“I have a lot of papers to grade tonight,” Sam said. “Can you stay over and keep me company?”
“I have to be home for Trevor,” Julie said.
“That’s it, I’m calling the real estate agent soon as we get back.”
Julie laughed warmly as Sam fired up his engine.
“Don’t laugh, I’m serious,” he said.
Julie climbed on her bike and blew him a kiss. “And I’m glad.”
They backed their bikes out of the garage. Skill with a motorcycle had more to do with correct technique than brute strength, and Julie was all about doing things the right way. She led by example at work and at home. She hoped Trevor would adopt her ways, but it seemed Paul’s influence was winning out.
Still, Trevor could recite on command Julie’s list of three things in life not to waste—time, money, and potential—and this gave her hope that Trevor would one day mature into better life habits.
Soon they were on the road, headed west to the Berkshires. Julie felt peaceful and exhilarated all at once. Thin clouds scudded in front of the morning sun, darkening a splendid blue sky. It was the first Sunday of September, the long Labor Day weekend, and an unseasonable chill in the air hinted at summer’s final good-bye. Julie’s leather jacket provided warmth against the biting wind.
They took the highway so they could make good time getting to the day’s main event, a thirty-five-mile stretch of Route 20 called Jacob’s Ladder Trail Scenic Byway. The road wound through Russell, Huntington, Chester, and Becket before ending in downtown Lee.
Just beyond the Russell town line, the rambling Westfield River came into view. It was a spectacular sight, and Julie followed Sam into a scenic pullout. She dismounted and removed her helmet, shaking her head to let her long, chestnut hair tumble to her shoulders.
“I find it so insanely hot every time you do that,” Sam said after removing his own helmet.
“And this is so insanely beautiful.”
Julie took an invigorating breath. Already some flashes of color were brushed upon the leaves of the vast forest, just beyond the riverbank. The fall was always Julie’s favorite season—a time for renewal and optimism, and of course pumpkin everything. This would be the first year Trevor had no plans to go trick-or-treating. Julie was surprised that this made her feel a little sad.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a phone call from Paul. “Hi, what’s going on?”
Paul said, “Trevor has to do a book report and wants to know if you can pick up the book for him at the library.”
Julie kept her annoyance in check. “Paul, I’m in the Berkshires. I believe you have the same access to a library as do I. And why wouldn’t he want to go to a library? There’s no place better.”
“I’m working on a sculpture and Trevor’s enjoying helping.”
Her jaw tightened. “You better not be giving my son a blowtorch,” Julie said.
“No. You made your feelings about that quite clear.”
“Well then, let me make this clear to you, as well. Don’t be lazy. Go take your son to the library. Give him a hug from me. I’ll see you both tonight.”
“But—”
“Good-bye, Paul.” Julie ended the call.
Sam gave Julie a wry smile. “You really are a great ex, you know that?”
“My mother taught me how to do it right. She had plenty of practice.”
“Third time’s the charm.”
“Paul means well. He’s just a little, I don’t know—immature, I suppose.”
For all of Paul’s deficiencies, he loved his son. Julie was happy that she and Paul kept a cordial relationship. She could wish all she wanted for Paul to be more mature, more reliable, more dependable. Then again, they were divorced for good reason. Paul might not have had full-blown Peter Pan syndrome, but indications of the condition were certainly there.
In college, Paul’s carefree attitude, his spontaneity, his joie de vivre, had captured Julie’s heart. Years later, and especially after Trevor was born, what had been endearing turned frustrating. Julie was all for carefree moments, but on a daily basis, what she wanted most was a partner.
Many of Julie’s friends admired her ability to keep the acrimony to a minimum. She simply felt that it served no purpose. Trevor benefited from having two parents actively involved in his life.
“You know I rarely speak to Karen since our split,” Sam said, “but when I do it’s a lot less friendly.”
“You don’t have kids with her, so there’s less of a reason to keep up friendly relations,” Julie replied.
Sam gazed out at the rambling water, looking a bit wistful. “When we got married, I thought kids were in the plan.”
