The Last Hour

By Charles Sheehan-Miles

From the bestselling author of Just Remember to Breathe



Twenty-seven year old Carrie Thompson-Sherman has the life she always wanted: her PhD, a prestigious fellowship, and an amazing husband.



Her charmed life begins to unravel as a jealous colleague puts her fellowship in jeopardy and a hideous secret Ray carried home from Afghanistan comes to light. Hanging on by a single thread, a disastrous accident puts both her husband and her sister's lives at risk. Heartbroken, Carrie will be faced with the most devastating choice of her life.



A choice that will change everything.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cincinnatus Press
• Release date: Jan 23, 2014
• ISBN: 9781632020192

Charles Sheehan-Miles

Charles Sheehan-Miles has been a soldier, computer programmer, short-order cook and non-profit executive. He is the author of several books, including the indie bestsellers Just Remember to Breathe and Republic: A Novel of America's Future.

Book preview

friendship.

White (Carrie)

"Will you leave me alone?" Jessica shouted at her twin in the back seat. The beginning of the end started with those five simple words.

A screech of tires to our left, the truck coming at the driver’s side. Ray shouted a curse, Sarah screamed, and then the force of the impact was louder than any sound.

In the movies, pivotal moments sometimes happen in slow motion; so you can appreciate every detail, wonder at the tragedy or awesomeness of the moment. Real life doesn’t happen like that at all: it happens all at once, your senses laid open bare, every single detail happening at once while your mind takes it all in, as if your skin and clothes had been ripped off.

The radio played that infuriating Carly Rae Jepsen song, which Ray loved. Ray wore blue jeans and a grey t-shirt sporting the logo of a skull wearing a beret in front of crossed rifles, with the words US Army Infantry emblazoned above it. His left wrist bore the watch I bought him. He’d gotten a haircut three days before, short on the sides, what he called a high and tight. Now his left hand mimicked a phone on the side of his face as he belted out, off key, the lyrics to Call Me Maybe. The dashboard clock read 11:15.

Behind him, Sarah sat, decked out in a black t-shirt, black pants and black eyeliner to match her black hair. She was turned away from her more conventional twin Jessica, her jaw set, angry.

It was a cloudless August day, one hundred and two degrees outside, but in our car the air felt chilled and comfortable. We were driving down Connecticut Avenue, at the intersection with Tilden, on our way to the National Zoo.

I saw it at the last second: a green Jeep SUV with Virginia plates, the grill chromed, gleaming, as it ran through the light and sped straight toward us. The Jeep had vanity license plates reading, GR8 DAD.

Terror flooded through me, my gut twisting, my throat tightening up, dread at the back of my throat wiping out all thought. I didn’t have time to say anything, to scream, to respond, before it slammed into the side of our car.

Ray’s head slammed against the glass, against the front of the Jeep, which seemed to be coming right through the driver’s side windows, and glass flew across the car, pelting me. The force jerked me to the right, hard, and everything went white as we slammed into another car.

White.

Formless images and thoughts, memories, drifted across a blank canvas.

Ray in his deep blue dress uniform, his medals gleaming. He smiled our secret across to me, as Dylan and Alexandra kissed in the university chapel.

The twins, Jessica and Sarah, in matching dresses, playing hide and seek in the upstairs of our house in San Francisco, giggling little girls, not yet locked in constant battle with each other.

Ray again, his right arm in the air, beads of sweat on his forehead and dark circles under his eyes, as he swore an oath to tell the truth.

Walking across the green at Columbia with my sister Alexandra last November when my eyes fell on Ray for the very first time. He was with her boyfriend Dylan on a beautiful fall day. Ray was a tall guy with short-cropped hair and an easy grin. His blue eyes arrested attention, and I couldn’t stop looking at him. We were both tongue-tied and awkward, but he had such an easy laugh.

Months later, his arms around me, warm, safe, as I leaned my forehead against his shoulder and he whispered, We’ll get through this. No matter what.

My eyes opened and locked on the two rings on my ring finger, the diamond and the tiny band decorated with sapphires. My entire body spasmed in pain, and I couldn’t move my head. Blood and glass sprinkled a pattern across my lap and on my hands.

