Hillary pats Roger on the back—the most affection I’ve ever seen between them. “It’s okay, Rog—you didn’t mean to do anything. So what actually caused the fire?”
“One of the firefighters explained it to us: the wiring was really old anyway, and the heat from too many things plugged in must’ve made a weak spot burst into flames. Hill—I was so scared—I didn’t know what to do…” And Roger starts crying now, too.
I feel awkward being here as if I’m part of the family. I can’t think of what to do except sit quietly and wait to see if I can help later. As I sit in one of a row of hard plastic waiting room chairs, an older woman in a white coat with long grey hair wrapped around her head in a braid comes out of the heavy swinging doors. I assume this must be one of the ER doctors, coming to tell the family some news about Ri-ri.
“Mr. and Mrs. Calvano? I’m Amanda Hannigan. I’ve been treating your daughter since the ambulance arrived.” And she shakes hands with both Mr. and Mrs. C, then smiles kindly at me, Hill, and Roger. Roger makes a valiant attempt to stop his tears in front of Dr. Hannigan.
Mr. C speaks up and says, “Thank you, doctor. How’s Patrice doing?”‘
Then Mrs. C.. “She was unconscious when we found her, and all the way here in the ambulance from Shively. Please, tell us she’s going to be okay…”
Dr. Hannigan motions for all of us to sit, and then pulls up another chair across from Hill’s parents. “I won’t pretend that this isn’t a very serious situation. Your daughter inhaled a large amount of smoke, as well as receiving some burns in her throat.” Mrs. C. looks like someone just punched her in the stomach and knocked the wind out of her. “The burns themselves will heal fairly easily—Patrice is young and otherwise healthy, and her face is remarkably unscathed. But the extent of the internal damage from smoke requires immediate treatment. Thankfully, the paramedics redirected the ambulance here to Kindred at the Jewish Hospital Heliport as soon as they assessed your child’s condition. We have the hyperbaric treatment she needs here.”
Hillary speaks directly to the doctor for the first time, “Hyper-baric? What is that—exactly?”
I’m so impressed with Dr. Hannigan; she turns gently to Hillary and tries to explain. “You must be Patrice’s big sister. I’m sure she’ll be grateful to see you when she wakes up. She’ll need to go into a hyperbaric chamber to enhance her body’s ability to take in oxygen. She was intubated in the ambulance, and has been receiving oxygen in the ER, but it isn’t enough. I don’t mean to scare you—all of you—but smoke and carbon monoxide toxicity can cause the blood to be starved of oxygen, as well as creating neurological problems…”
Mr. Calvano voices the fear we all have, “Could Patrice—die? Please be honest, doctor.”
Dr. Hannigan looks a little nauseated; telling a family that their four-year-old might die is obviously a horrible part of her job.
“We’re hoping for her body to recover, since we don’t really know how long she was exposed to the fire and smoke—the first few hours are important. We’ll do everything in our power to help your daughter.”
Mrs. C. starts crying again. “My baby—how could I have let this happen?”
Roger bursts out, “Mama, it was my fault—the power strip and everything!”
“This isn’t helping,” breaks in Mr. C. “The firefighters said the wiring was old and a weak spot just gave out. Assigning blame doesn’t help Ri-ri. Let’s just get her into the treatment as fast as possible.”
Dr. Hannigan looks relieved. “Good. Mr. and Mrs. Calvano, if you come with me, we need to fill out some paperwork. I think you’ll be able to see Patrice before they transport her to the chamber.” And Hill’s parents anxiously follow the white-coated figure back through the swinging doors.
While we wait, Hill and I, with Roger occasionally looking on, use Hill’s phone to try to find out something about the treatment they’re giving Ri-ri. It sounds pretty scary for a four-year-old, but, of course, she’s unconscious right now anyway. For once, I’m almost jealous of my Mom’s strong Christian faith: I wish I could believe enough to ask Jesus to help little Patrice. But I just can’t do it. So I hold Hill’s icy hand and try to send positive healing energy through the swinging doors of the ER.