“She thought you were going to go work for your father’s company and become obscenely rich. I’ve said it before. It’s not a coincidence that as soon as you decided to become a teacher, Karen decided she didn’t want kids. It was emotional blackmail, nothing more.”
Sam got that faraway look in his eyes again.
“I love what I do, but I regret not becoming a father.”
“You’re great with kids and with Trevor,” Julie said.
“Speaking of Trevor, I bought the wood for the table we’re going to make. I can’t say he seems super excited to help me, but he didn’t say no, either.”
“He’ll come around eventually,” Julie said. “This is hard for him. It’s a big adjustment for us all.”
“I know I’m not Trevor’s father, and I would never try to replace Paul,” Sam said, “but I’m going to treat him like a son. That’s a pledge and a promise.”
A lump wormed into Julie’s throat. “Just another reason why you’re the man for me,” she said.
They rode the rest of the byway and got lunch at a cute restaurant Sam had found on Yelp. The journey home was easy and wonderful. Julie rode alongside Sam whenever possible, and otherwise kept a safe distance behind him. For those few hours, all her worries about Trevor, the pressures of her job, nagging concerns about selling her home and moving in with Sam receded to the back of her mind. The road liberated her from anxiety. She loved the feel of her bike, and admittedly took pleasure in the looks she got from other motorists. Her engine hummed like a finely tuned instrument. The vibration against her hands relaxed her muscles.
Everything about that moment was perfect.
CHAPTER 7
They left 95 to merge onto 109, a busy two-lane road that wound through a number of quiet suburbs. Sam’s home was ten minutes away. Julie planned to park her bike in Sam’s garage and drive her Prius into Cambridge, arriving in plenty of time to greet Trevor—with his library book, she hoped. Her electric car did not turn heads like her motorcycle, but she got occasional questions from people considering a purchase, and a few scowls from some who typecast her as a tree-hugging liberal.
A white Honda Civic, driving erratically in front of Sam, triggered Julie’s concern. The first sign of trouble came when the Civic swerved onto the shoulder where the road curved sharply. The car wheels chopped up dirt and gravel, kicking loose stone onto the road before the driver corrected the error. The sky had darkened enough so Julie could see light from a cell phone illuminate the driver in a bluish haze.
Damn menace, she thought.
Sam motored along behind the Civic while Julie slowed to put some distance between her bike and the distracted driver. She wanted Sam to do the same; sometimes he trusted that his riding skills would trump other people’s stupidity.
The road turned. Julie could not see around the bend, but she did note that the double yellow dividing line was a solid one.
Do not pass. Blind curve.
Maybe they need a line for “don’t look at your phone while driving,” she thought.
The Civic veered again to the right. Julie’s breaths came in short bursts. She suddenly felt unsteady on her bike as her anxiety spiked.
She glanced at the speedometer.
Forty.
She had no wiggle room if that Civic di
d something really foolish. Before Julie could honk out a warning to Sam, the Civic swerved yet again, this time steering into the left lane just at the point when the blind curve straightened.
Immediately, Julie saw what was coming down the road. A red pickup truck (Ford, Dodge, impossible to say) was headed right for the Civic. The world downshifted into slow motion.
Julie, who had sensed the danger, knew for certain that the Civic had drifted too far left to avoid a collision.
These cars are going to hit … slow down … pull off to the side of the road.
She braked, preparing to pull over. The driver of the pickup blared his horn and slammed on his brakes. The truck went into a skid and the Civic turned hard right. Long black skid marks marred the road where the Civic’s tires failed to gain traction. Sam braked maybe a second after Julie, but he was in front of her, closest to the coming crash.
The next moments happened fast, too fast to take it all in, and yet each brutal detail came at her like single frames of an advancing filmstrip. The pickup swerved to avoid a head-on collision, but the Civic smacked into the truck’s rear. There was a ferocious crunch of metal on metal. Glass shattered. The impact changed the trajectory of the pickup and sent it at an angle into the oncoming traffic. It crossed the highway dividing line and came shooting toward Sam like a half-ton missile.