Don’t move, miss, a voice said, and I needed to scream, I can’t move! but nothing came out.

The fear flooded back through me, and I tried to turn to see Ray and Sarah, but someone held my head in place as someone else strapped something around my neck. They eased me out of the car onto a stretcher. A sharp pain ran up my back, and then I was being wheeled away from the car.

Ray ... my sisters ... are they okay? I tried to scream the words, but they came out a raw, tiny whisper.

We’re checking on the others right now, ma’am. Stay calm.

Stay calm. How? I was panting. Where was Ray? And the twins? I felt and heard a thump, and I was staring at the ceiling of the ambulance. Two emergency medical technicians were checking me over; one strapping something around my wrist while the other leaned close and asked, Do you know where you are, ma’am?

I struggled to answer, fog clouding my thoughts. I wanted to clasp my hands together across my belly, but I’d been strapped down. My throat was raw, and it felt like my brain was working slowly. I had to concentrate to understand his words.

Washington, I said. We were on our way to the zoo. Where’s my husband? My sisters?

Even as I asked the question I hated the whine in my voice, but I had to know if Ray and the twins were all right. No one would answer my question, which just made me more afraid. The Jeep hit us on the driver’s side. Sarah had been sitting behind Ray. Was she okay? And Ray … my mind kept going back to the sight of him, his head bouncing off the high front end of the Jeep. I wanted to scream. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t breathe.

They’re working on getting the others out of the vehicle. We need you to stay calm, ma’am.

I screeched, "Where are they?"

They’re going to be fine, ma’am, stay calm, so we can get everyone taken care of.

I heard the doors shut, and it was darker inside the ambulance. Then we were rolling, and I heard the siren wail. From my position flat on my back, with my head and body immobilized, I couldn’t see much, only a rack of equipment and monitors. One of the EMTs stared at a monitor, reading off numbers to the other, who took notes. The ambulance hit a pothole, and I felt myself lurch, then we were slowing down, the horn blaring. It was so loud, my head hurt, and I was queasy.

Ma’am, I’m going to ask you some questions, it will save time when we get to the hospital.

Yes, I croaked. I searched with my eyes until I saw the EMT. He was dark skinned, his head shaven, wearing a dark green uniform. He looked confident.

Let’s start with your name?

Carrie. My voice shook. Carrie ... uh ... Thompson-Sherman. I closed my eyes. I must have hit my head harder than I thought. Fear ran through me again. Was Ray okay? Sarah and Jessica?

Okay, Carrie. I’m Jared, the EMT said in a reassuring tone. As far as we can tell, you’re in pretty good shape. A possible concussion, but no broken bones, no bleeding. We have your neck immobilized to protect against any spinal cord damage, but we’re sure you’ll be all right. I want you to stay relaxed.

I tried to nod and scratched out, Relaxed.

I had to blink back tears. How the hell did they expect me to relax? I still saw the car in my mind, a huge green Jeep barreling down on us. Ray’s head slamming against the glass. The glass shattering, flying toward my face.

Good, Carrie. Now, can you tell me your age?

I had to think again. Twenty-six. No. Twenty-seven.

Are you taking any medications? Are there any medical conditions we should be concerned about?

No, I whispered.

Can you tell us who else was in the vehicle with you?

I stifled a sob. Ray. And my sisters. Sarah and Jessica. They were visiting. My voice trailed off and I paused before I spoke again. They got here last night. From San Francisco. Is ... are ... are they okay?

Everyone’s going to be fine, Carrie.

I tried to swallow. My throat was dry, swollen. We hit another bump, and my throat swelled with vomit. Oh God, I mumbled as the bile came up my throat.

The EMTs rushed forward, and Jared ordered, Suction. Acid flooded my mouth, and I puked, and puked again, everything I’d eaten and drunk that day coming up in a huge rush as one of them stuck a tube in my mouth to suck it out, leaving me gagging, tears running down my face.

I wanted to curl up and cry. I wanted to find Ray and my sisters. There was nothing I could do, but lay there gagging and smelling my own filth. My eyes rolled up, the noxious smell making me vomit again, as if there was anything left to expel. Finally, I whispered, I think I’m done.

They just ignored me, and the one with the suction device continued for a few seconds more. My throat burned.