* * * *
They let one person go with Ri-ri to another part of the huge hospital where the hyperbaric chamber is. Of course, her mom stays with her, so Mr. C. comes back out to the waiting room to get us. He explains that, no matter how the treatment goes, Ri-ri will be taken to the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit afterwards. Dr. Hannigan said we should go to that waiting area, and she’ll meet us there later.
It turns out to be almost six hours before we see Dr. Hannigan again. A nurse, Mr. Patel, becomes our life line to info about Ri-ri. After a while, I think we all begin to regard his solemn, friendly dark face as a gift from the universe.
I make a quick call to Aunt Penny, who has heard through the “Shively grapevine” that there was a fire at the Calvano place. Of course, she’s been worried since way earlier in the evening when I didn’t come home for dinner. Apparently, she called Mrs. C first, who said she thought we were at the library with Dax. So, thankfully, she hasn’t been actually freaking out this whole time. Still, it’s now about 11:00 P.M., so she’s really glad to hear from me, and tells me to do whatever I can to help the Calvanos, and that she will be praying for little Patrice. At least for now, Penny knows nothing about Mariah or my strange tale of vampire attraction. I try to put the whole issue out of my mind to be there for Hill and her family, but it’s hard to get Mariah out of my head. It’s almost like I can hear her calling to me…
About midnight, Mr. Patel suggests we go to the cafeteria and take a break from the waiting room. Roger jumps right on this idea—I’m sure he must be starving judging by his eagerness to eat hospital food. We find the cafeteria easily on the second floor, and the food is actually not that bad. We all have a grilled cheese, Hill and I adding a serving of broccoli, and Mr.C. proclaims the coffee “Quite acceptable.”
Refreshed and ready to find out more info, hopefully some good news, we head back to the PICU waiting area.
About 2:00 A.M., all four of us are dozing in the cramped vinyl chairs, when Dr. Hannigan finally shows up. She has a slight smile on her tan, weathered face, which is encouraging. “Calvano family? I’m glad to find you here. I have some positive news to report about Patrice.”
We all wake up fully at this statement, Hill and I both absent-mindedly smoothing our hair.
“The HBOT regime seems to have been a good choice. Because her burns weren’t serious, we could afford to keep her in the chamber for an extended period. She’s a tough little cookie; her body seems to be fighting the systemic toxicity.”
At this, Mr. C. finally gives in to his own tears. Hill goes over and puts her arm around her dad.
“Patrice will be in a room within about forty-five minutes. Of course, it is the ICU, so only one visitor at a time. And remember, she’s still largely unconscious, although she does occasionally flutter her eyelids and is making some small movements with her extremities.”
“Fingers and toes,” I whisper to Hill, not even sure why I know this. She nods.
“Thank you, doctor. We’re very grateful for everything you’ve done,” says Mr. Calvano.
“As I said, your wee daughter is a fighter. Just be patient with her improvement, yes?”
“Of course.”
Chapter 35: Running Away
My first problem after making the impossibly painful decision to leave Kentucky—and Emelia—behind me is to find a mode of transportation accessible to me. I know about train travel from my time with Lily; of course, there were trains traveling all over the east coast in the 19th Century. But I have no idea where to catch a train here in Kentucky. I’m also not sure how much money trains cost in the twenty-first century, and if I have enough for a ticket.
This dilemma stops my departure for almost two days, during which I spend as much
time as possible away from my home. Emelia now knows where it is, and the worst possible turn of events would be for the girl to come looking for me here. I am not so sure I would have the strength of will to either turn her away or leave her behind.
Finally, in the computer room, I find Santina and her friend Carys. Perhaps they could inform me about modern train travel from Kentucky.
“Hello, Santina.”
“Hey, Mariah—what’s up?”
“I need to take a trip. To—to visit—my aunt. In Indiana.” I create this story on the spot, thinking of anything that makes at least a bit of sense. Until this moment, I had not even determined my destination. Santina and Carys look a bit confused.
“Okay…is she sick or something?” asks Carys.
That would be appropriate—to visit a sick relative, right?
