Aftermath

By Ted C. Hays

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• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 4, 2011
• ISBN: 9781462875375

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

AFTERMATH

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Was a cool black late May night.

Unsuspecting ones stroll merrily along.

Was a car, black, flying through the night.

Unsuspecting ones, soon they’ll be gone.

I’m an angel of death!

Is that really what he said?

As they draw their last breath.

Are these children really dead?

A symptom of society’s ills,

Or just someone looking for a thrill?

Some crazy kid, riding on a high!

Now all their friends must say good-bye.

Over a hundred couches burning,

The streets seem to be on fire!

Is it simply violence returning,

Or an impromptu funeral pyre?

As the ashes drift out to sea,

And the fog brings them in again.

A veil of tears we shed for thee,

The students cry, Never again!

Santa Susanna dreamin’, I am

Wondering if I’ll ever know

The love of a lady so fine

Summer winds whisper… another time!

I awake suddenly, shivering uncontrollably and not at all certain of where I am exactly at this precise moment. To be completely honest, I am not even sure who I am! While I continue wrestling with this conundrum, I roll over onto my back and feel a sharp, jabbing pain—almost as if someone had suddenly plunged a knife deeply into my spine. Rather than roll back onto my right side, I reflexively roll left, away from the perceived discomfort. As my cloudy vision slowly clears, I begin to take stock of my surroundings. Unfortunately, it is dark… very, very dark! If I am dead, and aside from the momentary jab of pain, all indications appear to be leaning heavily in that direction… where is the white light? Where is my white-light moment?

Slowly, and with no small amount of effort, I rise unsteadily to my feet. I rub my eyes, blink once, rub them again, and finally realize that there is a modicum of light coming from somewhere just to my left. Quickly looking over, I see fractured rays of purple and blue streaming through an octagonal-shaped stained glass window. Turning back, I finally realize that I have been lying at the foot of a rather ornate but small four-poster bed. Wondering why I hadn’t spent the night on rather than at the foot of this bed, I creep carefully toward the painstakingly crafted pastel panes of glass and peer out upon a somewhat familiar vista. I see the stately oak and massive redwood tree that remind me of the ones in our yard. This is interesting, I think, but before I can ponder this thought further…

I shudder, then suddenly step away from the window. Looking behind me, back into the room, I see a sudden flash of pink that flickers momentarily just in front of me before gliding quickly away and being swallowed up by the pervasive darkness. I stagger toward the bed and look up just in time to see another flash of pink appear within the mirror that is hanging above the vanity against the far wall. The image flashes several times, which reminds me a little of an old neon sign with a couple of letters missing.

I find myself wondering if the message it is sending out is indicating a vacancy… or not. Neither seems very promising at the moment. It almost appears as if the flashes are coming from within the mirror itself. When I take a step toward it for a closer inspection, the floor beneath my feet suddenly begins to vibrate, and the silence in the room is disturbed by an ominous whirring sound coming from just above me. A covey of angels perhaps descended to lift me into the heavens, or maybe it’s the other guys hoping to pull me into… Hello, as I return to the window, I can see the distinctive outline of a helicopter of some sort that is now hovering between the two enormous trees on the lawn.

It appears as if the giant mechanical bird is about to fly right through the small window in front of me. Clearly, this is not heaven. The jury is still out, however, as to whether it might be hell! As the room itself seems to fill with a restless panic, I observe yet another flash of pink, and then a previously unseen door along the far wall suddenly pops open. I move quickly toward it and peek out into the darkened hallway. Just to my right, I can see a spiral staircase that appears to descend into an abyss of darkness. Feeling somewhat hesitant about what might be swirling down there in the black but knowing that I can no longer remain in the room, I leap through the doorway and quickly descend the steep wooden steps.

When I finally reach the bottom of the stairs, I am confronted by yet another door. Strangely, this is open as well, so I scurry through it as quickly as possible before it can slam shut. I’m beginning to feel like a shell-shocked little rat who has finally managed to escape from a rather intricate maze.

