand eased back the cup slightly. “Take it easy. You’ve gone through a lot. Just a little bit at a time, now.”

  I swallowed, and tried to register what she had said. It took a few moments for the meaning to sink in. I asked, “What day is it?”

  “It’s Saturday, hon.” Her eyes met mine and softened. Then she must have read my mind, because she added, “You must’ve gone through quite an ordeal because you’ve been out for almost forty hours.”

  Her index finger and thumb pinched my wrist and her eyes glanced at her watch, checking my pulse.

  “Forty hours?” My gaze traveled to the sling and then to the tubes snaking down to my body. “What happened? Am I going to be okay?” I said in a hoarse whisper.

  The nurse smiled at me and said, “You’re going to be just fine, don’t you worry none. We’re going to take good care of you and before you know it, you’ll be good as new.” She glanced back down at the chart she had picked up, suddenly avoiding my eyes.

  I looked up at her and she brought her eyes to meet mine. She must’ve read something in my expression because she wrinkled her nose and said, “Let me get the doctor. She can answer your questions better than me.” She patted my hand, turned and was out the door.

  Even through the fog of drugs, I began to feel the dull throb of pain that seemed to radiate from different parts of my body. As consciousness slowly ebbed back, the aches began announcing themselves from my feet to my neck.

  Left alone, fractured thoughts bombarded my brain. I tried to sift through the mental chaos, to think back. What was the last thing I remembered before? Before what? I rested my head back against the pillow and tried to concentrate. Despite the nurse’s overly cheery manner, I felt, I knew something was wrong. It was not just the aches. I felt a hollowness, an emptiness inside, but try as I might, I couldn’t get my mind to acknowledge the memory.

  Then, in one blast, it all burst upon me--the wave, the heat, the explosion. As if suddenly reminded by the memory, my body’s individual pains shot through me. A sharp ache ebbed and flowed from my right shoulder and, when I tried to move my arm a bit in the sling, the hurt went from a rumble to a scream. As I turned to glance toward the door, a sharp pain shot up my left side. My legs hurt too, but I couldn’t quite figure out what was wrong. My eyes traveled down the white sheet and I traced the outline of my legs and feet. I raised my left arm to pull back the covers.

  “Well, it’s great to see you’re awake!” announced another visitor, this time in a polka-dot smock, as she rounded the doorway and strode into my room. “I’m Dr. Stevens, Emily Stevens. I’m the lead physician in the ICU.”

  “Intensive Care?” I croaked. “What’s wrong with me?” I fought to keep the panic out.

  “You’re going to be fine,” Dr. Stevens began. I noticed she had beautiful blond hair done in a smart pageboy and her eyes were sky blue. Her smile caused her features to wrinkle into easy creases, giving me the thought that she must have smiled a good deal. Her slender fingers gently touched the wrist of my right arm, just in front of the sling. I found her touch--like her smile--reassuring.

  “You are far too important a patient for us to let anything happen to you. I’m not sure if I’ve ever had an honest-to-goodness hero for a patient before.”

  I looked back at her and realized, after a bit, she was serious. “A hero?” I said.

  “Yes, ma’am,” she answered. “They tell me you got every student out of the school alive...before the explosion. They said you saved hundreds of lives. I’d say that qualifies for hero status, if anything does.”

  Slowly, the series of events came back to me, snatches of scenes flashing in my head like some crudely edited video. Tyrone’s grin, Tess’s hug, Keith’s head bleeding. Christie’s crumpled form lying on the deck. Rashid falling. Oval drops of blood on the floor. The explosion.

  “Are they okay?” I asked suddenly. “The students? What about Rashid?” Then the memories slammed me. I saw the shocked look on Christie’s face when she realized she was shot. I saw Jerod on the floor, blood coursing from the side of his body. “Did they recover the bodies of the teachers who died...a teacher named Christie Ferguson. And what about Jerod?! Jerod Thomas? Did he make it?”

  Dr. Stevens moved in closer and leaned over next to me. “I’m sure they’re okay, but I can’t tell you about anyone in particular. Dee Dee, you pulled off quite the hero act to get all those kids and teachers out. Right now you need to let us take care of you and let the medical staff take care of them. I’ve been swamped just concentrating on the few that are my patients. None of them had those names, though.”

  I must have looked confused so she pressed on.

  “There were so many injuries we couldn’t handle them all here. So some were flown to Canton Memorial. And others are here, on different floors and in whatever beds were available.”

  “Here,” I said quickly and started to move, trying to sit up. With my slight attempt at movement, the pains that had been murmuring in different locations throughout my body began screaming. “Ow-ow-ow!” I gasped.

  “Now, just hold on there,” said Dr. Stevens. Her voice retained the same calm, soothing tone, but her petite hand was suddenly powerful, forcefully easing my body back down against the bed. “You’re not going anywhere, at least not for a little while.”

  I winced as the pains sliced through my body. The doctor noticed and said, “You’re going to be all right, but you’re going to hurt for a while. It’s just going to take some time.”