Jared wiped some of the bile from my face with a sanitary wipe as the other EMT took away the suction. Is there anyone we can call? Family?

I closed my eyes, trying not to groan.

I answered the question. Please ... call my sister, Alexandra. Alexandra was my closest relative geographically, only a few hours away in New York. I gave him the number, and he wrote it down. The ambulance swayed and rocked, then another thump as we ran over yet another pothole. I closed my eyes, trying to ignore the nausea. I must have a concussion.

I hoped they’d call Alexandra right away. Please God, don’t let Dylan be the one to answer the phone. He would know how to get a hold of Ray’s parents, but he would take some calming down. Dylan and Ray had served in Afghanistan together, and were as close as brothers. Closer.

I was so scared.

They’re working on getting the others out of the vehicle.

What did that mean? How badly were they injured?

I didn’t have any answers, and I felt darkness closing in, and I was so sleepy.

Ma’am ... you need to stay awake. You may have a concussion. Open your eyes.

I fought to open them and tried to speak. My throat was so dry I couldn’t do any more than croak. You’ll call my sister? I asked. Please?

Jared put his hand on my shoulder. We will. I promise.

Thank you, I whispered.

It was the longest ride of my life.

Are you the wife? (Carrie)

"Ma’am, I’m the triage nurse. We’re going to check you over real quick, all right?" The nurse was younger than I was, but she exuded calm. The emergency room was crowded, and the gurney I lay on had been shoved up against a wall in the hallway. The cream-colored walls and abstract art were designed to soothe, but the equipment up and down the hall, the various beeping and alarms I could hear, and the efficient and hurried motion of nurses and doctors overrode that.

I need to know where Ray and my sisters are.

I promise, we’ll find out. For right now, I need you to stay calm while I get your blood pressure and vitals, okay?

I nodded, and she slipped a blood pressure cuff up my arm and tightened the Velcro around it.

I need to ask you a couple of questions. She pressed a button on a monitor and the blood pressure cuff began to expand, squeezing my arm. Do you know what happened?

Car accident.

Okay, can you tell me what year it is?

I blinked then said, 2013.

Okay, good. Do you know who the President is? She met my eyes as she asked the question.

I was getting impatient. Barack Obama.

Did you hit your head, or lose consciousness?

I don’t know.

Little bit of bruising on the side of your face, it’s not bad, she said. Nausea?

I grimaced. I vomited in the ambulance, but that wasn’t even the first time today. Yeah.

Okay, we may need to send you up for a CT scan, the doctor will decide when he examines you. Let me get a look at your eyes.

My stomach twisted when she mentioned the CT scan.

She shone a light in my left eye, then my right. You look like you’re doing fine.

That was followed by listening to my chest with a stethoscope, then checking to make sure I could move my arms and legs and if my neck or back was sore. I seemed to be okay.

Can you sit up?

Slowly, I did, coming upright on the gurney, bracing myself for pain. There wasn’t any.

All right. The doctor will examine you, but it may be quite a while, they’ll want to examine more urgent cases first. Can I have your husband and sisters’ names? And in the meantime, we need to get you registered.

I gave her the information. My stomach was twisted in knots and my head was swimming. If I didn’t get some news about Ray and the girls soon I was going to scream. I didn’t even know if they were being brought to the same hospital. For that matter ... I didn’t even know where I was. What hospital is this?

That was answered a moment later when someone from the emergency department came over with a clipboard full of paperwork for me to fill out. While I started the paperwork, my eyes kept going to a couple down the hall. They were sitting together on a gurney, leaning on each other, and the woman had blood on her forehead as they spoke with a nurse. Both of them looked panicked and exhausted. Devastated.

I looked back down at my own paperwork, but my ears kept picking up words that sent chills up my spine.

Accident.

Daniel wasn’t wearing his seatbelt.

Eight years old.

Thrown from the car.

I shuddered.

I barely started on the paperwork before I stopped, because the doors to the emergency room slid open, and my heart rate jumped through the roof.

What seemed like a small crowd of doctors, nurses and paramedics came running through the door, crowded around a gurney, they were racing down the hall toward the trauma unit. One look, and I was on my feet, suddenly lightheaded. Ray. I followed, racing down the hall behind them.