I look around and realize that I am now staring directly into my own living room. I quietly step into my now-familiar surroundings just as the door behind me slams shut with a resounding thud. It finally dawns on me that I have spent at least part of the night nestled uncomfortably at the foot of the bed of our resident Pink Lady, ensconced in a tower that has been walled off for over one hundred years! How is this even possible?

Before I can even begin to wrap my obviously drug-addled brain around this admittedly curious concept, I hear a rather violent pounding coming from just to my right. I open the door just enough to reveal a beautiful rather tall lean dark-haired girl standing on the porch. Peering just beyond her perfectly proportioned silhouette, I observe what appear to be small yet discrete islands of flame seemingly dancing upon a river of cold black asphalt. The streets beyond my mystery guest literally seem to be on fire!

She grabs me by the arms and, while staring resolutely into my panic-stricken eyes, exclaims, Aren’t you the student who was… ? The rest of the question is garbled and pretty much unintelligible. Before I am able to mumble a response or pose a query as to who this exotic-looking mystery woman might be, I now find myself standing in the center of the street, staring back at the house.

I feel a strong presence beside me. It is at once palpable yet completely invisible. It doesn’t seem malevolent in nature—in fact, quite the opposite. I am actually filled with a sudden sense of peace, love, and tranquility.

Looking down, I realize that I am wearing the same clothes that I’d worn last night. Yet strangely, I can’t feel the material upon my skin. Looking to my right up the long darkened street, I observe two guys, whom I assume to be fellow students, attempting to drag a large object out into the street. Upon closer examination, I realize that it is actually an enormous dilapidated old couch that has certainly seen far better days. I watch with the conflicting senses of wonder and confusion as one of the young men rather ceremoniously pours the liquid contents of a fancy-looking bottle onto the tattered old cushions. Then the other, with an almost-magical wave of his hand, proceeds to set the entire mess ablaze.

As I gaze into the flames, momentarily mesmerized by the Ikea inferno that is taking place before me, I feel a gentle tug upon my shoulder. Turning quickly toward the touch, my sight finds its way to two female students just to my left who are engaging in a similar activity. I watch in rapt fascination as the same ritual plays out. Then in what seems like a flash, I realize that the entire length and breadth of our street is now completely engulfed in flames. In addition, it is also filled with students. They appear to be not only angry but almost militant in their fury. Some are even wearing sweatshirts emblazoned with our school colors. I see beautiful young females in black hoods with the word Crusaders in crimson cursive literally bleeding across their chests, while young men in similar garb but with the letters UCSS in shimmering silver script splashed across their rather ornate, fancy vests are doing the same militant dance.

While I am quietly enjoying the loyal, devoted carnival of colors floating before me, I look quickly back at my own home and come to the sad realization that it is the only house on the street where no one is engaging in this happy activity. Suddenly, I feel the overwhelming urge to march right back in there and drag one of our own couches kicking and screaming out into this great conflagration.

However, before I can act upon this sudden impulse, I observe that the Pink Lady has now taken her customary perch upon the porch swing. As I watch in silent anticipation, she rises slowly to her feet and, while placing a single trembling finger upon her lips, glides gracefully toward the doorway. Once there, she turns back toward me and smiles. I gaze into her wondrous lavender eyes as she motions for me to approach the house. My mind begins to fill with myriad thoughts as I move eagerly toward her. I begin to wonder about not only what might lie beyond but… Suddenly, my attention is diverted from her by the strong presence that I had felt earlier out in the street.

I also feel a sudden compulsion to look beyond our street of fire. As my gaze drifts upward, it is as though someone has taken control of my eyes. With my view now newly expanded, I am able to see above the ascending plumes of smoke. I watch in morbid fascination as those plumes drift up a long steep hill and then seem to settle upon a distant terrace. Once the smoke has cleared, I am able to see a most forlorn figure. It appears to be an older man who has the look of one who is not only beaten down and dejected, but may have actually become only a shell of his former self. Strangely, this man also appears to be about my father’s age.