“Yes, she’s sick. And I need to get there as soon as I can. I have some money saved.”
They still look bewildered, probably wondering why I’m telling them this seemingly pointless story. I think fast.
“Anyway, do you know where the train station is? And how much money I need?”
Santina shakes her head, but looks as if she’s thinking it over. “I’m sure there’s a train station in Louisville—probably downtown. Just look online and you should be able to find everything you need.”
Of course! Why had I not thought of this before? All information is on the computer, and I know this—I have been so distracted about Emelia I just wasn’t thinking.
“Sure, of course,” I say, attempting a light laugh as if laughing at myself. “I’ll look online.” And I go to a computer on the other side of the room.
As I’m searching for train schedules and fares, Mr. Perry comes up behind me.
“Hey, Mariah. How’s it going today? Can I help maybe?”
Well, perhaps he can…
“I don’t mean to bother you, Mr. Perry. But I’m having some trouble finding what I need. My aunt is sick—she lives in Indiana.” I feel a bit ashamed at how easily this lie comes from my mouth. “I thought I would take a train, but it seems to cost more than I have saved. Do you have any other ideas?”
Mr. Perry looks concerned; what a genuinely nice man. Then he says, “You might look into taking a bus. It’s cheaper, plus you can get a bus into the main station from right here in Jeffersontown.”
I should have asked about the bus in the first place! I’ve seen buses in town. I just immediately thought of the train idea for some reason.
Mr. Perry goes on, “Sure, that’s it. You can get the Route 40 bus on Taylorsville Road, and then go into the Louisville main station. Just ask the driver to tell you when to get off. Then you can get a ticket for—where did you say your aunt is?”
“Indiana—think fast—Clarksville.” It was the first town I thought of. I must have seen it on a map or something.
“Okay,” says Mr. Perry, with a satisfied air. “You think that will work?”
I want him to know he’s helped—it sounds to me as though his idea will work…“Sure—thanks so much—I really appreciate the advice.”
He nods kindly, and flashes me the sparkling smile that first made me trust him.
“I need to go now,” I say. “My foster mother will drive me to the bus stop, I think.” An extra detail to make my story authentic. Of course, I intend to go much farther west than Indiana. And I probably don’t have enough money to waste some on the local bus to downtown. I’ve heard about hitchhiking, and I might give it a try. After all, I can’t be killed because I’m already dead. And I can kill a mortal if I need to.
* * * *
Later that night, I’m standing along Taylorsville Road with my parcel of belongings and my gold coins in my trouser pocket. I haven’t fed in two days, and I know that I need to find nourishment. I promise myself I’ll do so as soon as I get to the downtown bus station and buy my ticket. Certainly there will be small rodents and such in a city square…
A steady stream of cars comes along this main road—mostly families and older people. I would rather get a ride with a single person, in case there is actually a need to defend myself in some way. I try to be patient and watch for the right person.
Soon, there’s a large truck coming around the bend behind me. I can’t see the driver because of the bright headlights, but it seems logical that the driver will probably be alone. I close my eyes and try to trust the universe, then stick out my thumb as I’ve seen in videos. He stops!
“Hey there, baby. Where ya’ headed?” he shouts above the noise of his truck and the road. “I’m takin’ this rig into Louisville, if ya’ want to go anywhere near downtown.”
I have never heard the word rig and I don’t know exactly where the bus station is. Maybe this scruffy-haired Kentucky truck driver knows. “Hello,” I say. “I need to get to the bus station—the main station downtown. I would appreciate a ride, if you could help me.”
He gives me a look that reminds me a bit of Abigail Williams back in Salem: sort of calculating and cold. It sends a shiver up my spine; yes, even vampires can be afraid. But I need to get there, and, after all, I can become invisible—or even kill if I need to. But I have not killed a human for a long time, and this is not something I want to do.
Riding in the cab of this large vehicle called a rig, I observe my human companion. He’s heavy in the belly and the face, much like Magistrate Samuel Sewall whom I recall from the Salem trials. He looks to be in his mid-thirties or so, but I seem to still have trouble judging age in this modern time of better doctoring and scientific knowledge. The driver’s hair is brownish and short, curly and not very clean. He also has a rather villainous-looking mustache. Again I remind myself that this is only a twenty-minute ride, and that I’m able to protect myself if needed.