At the door to the trauma unit a nurse blocked my way. You can’t come in here.

"That’s my husband! She relented, pushing me back against the wall. You’ll need to stay right here, out of the way." She turned back to her work.

They moved urgently, first transferring Ray to the exam bed, then hooking him to a bewildering assortment of machines and tubes. Monitors to check his heart rate and blood pressure and a hundred other things, all of them hanging on wheeled equipment.

He’ll need a central line, one of the doctors said. A nurse cut away his shirt, and then spread antiseptic at the base of his neck near his clavicle. Seconds later, two of them inserted a long white catheter into his neck.

One of the doctors started spitting out rapid-fire instructions to a nurse, and I didn’t understand any of it. But it was clear enough when one of the doctors said, Call Doctor Peterson in neurosurgery.

A monitor started screeching, and a nurse said, in a loud calm voice, Asystole!

My throat closed up with fear as they started to do CPR on Ray. I was paralyzed, unable to watch, unable to look away. Dread filled my throat, and I had to force back the need to vomit.

Epinephrine, one of the doctors said, again calmly, even as they were rushing around him.

I winced and looked away, and crossed my arms across my stomach, shaking. Please. Let Ray be okay.

I held my breath, trying not to watch, but I couldn’t stop myself. My eyes kept going back to his ravaged body, blood everywhere. His face was caked with blood, swollen and almost black, and his hair was thick with clotting blood. The left side of his body, from his legs up to his arm, looked askew, wrong, as if the bones had been crushed.

Please don’t let him die. Not now. Not like this. I watched, and I waited, every fiber of my being wanting to just take him in my arms.

The monitor beeped, then beeped again. The doctors and nurses paused, a visible sigh of relief passing between them. His heart was beating again. I sagged against the wall, my mind nothing but a void.

The door slid open, and then a woman was standing next to me. She was about five four, black, wearing the same hospital greens as everyone else.

Mrs. Sherman? she spoke quietly. I’m Michelle Bilmes, with social work.

I blinked at her, still shaking, and unable to answer. I couldn’t force myself to look away from the doctors and Ray.

She spoke again, I’m the family witnessed resuscitation coordinator for the emergency unit. Perhaps you’d like to step outside with me?

I shook my head. I’m not going anywhere.

She gave me a weak smile. I understand, that’s fine. You understand you need to stay next to the door and out of the way? Your husband is in very serious condition, and they’re doing everything they can for him.

I’ll stay out of the way. Have you heard anything about my sisters?

Your sister Jessica is right next door, staying with Sarah. She frowned, then said, Sarah’s also badly injured.

I squeezed my eyes shut. How bad?

It’s too soon to say. But they’re doing everything they can.

I nodded my head. And Jessica’s with her?

Yes, ma’am. She’s doing well ... some bruises, but nothing serious. A doctor will examine her soon, too, but she rode in the ambulance with Sarah.

My eyes darted back to Ray. They were still working, still trying to stabilize him. I ... I lost my phone, I said. I need to call ... family …

I spoke with your sister Alexandra on the phone and told her what’s happening. She told me she would alert the rest of your family. And she asked me to let you know that she and Dylan will be on their way here as soon as they can get a flight.

I closed my eyes, relief flooding through me. Alexandra and Dylan were coming. Oh, dear God. I’d always been the one who went to my sisters when they needed help. I never realized how much I might need them.

And then I felt confused, torn because my sister was next door, in just as much danger, but Ray was right here in front of me. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know where to go.

I couldn’t leave Jessica alone to deal with that on her own.

I turned towards the social worker. I’m sorry ... I forgot your name.

She gave me a sympathetic look. Michelle. Perfectly understandable.

Would it be all right if I checked in on Sarah and Jessica?

Of course ... come with me.

At that moment the door slid open, and a man strode into the room. He wore surgical garb and had the arrogant look I’d learned to associate with the heads of academic departments. He marched over to the table and basically pushed his way in, starting at Ray’s feet, then working his way up to his head. Clearly he was someone in authority. The doctors and nurses went quiet on his entry, continuing their work. He leaned close, shining a light at the top of Ray’s skull, peering in close.

CT scan, he ordered. Then prep him for surgery, immediately. Head, and his left arm and leg.

