ONE

The headlights came like a missile, a whirr of blinding light, followed by an explosion of metal. They did not hear the deep-throated groan of the truck frantically trying to shift gears to slow down, the scream of tires, or the shattering of glass. They did not feel the engine being ripped from its housing or the sprawl of twisted metal that came to rest with a grunt in the passenger compartment.

Within minutes, sirens blared and traffic ground to a halt. Mothers on their way home from the pool with their children and fathers leaving work early to enjoy the late August afternoon clambered from their cars to help. Unable to budge the crushed doors or navigate the debris blocking the windows, they hovered anxiously. Foreheads creased, they stared at the tangle of limbs in the front seat and tried hard not to look at the sunlight dancing on the party-pink fingernails motionless against the shattered glass.

***

Late afternoon sunlight splashed the road in great pools of yellow. Four police cars sandwiched the accident scene, closing it to traffic in both directions. The first squad car to arrive on the scene had promptly determined that extrication would be needed. Now, members from two ladder companies hunched in concentration, shoulders straining, as they tried to gain access to the passengers. Two firefighters worked the spreaders in an effort to pop open a mangled door, while four others used cutting shears to remove the roof of the car. Blankets dropped through a small opening in the roof shrouded the two girls, shielding them from falling debris.

“I’m in,” called the captain of Station Five, swiping beads of sweat from his upper lip as he carefully lowered himself into the back seat of the car on the passenger side. Beside the captain, a medic dropped into the backseat behind the driver.

“We’ve got two Caucasian females, ages approximately seventeen,” the captain called. “The driver’s conscious and moving, but the passenger’s in bad shape.” 

As the medic reached over the seat to take the vital signs of the driver, the captain placed an oxygen mask over the passenger’s nose and mouth, started an IV line, and fastened a C-collar around her neck for inline stabilization. 

“The firewall’s partially collapsed on the passenger’s leg. We’re gonna’ need a ram in here to get the dash off her,” the captain shouted over the din of an arriving ambulance. “Blood pressure’s 60, heart rate 140,” he called out. “She’s in severe shock and losing blood.” He gently probed the passenger’s abdomen, which was rigid and distended. “Contact the Medivac. She’s going to need to be airlifted.” The girl’s fragile heart shaped face was deathly white against the spreading stain of dark blood coming from a cut on her scalp.

Waiting for the passenger’s leg to be extricated, the captain slid a Ked’s Board behind her and gently fastened the Velcro straps around her chest and abdomen to immobilize her spine.

“Let’s go,” the captain bellowed as, seven minutes later, the dash shifted with an ominous crack to free the girl, then settled back with a lingering groan into the pile of crushed engine housing. Four members of the extrication team positioned themselves above him and gently lifted the passenger out of the car onto a waiting stretcher. 

“What’s the ETA on the Medivac?” the captain asked.

“Another three minutes.”

As the medic fastened a C-collar around the driver’s neck, the girl softly moaned. “Hey, honey,” he said. “Try to hold still, okay? I’m going to get you out of here. Can you tell me your name?”

“Elsie,” she whispered. “Elsie Block.”

“Do you know where you are, Elsie?”

She tried to move her head but was stopped by bright flashes of light that slashed through her vision. “My head,” she groaned. “It really hurts.”

“I’m going to give you some oxygen to help you breathe.” He fastened an oxygen mask around her head.

“The driver’s immobilized,” the medic called. “Let’s get her out of here.” In less than a minute, Elsie was out of the car. Strapped to a stretcher in the back of an ambulance, she swayed through traffic in a dizzying haze, sirens blaring.

Two members of the fire department began to canvass the perimeter of the car while several others fanned out along the street. Huge in their knee-high black rubber boots, they strode up and down the pavement, red helmets gleaming in the bright sunshine. 

One of the police officers returned to the car with a pink, striped pocketbook and a driver’s license. “Got a positive ID on the passenger. “Violet Zorner.”

“Call it into the Trauma Resuscitation Unit,” the captain instructed. “The Medivac should be arriving with her any minute now.”
 

TWO 

Letting go was not an option. Once she left his arms, she knew in her heart nothing would ever again be the same. She never again would round the corner to Rico’s apartment to find him waiting on the crooked wooden bench in front of his building, his face splitting in a grin at the sight of her. She never again would lie in Rico’s arms on his tattered brown corduroy couch listening to the quiet hiss of his radiator and the rattling of his broken refrigerator fan.

She buried her face in the soft weave of Rico’s shirt, concentrating on memorizing the familiar feel of his chest on her cheek, the warm spread of his fingers at the small of her back. She felt safe and grounded in Rico’s presence. He was her anchor in the tumult of her life, not only her sanctuary, but her reason for being. 

Rico’s car stood ready at the curb, packed to the roof with his duffels and blankets, pillows and guitar. The tips of his skis protruded from the back window, held in place by the scratchy Mexican blanket from the foot of his bed and his grey and white rag sweater—the one that turned his eyes that incredible, iridescent blue. Neatly packed cardboard boxes lined the backseat. 