Sam was pulling to the side of the road, leaning his body and bike as far right as he could without tipping over. As this happened, the Civic spun in a complete circle before it skirted across the left lane, then shot off the road entirely and crashed into the trees. Branches snapped fiercely and more glass exploded as if a bomb had gone off inside the car, followed by a whoosh when the Civic’s air bag deployed.
Julie applied her brakes hard. Her bike teetered without going over. Sam accelerated, trying to avoid a direct hit with the pickup as it veered into their lane. Julie was overcome with a terrible knowing. The pickup was traveling too fast and Sam was not going fast enough. The front left fender of the pickup collided hard with the rear tire of Sam’s motorcycle. The pickup slipped into a harder skid as the rear wheel of Sam’s bike lifted off the road.
The bike’s front wheel spun across the pavement like a runaway gyroscope before it lost traction entirely. The bike went airborne, with Sam riding it the whole way. How high was he when he finally let go—five feet? Maybe more. His body was still moving forward. It looked like both he and the bike were flying.
Sam flipped over in the air and landed hard on his back as the bike’s rear wheel struck him in the chest. The bike bounced off him, then the pavement, with a loud metallic crunch. It flipped again, and again, until momentum carried the crumpled heap of metal off into the trees where it came to a stop, front wheel still spinning.
Julie threw her body weight hard right and skidded to a full stop, letting her bike fall away as she tumbled to the ground. She had slowed down enough for a soft landing.
Sam had not slowed at all. He skidded helplessly down the road on his back. Ten feet … fifteen … twenty …
Julie thought she heard him screaming, only to realize it was her own terrified voice. She pushed to her feet and ran toward Sam. Her body lurched awkwardly from side to side as she fought to regain her balance. Blood roared in her ears. A blaring horn was stuck on one long wailing note. From the corner of her eye, she could see the metal carcass of Sam’s motorcycle caught in a tangle of weeds.
Sam lay spread-eagled on his back in the middle of the road, his head and shoulders extended over the yellow dividing line. An approaching car shuddered to a stop just before it would have crushed Sam beneath its wheels. A trail of blood followed Sam’s path down the road, ending at his body.
Julie registered that Sam’s leg was bent at an awkward angle. His right wrist looked misshapen, obviously fractured. But she saw Sam’s head loll from side to side, and her heart leapt.
Thank God, he’s alive. He’s alive!
She ran toward him, screaming at full volume, “Somebody call nine-one-one!”
CHAPTER 8
Julie had done what she could. All that remained was to wait for help to arrive and keep up the ABCCs—airway, breathing, circulation, cervical spine immobilization. Sam lay motionless in the middle of the road, his hazel eyes open wide in a vacant stare focused on the sky and nothing else. Julie observed the rapid rise and fall of his chest and heard the distressed wheezing sounds of his breathing.
She had checked his pulses, both carotid and radial. Those were present, fast and weak. Naturally she worried about shock. The jugular venous pressure was elevated, and just by looking at Sam’s neck, she could see the vein on the right side was engorged. She checked the left and it looked the same. If Sam were in hemorrhagic shock, which was her assumption, those veins should be flat as a pancake. Low blood pressure caused the body to shunt blood to the heart and brain to preserve life.
Why would the jugular veins be distended? she wondered.
“Sweetheart, it’s going to be all right,” she said in a shaky voice. “You were in an accident. Don’t try to move. Help is on the way.”
And it was.
The man driving the pickup had called 911 and retrieved the first-aid kit Julie kept in the satchel on her motorcycle. He let Julie know the driver of the Civic escaped serious injury, but they were sending two ambulances as a precaution. To Julie, it seemed a common occurrence for reckless drivers to escape the mayhem they caused unscathed. Julie pushed the thought from her mind. What mattered now was comforting Sam the best she could. She wanted to hold Sam’s hand, but his riding gloves had shredded from the long skid down the asphalt. The skin of his palms was nearly sheared off. His fingers had yet to move.
Instead, Julie knelt beside the man she could hardly wait to marry, the man who made her heart swell with his kindness, and tried to comfort him as best she could. The helmet had safeguarded his head and face, but blood escaped from a grisly four-inch gash that had opened on Sam’s chin. His beard, flecked with debris, looked red.