I swallowed. The man stood, then walked away from Ray toward the door. His examination had lasted maybe sixty seconds.

He paused as I stepped closer to the door, my arms crossed over my stomach.

Are you the wife? he asked, tonelessly.

I blinked. His tone was imperious, utterly sure of himself, and his wording was brusque. Any other time, I might have cared, but right now, I just wanted him to help Ray. He could be as rude as he wanted.

Yes. I’m Carrie Sherman.

He glanced over his shoulder, then back at me. Your husband is in serious condition. If we don’t operate now, he’ll die. Do you understand?

It was as if he’d walked up and punched me in the gut. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t even think really, so I just nodded, trying to keep from crying.

All right ... I want you to stay out of the way, let them prep him for surgery. Ms. Bilmes here will brief you in more detail about what’s going on, and you’ll need to sign some consent forms. Your husband is stabilized now, but he’s not out of danger, and we don’t know yet if he has any intracranial bleeding. You understand what I’m saying?

Yes.

Good. Hang in there. We’ll do our best for your husband.

I nodded, trying to keep myself sane, and whispered, Thank you.

A dream? (Ray)

I watched Carrie as she talked to the surgeon, as the other doctors labored over my wasted body, and I’ve never felt so helpless in my life.

That’s not true. There were other times.

I felt this helpless the day Carrie walked out of the National Institute of Health, rage and shock and grief mixed on her face because of the accusations which had been laid against her, accusations which threatened everything she’d worked for. The rage had won out, her knuckles white against the steering wheel as she drove us home, her entire body shaking.

I felt that way about a year and a half ago, February of 2012. We’d been out on patrol all night, a nightmare patrol. Not because the insurgents were shooting at us, but because they weren’t. Is that crazy? Yeah, it’s crazy. But it was scary, too. Because the rule, in our little corner of hell, was that if you went outside the wire, the bad guys were going to hit us. Every time. Sometimes it was just a single sniper shot, or a roadside bomb. Sometimes it was hideous, like the grenade that killed Kowalski. But I couldn’t remember a single night we’d gone on patrol when we didn’t get hit. Not once.

But that night, we’d gone unnoticed, unchallenged. We were on our way back to the forward operating base when it happened. The irony is that we were only a quarter of a mile from the base, which meant someone hadn’t been paying attention, because the hajis were able to bury a big ass bomb in the dirt road without interference or observation. We didn’t even realize it, because the first three Hummers rolled right over the bomb. Then the fourth Hummer, with Dylan and Roberts ... that was the one that got hit.

The explosion hit under the driver’s side. We were right behind them, and I saw the vehicle bounce into the air. Voices exploded over the radio, calling in the contact, and then I heard a loud crack, then another. Bullets hitting the side of my Hummer, on the driver’s side.

This was normal routine. We all piled out of the Hummers, took cover, and shot back. Once the heavy machine guns got trained on the bad guys, the fire was suppressed, the bad guys tried to move out, and our air assets went after them. I don’t know what happened after that with the insurgents because I saw Dylan then, next to what was left of Roberts’ body, and his leg was ... destroyed, blood leaking out everywhere. I yelled for a medic and started to wrap his leg with bandages, which were inadequate for the job, so I broke out the tourniquet and tied it off at his thigh. Dylan wasn’t screaming, but he was awake, staring at the sky.

You’re gonna be all right, I said, over and over again. He didn’t respond. And there we were, stuck, waiting for the medevac, which took forever. There was nothing I could do to help him other than stick him with morphine and hope the damn chopper got there.

It was weeks before I heard from him again. We got word that he lived, but that was it ... everybody knew he was likely to lose the leg, if he even survived. So it was kind of a minor miracle when I got an email out of the blue from Dylan later that spring.

Dylan didn’t know it, but his emails had been a lifeline for me. I guess nobody knew it. I’d isolated myself, intentionally, after losing friends to injuries and death, and then losing even more friends to pure savagery. By that time I was taking note, and keeping pictures, and documenting. Just in case.

I was grateful he was able to leave before things got bad.

Before that, I’d never felt so helpless, but since then, I’d had it in spades. When I got called back into the Army, during the trial, and especially now, I hated it that I was helpless to do anything for Carrie.