  I tried not to move, but stared at her face that hovered directly over mine. With a penlight, she checked my pupils and, bending over, examined both my ears. Then she announced, “Well, your eyes and ears appear to be in good shape. That’s good.”

  I asked the question I had been dreading. “Why am I in ICU? What’s wrong with me?”

  “Nothing that won’t heal in a little time.”

  I raised my head an inch off the pillow, sending jolts of pain down my neck. I took a deep breath. “Doc, I’m a big girl. I can take it. Be straight with me.”

  The smile returned to her face. “Yeah, well after what you’ve been through, I’m sure you can. You certainly got the badges of a hero.” She reached down and placed her hand on my skull, her fingers rubbing gently on my hairline. “First of all, you’ve had a concussion...or maybe two. Must’ve taken some nasty lumps.”

  I managed a weak smile. “Yeah, courtesy of some very nasty terrorists.”

  “Then, according to the officers, you were the closest to the building when the bombs wen
t off. The explosion picked you up and slammed you against the ground. That collision broke three ribs on your right side.”

  Her fingers moved to my side and indicated the area with the slightest of pressure. Even her tender touch ignited the pain.

  “And the fall dislocated your shoulder on that side,” she said, indicating the sling that held my right arm, “and it fractured your fibula.”

  “Oh, is that all?” I laughed without humor.

  “And of course, your whole body has been bruised. But all that will heal in time,” she said, still gentle but more serious.

  “But there’s more, isn’t there? There’s something you’re not telling me?”

  “Yes, a little more,” she said, nodding. “Your lower legs and feet were burned pretty seriously from the explosion.” Her hands gently lifted the white sheet. “Second and third degree burns on both feet and lower legs.”

  Without raising my head, I lowered my eyes to peer down the length of my body, taking in the red, exposed flesh of my legs. From my knees down, both legs looked to be covered in red and blue blisters, running in ugly, crooked lines down my scarred flesh, looking like some bizarre roadmap.

  Horrified, I began to cry. “Will it...” I tried to get out.

  “Heal?” the doctor finished for me. “Yes, I believe it will. We have one of the best burn specialists in this part of the state and he said it looks promising. Probably won’t even need to do any skin grafts, he thinks.”

  I tried to nod, wanting to be braver than I felt.

  Dr. Stevens took my free hand in hers. “In time, you’re going to be able to run marathons or swim or bike or whatever you want. But you’re probably not going to be able to enter any graceful legs competition, I’m afraid. But Jim-that’s the burn specialist--he thinks there won’t even be that much scarring. For a while though, it’s going to hurt like hell.”

  I was silent at first, staring at the ceiling and letting the news sink in. Dr. Stevens knew enough to let me be. Eventually, I was able to drag myself out of my self-pity and remembered the others.

  “What about Jerod? And Christie? Rashid?” I asked quietly, turning my eyes to her.

  Her hand moved to the valve on one of the hanging plastic bags, her two fingers twisting the valve a half turn.

  “I’m going to increase your Demerol to ease the pain,” she said softly. “Try to keep you a little more comfortable to get through the worst of it. It anesthetizes the pain pretty well, but you’re going to sleep some more.”

  When I started to say something, she stopped me. “I’ll check on those names and try to find out for you when you wake up.”

  My eyelids grew incredibly heavy again. I could hear myself breathing and noticed for the first time the beeping of a monitor.

  “Right now, just rest,” was the last thing I heard her say before the shroud of sleep engulfed me again.

  In a barely conscious whisper, I cried, “Jerod...Christie...Rashid...”

  Chapter 60

  I don’t know how long I lay there, slipping between hazy semi-consciousness and drugged slumber. When, at last, the effects of the drugs began to fade and sleep no longer held me prisoner, I stirred and tried to shake the tendrils of unconsciousness. I opened my eyes slowly and glanced around. In the room the darkness was gone, but the light slipping in through the panes did little to lift the oppressive weight of my grief. No matter how hard I tried, the deadly scenes re-ran relentlessly in my head, Christie collapsing onto the deck, her white sweater erupting in red, Rashid’s eyes on mine as the life drained from them, my bare footprints in Jerod’s blood dripping onto the floor.

  “How is my favorite patient today?” I heard the light voice of Dr. Emily Stevens as she entered the room. She saw the tears flowing down my cheeks. “Are you in pain? Do you need me to increase your meds?”

  I shook my head and tried to wipe the tears with my free arm. “No, that’s not it. I have to find out about my friends.”

  “Yes, of course. I told you I’d check on them.” Dr. Stevens looked down, refusing to meet my gaze. “I was just waiting till you came out of the drugs.”

  My heart plummeted and I slammed my head back against the pillows. “They’re dead, aren’t they?” I got out as the sobbing returned full bore.

  “You asked about a Rashid, Rashid Hermani, I assume,” the doctor said. “I’m afraid he died in the ambulance. Wasn’t he one of the terrorists?”