The panic that had gripped Julie in those first terrifying moments gave way to a gut-wrenching awareness. This was happening. This was real. This had happened.
A circle of bystanders had formed around Julie and Sam, watching the gruesome scene with grave expressions. The spectators were visibly shaken. Some were crying. Some looked away as Sam emerged from the initial shock enough to feel the first pangs of real pain. He groaned and his mouth contorted into an agonized grimace.
“Sam, can you hear me? Can you say anything? Baby, please, say something if you can.”
Sam’s lips trembled. “It hurts,” he wheezed. “Oh God, this hurts. This hurts so much.”
Tears streamed down Julie’s face. “I’m sorry. Help is on the way. Wiggle your fingers if you can. Just a little wiggle.”
Nothing.
Off in the distance, Julie heard the first wail of sirens on fast approach. She saw the flashing lights, and soon the first responders were on the scene. She counted three police cars, two fire trucks, and two ambulances.
Julie stood, waving frantically. She got the attention of the lead ambulance driver, who made a hard stop not more than ten feet away. Two paramedics, dressed in blue uniforms with EMT badges sewn into the pockets of their shirts, latex gloves already donned, burst from the vehicle and raced to Sam’s side.
“I’m Dr. Julie Devereux,” Julie said in a breathless voice. “I work in critical care at White Memorial Hospital.” Julie got the names of the two EMTs. Bill was a thin man in his midtwenties with shaggy brown hair and deep-set eyes. Ashley, in her late thirties, was athletically built, with broad shoulders, strong legs, and muscular arms.
“Did you see the accident?” Bill asked.
Julie nodded. “Yes, we were riding together. The victim is my fiancé, Sam Talbot.” Julie had to look away until she steadied herself.
“His airway is clear,” she said, trying to find some authority in her voice. Julie did not hear any crackling, grating sounds of crepitus, i
ndicating air had not penetrated the soft tissue. “No crepitus, but I’m fairly certain he has a flail chest on the left ribs seven, eight, and nine. Both carotid and radial pulses are present, but weak. I don’t think there’s bleeding in the abdomen, but I’m worried about hemorrhagic shock. I’m also concerned his jugular veins are distended. I checked for a pneumothorax, but he has good breath sounds.”
Bill and Ashley crouched next to Sam.
“Is his airway still clear?” Bill asked.
Ashley checked. “Yeah, he’s got a good airway. He’s breathing on his own.”
A firefighter wearing a brown turnout coat and pants with sewn-in yellow bands approached.
“Need any help?”
“Yeah, we need the backboard and a cot, please,” Ashley said. “Bill, can you take a look at his lower extremities? I need to get his helmet off to make sure he has a really good airway. Dr. Devereux, are you in a position to assist?”
Julie did not respond. Her focus had been entirely on Sam, who moaned and made a low gurgling sound.
“Dr. Devereux, can you assist?” Ashley asked again.
This time the question hit Julie like a slap. Get with it!
“Yes, of course I can,” Julie said.
Ashley gave a nod and took her position in front of Sam’s head. Once there, she undid the strap to Sam’s helmet. Bill brought out strong scissors, capable of cutting through the leather of Sam’s motorcycle pants.
“Okay, straps off,” Ashley said. “I got c-spine.”
Ashley was stabilizing Sam’s cervical spine with a hand behind the head supporting the base of the skull, while her other hand held Sam’s chin firmly.
Julie got directly behind Sam and slowly, methodically, began to pull the helmet off Sam’s head. To do so, she maneuvered the helmet up and down, pulling with gentle force, careful not to catch the sides on his ears or snag his nose with the chinstrap. Ashley kept tension in her arms so that Sam’s head would not drop.
The moment the helmet came off, Sam let go with a deep, guttural noise that tore at Julie’s heart. She looked down and got her first good look at her fiancé’s face. It was the only part of him not horribly injured, though his grayish coloring was most unsettling. Julie’s chest grew tight. Ashley moved her hands up higher on Sam’s head to continue to support the c-spine.
Mercy Page 4