I wanted to reach out, I wanted to fold her in my arms and protect her. I wanted to tell her it was going to be fine, even if it was a lie. But it was obvious I couldn’t do anything. No one responded when I spoke, and it was clear enough my body was just lying there on the table wired and tubed up. The nurses were preparing to shave my head. Brain surgery? Christ, I hoped not.

The accident happened so quickly I still can’t get my mind around it. Why didn’t he stop? He looked to have been driving about ninety as he blew through the light. Was he on the phone having an argument? Drunk? Just not paying attention? Are his kids at home wondering where GR8 DAD went?

I walked toward Carrie, looked her in the eye. She looked ... lost ... as if her feet had been yanked out from underneath her. With my left hand, I reached out, touched her arm gently.

She jerked a little, her eyes searching around the room.

Don’t torture yourself.

I jerked at the voice, and spun around.

My sister-in-law, Sarah, stood next to the door. Oddly, she wasn’t wearing her usual black. Instead, she had on a red dress with white polka dots, with a chain belt. The belt was fastened with a glittery heart. Very unlike her. Sarah leaned toward black, leather and spikes under normal circumstances.

Sarah? I didn’t hear the door.

Of course you didn’t. I walked right through it.

Somehow I found this very distressing.

I guess it would be silly to ask how you are?

She shrugged. They’re prepping me for surgery too. I was trying to comfort Jessica, though that would be pointless even if this wasn’t a dream. But she couldn’t hear me.

A dream?

She raised an eyebrow. What else could it be?

She had a good point. But this didn’t feel like any dream I’d ever had. This had all the sharp edges of reality. Yeah, I guess. Seems real, though. I just wish I could do something for Carrie.

Sarah walked over and stood next to me, scrutinizing Carrie. Me, too. She looks awful. I’ve never seen her like this.

One of the doctors walked over to Carrie. Mrs. Sherman ... we’re going to take him up to the OR now.

Sarah said, He should call her Doctor Sherman, not Mrs.

I cocked an eyebrow at Sarah. On the one hand, I agreed. On the other, it didn’t really seem like a time to quibble over titles.

The social worker, whatever her name was, spoke in a calming voice, Carrie, we’ll have to go out to the waiting room. We need to take care of some paperwork, and then I’ll take you and Jessica up to the surgery waiting area. Okay?

Carrie looked like she was in her own world, as if she couldn’t hear them. As if she were more of a ghost than I was. After a noticeable delay, she said, Okay.

I wanted to take her my arms and comfort her. Anything.

A moment later, I watched as they wheeled my body out of the trauma unit. I’d catch up with it later. For now I was staying with Carrie.

Nothing to play with (Carrie)

Jessica was starting to fall apart.

I could see it in her eyes. She sat next to me as I finished the insurance paperwork, her hands shifting and twisting in her lap, her eyes looking glazed. The triage nurse spoke with the woman at the desk who was taking our paperwork, then looked up at us.

We need to do a full exam of both of you as well.

I froze and glanced over at Jessica.

Can it wait? Our sister and my husband, they’re going into surgery.

The nurse sighed. "You can wait, though I don’t recommend it. But your sister here isn’t eighteen, and unless you get her parents to insist otherwise, she needs to be examined now. I understand your worry. But neither of them will be out of surgery for ... probably many hours. You need to take care of yourselves as well."

I took a breath then nodded. All right.

Come this way then.

I stood, taking Jessica’s arm and steering her toward the exam room. She complied, but with little energy. I think the accident was starting to sink in.

Oddly, it reminded me of an incident that happened a lifetime ago. Dad had finished off his year as Ambassador to Russia, and the whole family moved to the townhouse in San Francisco. Except for Julia, who was at college in Boston. We’d spent very little time in the San Francisco house over the years, just the occasional holiday, and the house needed a lot of work. For weeks, contractors were around the place, repairing plumbing and walls and who knows what else. Besides the disruption to our lives, having the workers in and out of the house was stressing our mother out to no end. And the one place we didn’t want to be when my mother was stressed was anywhere near her.