  I snatched a tissue and blew. My head nodded. “But he changed his mind and tried to save me. He sacrificed his life for mine.” Then I remembered my promise to Rashid and my promise to protect his family. My flood of tears restarted in warm trickles on my cheeks. The doctor waited, giving me time.

  “What about Christie?” I asked, already afraid of the answer.

  “Christie Ferguson, one of the teachers?” Dr. Stevens asked and her eyes met mine now. I nodded again and swallowed hard. She went on. “I’m afraid she didn’t make it. They got her out of the school and rushed her here, but she had lost too much blood.” She shook her head slowly.

  “Oh God!” I squealed. My mind conjured up the image of her laughing, hair shaking, beer bottle in hand. “Oh my God!”

  I wept, salty tears running into my mouth. Dr. Emily just stayed by my bed and rested her small hand on my arms. She didn’t speak and the only sounds in the room were the regular beeps of the monitor and my sobbing.

  I could put it off no longer. I grabbed her hand and her gaze met mine. “Please tell me Jerod isn’t dead!” I pleaded.

  “No, he’s alive,” Dr. Stevens said, one tear sliding down her cheek, “but I don’t have many details. He’s not here. They lifeflighted him to Canton Memorial and he’s listed in critical condition.”

  I tried to interrupt her to demand more but she stopped me.

  “With HIPPA, they won’t give me any more information officially, but I’ve got a good friend over there, Dr. Murphy. He said your friend is in a coma. I’m sorry, Dee Dee.” One tear completed its journey down her chin and I watched it splash onto my bedsheet.

  “Oh…God!” I whispered.

  Dr. Stevens reached up and adjusted the dial on the IV feed. Slowly I let sleep swallow me again. I didn’t want to ever wake up.

  Chapter 61

  I refused to accept the prognosis.

  The ordeal had cost me too much already. Rashid sacrificed his life for mine. And Christie was dead. I trembled every time I thought of it, seeing again the bullet transform her smile into a shocked O. God, how I missed that smirk and those witty innuendos. I would not lose Jerod too. I could not.

  All the doctors would say is that the trauma from the wounds and the loss of blood were so severe they didn’t know what to expect. The tests showed that Jerod maintained minimal, but continuous brain activity. With each week that passed, though, their platitudes became a little weaker. As the coma dragged into its sixth week, they began to venture that “we should prepare ourselves for the possibility that he might not wake up.” But I stubbornly refused to accept that. Crutches and all, each day I clumsily climbed into my car--my right leg had healed well enough and the doctors reluctantly allowed me to drive--and made the thirty-minute trip up the highway to the hospital in Canton.

  In between my grueling physical therapy I spent hours in that sterile hospital room, meeting Jerod’s family, what there was of it. Two fussy, spinster aunts who lived together and could finish each other’s sentences and a gentle, gray-haired grandmother who was the closest thing he had to a parent. Right away, I liked them and I think they liked me.

  We had tried to cheer each other up with hopeful promises and reassurances of his improvement. Together for much of the time, the four of us clung to each other and to the stubborn belief that he would soon wake up and, in inimical Jerod fashion, would start flirting with the nurses and complaining about the food.

  But as the weeks dragged on, the optimism of Jerod’s relatives had diminished, the smiles of the three ladies faded day by day like the
dusk-erased sunlight on the western horizon. Eventually, the two aunts, Ferdie and Eloise, left Canton, saying they needed to return to their home and jobs in Stanley, more than an hour away.

  “We really need to get back to our place,” Ferdie had begun.

  “Our cat will be going crazy now,” Eloise had continued.

  “Miss Larson only agreed to watch Snickers for a little while,” Ferdie went on.

  “And you know Snickers can be quite a handful,” added Eloise.

  I had nodded, as if I understood, but I recognized that they had given up. They had accepted the prognosis and were getting on with their lives--though they’d never say that out loud. The thought occurred to me that they might be the smart ones, but I just couldn’t bring myself to do that.

  His grandmother, an unpretentious woman with a face permanently creased into a sad smile and who insisted I call her Catherine, held on longer. Though she held it in well, I learned that her pain at watching Jerod in this state was deep and personal. She told me she had buried Jerod’s mother, her daughter, and she wasn’t about to watch them lower a casket with her favorite grandson into the cold earth.

  “I guess this was my fault,” Catherine, with her thinning gray hair pulled in a bun, blurted out one day when we were alone, sitting in the two chairs beside his bed. Her gray-green eyes stared at Jerod’s still form on the bed, his only motion the slight rise and fall of his chest.

  “Why would you say that?”

  “Well, I’m the one who talked him into coming up here from Tennessee,” she insisted and adjusted her bifocals atop a small nose.

  “Yeah, he told me that you passed the info about the jobs at HBE to him,” I answered. “But I think he would claim it was his idea to take that advice.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” she said, her wan smile returning.

  “Besides, I’m the one who got him into the whole thing,” I said, my own guilt suddenly fresh and raw. “If he hadn’t tried to save me, he’d probably been safe.”