Jemma smiled softly into Rico’s chest as she remembered helping him pack these boxes, carefully rolling his dinner plates, cereal bowls, and glasses in newspaper to prevent breakage. Sweaty and covered in newsprint, they had gone in search of relief in Rico’s defrosting freezer and discovered a battered box of orange popsicles, frosty with ice and slightly mushy on the inside. 

Sitting shoulder to shoulder on the floor, they had companionably sucked the sweet frozen juice off the wooden sticks until their tongues were frozen and their lips stained orange. Without warning, Rico had leaned close, tucking Jemma’s hair behind her ear, to lick the sticky remains of Popsicle from the corner of her lip. He had drawn her to him, his mustache grazing her neck, and they had collapsed backward onto the rug in a laughing heap. Before she knew it, their uncontrollable giggles had evolved into long liquid kisses deep in the throat, dark and warm and wet, quenching her very being.

And now he was leaving her. Her heart clutched as she imagined his car growing smaller and smaller in the distance until she lost sight of him altogether. She knew Boston was not the end of the world. She could take a train and be there in six hours. But that was a far cry from picking up the phone and being in Rico’s arms inside of an hour. A knot of sadness formed in her belly. She swiped at her eyes, where tears already pressed for escape.

Rico loosened his hold on her, lifting her face. “It’s not goodbye, Jemma,” he murmured, his breath warm on her cheek. “It’s just ‘see you in a bit,’ that’s all.” His eyes darkened with worry.

“I know,” Jemma said thickly. “I know you’re right, but, but it just feels like it’s going to be forever before I see you again, you know? I feel like everything in my life is changing—and for the worse. I hate it.”

“Hey, hey, what’s all this about?” Rico cooed. “Shhh.” He drew Jemma to him, curving his six-foot-three-inch frame over hers like a protective shell. “I’m moving to Boston, but I’m not leaving you. You know that.” 

Jemma gathered a fistful of Rico’s shirttail in her palm as if to tether him to her.  “I know,” she whispered, voice hitching. “It’s just that it’s not going to be the same anymore, where we can just see each other whenever we want.” She mustered a wobbly smile. “I’m going to miss you so much.”

Rico’s eyes welled at the sight of Jemma’s sadness. “Me, too,” he said, running his hands through her riotous wheat-colored hair, relishing the feeling of the heavy waves rising and falling over the pads of his fingertips. Reluctantly allowing the last of the waves to flow through his hands, he gently pulled away.

“I’ve got to get going.” Cupping her face between his palms, he brushed his warm lips against hers one last time. Then, he lowered himself into his car and drove away.

***

Jemma noisily blew her nose into a crumpled tissue as she crept along in traffic. Her skin felt dry and salty from crying, her body listless. Emotionally exhausted, she wondered whether she had it in her to go out with her friends tonight. Although she knew they would try to cheer her, a piece of her just wanted to be sad and alone. 

But the thought of going home was depressing. Ever since her parents’ separation in July, life at home had taken a nosedive. Not that it had been a bed of roses before, but at least the stresses had been familiar ones. The devil she knew. Over the years, her dysfunctional family had somehow managed to create a fragile peace, a warped but workable way of co-existing. She was surprised to discover that she preferred her father’s angry outbursts and her mother’s pinched face and unspoken disapproval to her father’s new-found fake interest in her life and her mother’s bitter regret at her years of swallowed words. Jemma felt like it was too late and far too much work to figure out a new way of functioning as a family at this late stage of the game. After all, in another year, she’d be off to college anyway. 

The truth was she just wanted out. Yes, they were her parents and yes, she was eighteen years old—technically an adult. But weren’t there supposed to be some things that parents kept to themselves? She didn’t want the seedy details. She didn’t want to know that her father had withdrawn twelve hundred dollars from her parents’ joint checking account to take his girlfriend to the Poconos for a long weekend, or that after finding out, her mother had spitefully pawned his prized Civil War rifle. Jemma had never thought she would crave boundaries, but now she was dying for them. She had no interest in getting to know these new parents. Flawed as they had been, she wanted the old ones back.

She thought about where she could go. Someplace where she would be alone and not be asked any questions. An image of the barn flashed into her head. Late day sunlight slanting through the stall doors, the horses perfectly positioned in their stalls to drink in the last of the day’s warmth. The thought of sticking her nose into a bale of sweet hay, running her hand along Casper’s satiny smooth neck and feeling the nudge of his cool wet nose, made her want to turn the car around in the direction of the barn.

She startled at the sound of her phone and answered.

“Hey, Jemma,” greeted Angelica. “Where are you?”

“Awful traffic.”

“Has Rico left?”

The knot in Jemma’s belly tightened. “Yeah.”

“You okay?”   

“No,” Jemma croaked. Tears crept from her eyes again. “I’m a mess.  He’s really gone, Angelica. And I have no idea when I’ll see him again.”

“Oh, Jemma,” Angelica soothed. “How much longer ‘til you’re home? I’ll come over and we can hang until it’s time to meet up with Elsie and Violet.”