I continue to gaze up the long dark hill and realize that he has placed a death grip upon a slender black rail that appears to be all that is preventing him from tumbling down the hill. His head is bowed, and his lips are moving. Because there is no one else in sight, I assume that he is either crazy or possibly may be praying for someone who is inside the building behind him. It is old, and though I don’t recognize it, I am immediately filled with an impending sense of gloom.

I strain my eyes in order to gain a clearer view of this poor, anguished soul. He raises his head, and just as I am about to make eye contact, my vision is suddenly yanked back to the woman in pink. She is now quietly beckoning me to join her on the porch. I suddenly begin wondering if she will be able to help me get a couch out into the street. I want with all my heart to be able to partake in the novel ceremony that I’ve been witnessing for the past few minutes. Maybe one of the gals is inside and would like to join me in this thrilling game of couch killing. I begin to chant, Who will help me? Who will help me? Who will help—

I feel a soft yet firm hand upon my shoulder and hear a soothing, reassuring voice saying, Rhiannon, my name is Sally. I’m the ER attending at Queen of Angels Hospital in Santa Susanna. You’ve been in an accident. You have just come out of emergency surgery. There’s nothing to worry about. The surgery was a success, and you are going to be just fine. It may take a little while for the effects of the anesthesia to wear off. Once they do, I will allow you to have a couple of visitors. By the way, your sister is…

Before she can finish, I hear a rather annoying buzzing sound coming from just above me. At this point in time, with my brain encased in a foggy, drug-induced shroud, the haze is so thick that I feel as though I am swimming through a murky, gray deep channel of convoluted and misfiring synapses. It truly feels like an angry swarm of bees is about to fly into that channel with me or perhaps just chase me along the slippery, misty banks. I am unable to speak but do seem to recall her saying something along the lines of Here, take this. It will help to clear your…

What about my sister? I think as I slide back into a sweet narcotic-fueled haze. What about the gals? What about my boyfriend? What about Z . . . ? Then I’m gone, floating aimlessly down a river of nonsense while being chased by a swarm of angry, persistent little bees!

I awake suddenly, shivering uncontrollably, and realize that I am standing at the end of a very long pier. Actually, teetering on the brink would probably be a more accurate assessment of my present predicament. As I begin to fall back from the ledge, for an instant feeling like a small black bird floating on an invisible cushion of air, something reaches out and yanks me away from the abyss. As I hold tightly on to the wooden railing, I can see the cold dark, murky waters swirling angrily below.

I turn to offer a word of thanks to my providential savior and realize that I am completely and utterly alone. I look quickly to my right and strain to see through the ever-present mist. I can see the specter of a massive coaster lurking in the distance, which seems to hover just above the crashing waves on the beach below. Its gloomy dark shadows reflect eerily beneath the light of an angry bloodred moon.

Straining my eyes in an effort at willfully forcing my sight to knife through the swirling mist, I can now see that there are literally scores of frightened people lining up in an endless queue that seems to circle without end around its large perimeter. Step right up! the carnival barker howls in a most ominous tone while what appears to be an endless procession of doom lurches toward the coaster of death. As I look more closely, I can see that they embark on this sad sojourn in pairs. The participants in this crazy game are always one male and one female.

The reluctant passengers are strapped securely into their seats and then embark on what amounts to a thrill ride through the mismatched soul mate tunnel of love. I watch helplessly as the cars inch their way slowly up an enormous hill and then disappear forever into a monstrous fuzzy black cloud that seems to sit like a crouching panther at the water’s edge. The cars always exit the cloud empty, as if the panther has had her fill. They then wind their way slowly back down the hill in order to pick up another pair of unlucky participants, always and increasingly against their will.

I finally tire of watching this macabre game of chance and turn my head back toward the railing. The cold black murky waters are still swirling menacingly beneath me as I fix my gaze upon a brightly lit structure at the edge of the pier. Peering through the misty shroud, I can just make out the words He Depend in brightly flashing neon on a sign just above the door. He depends on what? I think out loud while I stealthily creep toward the low-slung wooden building. I make my way to a point just beneath a large window that looks out over the sea and reach up tentatively to grasp the wooden sill.