I was seventeen, getting ready to start my senior year in high school, which made me sometimes the protector of my little sisters ... and sometimes the ringleader. That day I wanted to get away from the constant hammering and nailing and banging, so I took Alexandra and the twins for a drive to the children’s playground in Golden Gate Park. It was August, but fairly cool, and the fog had been heavy earlier that morning, so we were all bundled up in sweaters. The twins had cute matching plum jackets. Back then they were inseparable, holding hands everywhere they went.

I parked next to Bowling Green Drive, and we spent the next hour goofing off in the park, riding the carousel, and enjoying a well-deserved ice cream. It happened on the way back to the car. Sarah tripped and fell, hands out in front of her. Onto a broken bottle.

She let out a piercing scream, and I ran back to her, putting my arms around her and lifting her up, then I winced. A nasty, curved shard of glass had embedded itself in her right palm. Her face had gone paler than usual, her pale blue eyes wide, staring at her hand. She calmed down instantly, just looking at it.

I met her eyes. You’ll be fine, bee.

Sarah held her hand close to her eyes, studying it. Carrie, can you get it out?

No problem. It’s gonna bleed, all right? Probably a lot. You ready?

She nodded. I held her hand in my right hand, and then reached out with my left hand. Standing a couple feet away, Alexandra held Jessica’s hand. Jessica was pale, her eyes were wet, and she was shaking. Almost as if she were the one feeling the pain.

I looked back at Sarah and said, Ok, close your eyes?

She shook her head. I wanna watch.

All right, then. So, without hesitation, I grasped the chunk of glass in my left hand and tugged. Jessica winced. It came out clean, and blood, a great deal of blood, welled up in her palm.

That’s done then. Let’s get you home, all right? You’re going to need a jumbo Band-Aid for that.

And peroxide? she asked, hopefully.

Yes, peroxide too.

Ow, Jessica said.

Sarah turned to her sister and said, It’s okay. It doesn’t hurt.

I reached in my purse and found some napkins left over from lunch and passed them to her. Keep these pressed against the cut.

She nodded, took the wad of napkins in her hand and squeezed her fist shut with the napkins pressed against the cut. Then she reached out with her unhurt hand and took Jessica’s. Jessica immediately calmed down.

I ended up with a nasty tongue lashing from my mom, but managed to keep Alexandra and the twins from getting it too. I was irresponsible; I put my sisters in a dangerous situation and I couldn’t be trusted. I’d heard it all before, and I let it roll off my back, knowing that the most important thing was keeping her from going after my sisters.

That wasn’t the first time, nor would it be the last, when it seemed almost as if Jessica was the one hurt whenever something happened to Sarah, which had me worried now. Because I didn’t know how she was going to react to Sarah going into surgery. Or ... no. The thought was unspeakable. I wasn’t going to lose anyone today. Ray and Sarah were going to go into surgery, and they were going to come out just fine.

By the time I got her to the exam room, she was shaking and pale. She sat down on the edge of the bed. I looked her in the eyes and put my hands on her shoulders.

Sarah’s going to be fine, Jessica. Okay? She’s going to be fine. Just breathe, all right?

She closed her eyes and seemed to calm a little.

The nurse smiled at me and said, Mrs. Sherman? If you can come next door, the doctor will be in to examine both of you in just a few moments.

Jessica? I’ll be next door, just let me know if you need anything, okay? Sarah will be all right.

I said it with some confidence. As if I knew she was going to be all right. That Ray would be all right. That anything in the world would be all right. I didn’t have that confidence. I might say it, I might look Jessica dead in the eye and tell her not to worry, but the fact was, I was consumed with worry.

I followed the nurse into the small exam room.

Have a seat, it shouldn’t be more than a few minutes.

And so I waited. And worried more. Somewhere not far away, Sarah and Ray were both going into emergency surgery. I should be up there, not sitting on this exam bed, twiddling my thumbs. I’ve never been someone to sit and do nothing. I’ve always needed to be doing something, reading, studying, writing, some activity, anything. And now, when someone needed help? Not being able to do anything was making me crazy.

I jerked in my seat when the door opened. A young doctor came in carrying a chart. Carrie? I’m Doctor Chavez. How are we doing?

I grimaced. As well as can be expected. I just need to get over to the surgery waiting area.