“I was thinking of canceling. I’m gonna’ be crappy company.”

“No way. You are not sitting home alone tonight. You’ll feel so much better after you get some chips and salsa into you, I swear.”

“I don’t know.” Jemma craned her head out her window. Traffic was not moving at all. “I think something’s going on up ahead of me. I’m at a complete standstill. Cars are starting to turn around.” Jemma craned her head out the window. “Either there’s a really bad accident or the road’s closed.”

The noisy drone of a low-flying helicopter shook her car’s windows. Jemma glanced up through her sunroof at furiously spinning black blades, the words Maryland State Police emblazoned in orange against the softening sky. Baring its olive-green underbelly, the helicopter hovered in preparation for a landing.

“Definitely an accident. Crap! It’s going to take me a lifetime to get out of this mess.”

“Will you call when you get home?”

“Yeah. But do me a favor. Let Elsie and Violet know there’s been an accident, and I’m going to be late? You know how Elsie gets when I don’t call to let her know.”

When Jemma hung up, she tried not to think about Rico. But as her car inched forward, she slipped backward. Her mood cratered, and a cloud of despair settled over her. How it ached to be in the world right now.  

THREE 

“Shock Trauma on line four.”

“Excuse me?” Violet’s father stood in his shirtsleeves at his drafting table, working on a design for the home of a young couple that wanted to build green.

“I have an emergency call for you on line four,” his secretary repeated. “The lady says she’s calling from The University of Maryland Shock Trauma Center.” 

His face blanched. Pencil in hand, he crossed the room in three long strides, pressing line four on his phone. “This is Hugh Zorner. How can I help you?” 

Seconds later all remaining color leached from his face, and his pencil clattered to the floor. “Are you sure it’s Violet?” Sweat began to pour from his body, the phone suddenly slippery in his hand. “Is she…I mean, could she … is she in danger of dying?” He began to rock back and forth on his heels. “I’ll be right there,” he said softly. “What’s the address?  Have you spoken to my wife yet?” 

“No, no.  Let me call her.  Okay.” Hugh hung up dazed, momentarily too shocked to move.

A knock at his open office door brought him back. His secretary entered tentatively, knowledge unmistakable on her ashen face.

“Is everything alright, Mr. Zorner?” she asked worriedly, staring at her boss’s wet eyes, the muscle jumping in his cheek. “Can I do something to help?”

“It’s Violet. She’s been badly hurt. I have to go.” He grabbed his sport jacket and hurried into the elevator. With lips pressed tight, he punched the lobby button, and the doors slid closed.

Fishing his cell phone from his jacket pocket, he dialed his wife.

“Hey, honey. You’ll never guess who I just bumped into just now,” Liza gushed.  “I just saw…”

“Liza,” Hugh interrupted. 

Her husband’s tone stilled her. “What’s wrong? What happened, Hugh?”

“I need for you to meet me at the University of Maryland Shock Trauma Center. It’s Violet.”

“Oh my God,” she whispered. 

“Everything’s going to be fine, Liza. I don’t want you to panic. Violet’s been in a car accident, but she’s going to be okay. We just need to get over to the hospital as soon as possible.”

Liza choked back a sob. “What happened? Is she badly hurt? I don’t understand. I mean, why did they take her to a shock trauma center if she’s not badly hurt?” 

“Liza?”

“Yes?” 

“Hurry.” 

***

“Dr. Block. Telephone,” buzzed her assistant.

“Can you please take a message? I’m with a patient.”

“She says it’s urgent. Something about Elsie.”

Dr. Block had a young man on the examining table complaining of back pain. “I’m so sorry,” she said turning to her patient. “Would you please excuse me for a moment?” 

She picked up the receiver on the wall. “Yes. This is Ginger Block. Correct. Elsie Block’s mother.”

A great wave of silence washed over the room. 

“What is her condition?”

As the caller responded, Elsie’s mother let out a trembling sigh of relief.

“Is there any indication of trauma to the head?” she asked, mopping sweat from her temple. “I’ll be right there. Please just tell her I’m coming, okay?”

***

The light bled from the sky as dusk arrived. A train sounded mournfully in the distance as the flight paramedic on the hospital’s roof lowered the backboard to which Violet was strapped into the waiting hands of a trauma critical care nurse and technician. The paramedic ran beside the rolling stretcher updating the nurse on Violet’s condition. The transport elevator began its rumbling descent to the Trauma Resuscitation Unit.

The attending trauma surgeon, a fellow, and six residents met Violet as she was wheeled into Bay Number Six of the TRU. As the team began its assessment, the nurse cut away Violet’s clothes.

“Blood pressure’s dropping, and her abdomen’s rigid. She’s in hemorrhagic shock,” said the trauma surgeon, inserting a breathing tube down Violet’s throat. “Start a central line, give her six units of blood, six units of plasma, and let’s get her into the OR, stat. If we don’t move fast to stop the bleeding, we’re going to lose her.”

“Should we splint the leg?” asked a resident, staring down at Violet’s mangled lower extremity.

“No time. If she makes it, we’ll deal with the leg later.”