“So, where ya’ headed, sweetie?” says my driver. “Running away from home?”
I am not accustomed to being called by a pet name. Even Lily only shortened my name to “Mar,” and I knew her intimately. I want to put a stop to this right away, but I don’t want to be rude.
“My name is Mariah, sir. And I’m going to the bus station to take a bus to see my aunt. She’s ill.”
“Okie dokie, Mariah. Sorry about your aunt, swe…Miss.”
He seems to have gotten the message. After this exchange, a silence falls, punctuated by a few looks from the portly truck driver. He never tells me his name, and I don’t ask. I just want to get to the bus station before I can change my mind about leaving Emelia.
Most of the route heads straight north on 7th Street. Soon we come to the outskirts of downtown Louisville, and 7th Street becomes 9th at one point. I begin to see some dingy shops and houses in various states of disrepair. I didn’t realize until now how pretty and safe my neighborhood near the high school had been. It sounds strange, but I will miss some things about Jeffersontown: my familiar lair, Mr. Perry and the computer room, even Coach and the football boys. Emelia is not all I’m leaving behind for the completely unknown and frightening place called California. For some reason, I have determined that San Francisco is my destination.
I sit lost in these nostalgic thoughts, not realizing that “Driver Man” is glancing at me in a strange way. He looks almost as though he wants to consume me. He’s not a vampire—I have a fairly accurate sense of mortality in those I interact with. When I glance at him and give him a tentative half-smile, he takes his right hand from the steering wheel and puts it on my knee. I have a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach that trouble is afoot on this ride to downtown.
Twenty minutes later, the driver is dead.
Shortly after the hand-on-the-knee maneuver, he stops the truck on the side of the road and tries to thrust his large, rough hand down my shirt. He does this without saying a word, as if he expected that this was what I expected. I did not; the thought had never crossed my mind. I push him away, but he has strong arms and pushes me down on the front seat of the rig, meanwhile yanking at the opening of his trousers. I have never h
ad sexual relations with a male, and I have no intention of letting this act go forward. I feel for my stiletto in my pocket, but the weight of the man on me will not let me reach it. I’ll have to think of some other way—fast!
Over the man’s burly shoulder, my glance falls on the partially open front window. Maybe I can shove him out of the truck and then run away invisibly. While he’s preoccupied with freeing his private parts from his trousers, I place both hands flat on his chest and shove with all my strength. He makes a loud “ummphh” sound of surprise, as his body flies back toward the window. I see now that his entire body will never fit through, but his head is just the right size. One blow from my fist under his chin sends his head and neck through the open window, where about two inches of glass sticks out from the base.
I am proud of myself for thinking so quickly in such a desperate situation—with his head out the window, shouting curses at me and the world in general, I again use all my strength and push down on his head. I hear a loud pop as his neck strikes the edge of the glass, and then his entire body goes limp as a child’s cloth poppet, unconscious and barely breathing. Soon, he will be dead. I must have broken his neck.
Breathing raggedly and overcome with shock, I try to remain calm and think what to do next. I know I need to get away from the scene of the crime as soon as possible, yet I hesitate, feeling the hollow gnawing in my gut that means I need to feed. I am repulsed by the corpse of this evil man, yet I can feel the call of his blood.
Realizing that I have involuntarily become invisible to mortals through the trauma that just occurred, I think that there will be no additional harm if I take the time to feed. I use my stiletto and make a small hole in his wrist, then drink—making sure to avert my gaze into the nearby woods. Soon, my body is satisfied, and my thoughts turn again to the reason I’m on this road in the first place: Emelia. How I wish things were different! Sadness at leaving Emelia behind before we even have time to form a real connection is only slightly overshadowed by my willingness to spare her the life of the undead. Still, I long to hear her voice just once more. But this cannot be.
Buried Secrets Page 14