He nodded. Your husband and sister are in good hands, Carrie. In the meantime, we need to make sure you’re in good shape. This won’t take long.

I nodded. All right.

He rolled a tall stool over and sat on it, then leaned close. Let me get a look at your head. He reached out and positioned my head.

Looks like you’re going to have a nasty knot there. You hit it on the glass?

Yes. Not that bad.

Lose consciousness at all?

I swallowed. Then told a direct lie, No. I was a little dazed.

You’re certain?

Yes.

He continued with the exam, listening to my chest, checking for bruises. I had plenty. Any headaches? Nausea?

A little. In fact, my headache was nearly blinding.

Any pain when you move your head or neck? He reached out and gently pushed my head back and forth, side to side.

I’m a little stiff, that’s it.

The doctor looked doubtful. I’m concerned about possible head injuries. I’m going to order a CT scan.

My stomach clenched, and I said, I want to go up to the surgery waiting room. Can I do the scan later?

He frowned. All right. But if you start to feel nauseous again, or the headache gets worse, you need to let us know. Head injuries are nothing to play with.

A thousand times worse (Ray)

Sarah and I sat next to each other on plastic chairs a few feet away from the exam rooms where Jessica and Carrie were. Sarah looked irritated and bored, and toyed with a lock of her hair.

When did you meet Carrie, anyway? Sarah asked.

I didn’t really want to talk, especially about the past. But then I thought about Sarah … seventeen years old. She didn’t know what was happening any more than I did. And maybe chatting, about anything, would be better than sitting here brooding and worrying.

So I decided to talk. Keep her occupied, and not thinking about what we were going through. She’d been in San Francisco when I met Carrie, and except for a concert at New Year’s and a few minutes here and there at Dylan and Alex’s wedding, I’d not spent any time with Sarah at all. All the same, it surprised me they hadn’t talked about this. I wasn’t sure I wanted to talk about it though, so I changed the subject.

What’s up with the dress? I asked. I’ve never seen you in anything but black.

She shrugged. I asked you first.

I’m older than you.

She rolled her eyes and shook her head. Seriously? I’m almost eighteen.

I smirked. In what, eleven more months?

Close enough.

So what’s the deal?

She shook her head. I don’t know. I never wear stuff like this anymore. She swept her eyes down the dress. In fact, I recognize this dress ... and it doesn’t make sense, because it shouldn’t fit me.

I raised an eyebrow. She grimaced. Mother used to dress us in matching clothes. Always. It’s not like we’re identical twins. It drove me nuts, because she insisted on it even as we got into middle school. She got us these dresses for Christmas in the eighth grade.

So ... I don’t get it.

I don’t either. Because I took it downstairs to the garage and poured bleach all over it.

What?

She gave me a rueful look. Mother threw a fit.

Yeah, I bet. Dramatic much?

You try growing up with no identity of your own.

I studied her. Before this visit, I’d only met Sarah twice. She was bold, assertive, and a little cynical. She reminded me a lot of a couple of the Goth girls I knew in high school. Nothing at all like her twin, Jessica, who was much more reserved.

Don’t take this the wrong way, but you’ve definitely got an identity.

She shook her head, rolling her eyes. Only because I carved it out myself. Now I’m stuck in this dream or whatever the hell it is, and I look like Jessica.

Don’t sweat it, Sarah. This will be over soon, one way or another.

She was quiet, then said, You don’t think we’re dead, do you?

I had to consider the question. This was so far out of my experience; I didn’t know what to think. Finally, I said, I don’t know what’s going on. I do know that if we were dead, they wouldn’t be rushing us up to surgery.

Yeah, but ... I mean, what the hell? Aren’t we supposed to be unconscious or something?

I shook my head. Don’t they always say when you die, there’s a white light or a tunnel or something?

She shrugged. I guess. I’ve never given it much thought.

I’d given it way too much thought. Couldn’t help it. Kowalski: blown up when he threw himself on a grenade. Dylan: leg torn all to hell, evacuated from the war zone. Roberts: not enough was left of him to fill up a body bag. Weber: shot by a sniper while he was taking a piss. By the time Weber died, I’d stopped making friends with the new guys. Then Sergeant Colton went off the edge. Martin shot himself, because of what I’d reported.