Taking a deep breath, I pull myself up to a point where my eyes are barely able to see through the frosty glass. I blink twice in an effort to clear my sight and, when I refocus, realize that there are only a handful of people inside. Two, however, immediately capture my attention. So I press my face flush against the glass, and magically, the frost disappears.

I can now see that the person facing me has long dirty blond hair and possesses fine, very distinctive features. When he looks up from his plate, I suddenly realize that this person is… Ziggy!

Quickly ducking back beneath the sill, I sincerely hope that he won’t recognize me in my current pathetic disguise. I take another deep breath, then look back through the now perfectly clear glass window in order to identify the mysterious companion who is engaging him in a rather spirited dialogue. With his long stringy hair flying about and fingers waving frantically in the air, he reminds me a little of a late-night preacher trying to inspire his flock. As I gaze at his performance with a certain amount of wonder, I am certain that his blue eyes have met mine. However, there is not even a hint of recognition as he returns his attention to his guest.

She has beautiful long thick black hair like a raven’s cloak and classic almost-noble features, so I know immediately that this is not Zooey. There is however more than a hint of recognition when I finally look into those lucid eyes of misty meadow green.

I turn quickly away with a force so violent that I now find myself crashing through the wooden slats at the edge of the pier. I grimace in pain, then fill with fear as my lifeless body floats for an uncomfortable moment, literally hanging in midair. Fearing the worst, I begin to prepare my body for the concussive force I know awaits me when I crash inexorably into the frigid churning waters of this merciless endless sea.

Suddenly, with no warning or reason, I feel a soft yet firm hand upon my shoulder; and a soothing voice says, Heather, my name is Sally. I’m the ER attending at Queen of Angels Hospital in Santa Susanna. You’ve been in an accident. You have just come out of emergency surgery. There’s nothing to worry about. The surgery was a success, and you’re going to be just fine. It may take a little while for the effects of the anesthesia to wear off. Once they do, I will allow you to have a couple of visitors. By the way, your sister is…

Before she can finish, I hear a rather annoying buzzing sound coming from just above me. My mind flashes immediately back to my school daze, which were exactly that… mostly a daze. The buzz actually reminds me of the school’s buzzer that rather than annoy would actually fill me with an almost-indescribable joy!

Why? Because that little sound would indicate that a merciful conclusion had finally come to another lecture in an endless line of nondiscernible, mind-numbingly boring lectures that this preternaturally talented, somewhat angst-ridden young artist simply was not interested in. Before I am able to make an exit from my mental classroom, I hear another buzz; and then the lady with the sweet, soothing voice is gone. I am left to wonder what has become of my sister and the rest of the gals. I slip comfortably back into my drug-induced stupor, still trying vainly to recall the name of the attractive brunette that I’d seen in the bar on the pier with Ziggy.

I awake suddenly, shivering uncontrollably yet feeling strangely fine. I come to the quick and rather stark realization that I am lying naked in a very confined space. Suddenly, I’m not so fine. I roll quickly over onto my left side and come face-to-face with a young lady of such rare and luminous beauty that this surely must be a dream. She is nestled securely beneath a soft blanket of fleece. I can see that her long blonde curls cascade down over perfectly contoured soft brown shoulders like a quiet stream flowing gently over small round stones.

As I reach hesitantly for this stunning vision of slumbering serenity, my nostrils suddenly fill with the unmistakable and somewhat overpowering scent of jasmine. I hold my breath for a moment and then reach out tentatively in order to sweep the flowing curls away from her eyes. My clumsy slow-moving fingers are just about to lift the first wispy locks of hair away from her cherubic face when, suddenly, her eyes pop wide open, revealing liquid pools of vivid blue. I feel myself being drawn inexorably down into her drowning pool of passion. I reach once more for her pretty face when, in the seeming blink of one of her vivid blue eyes, I am suddenly transported into the middle of a vast empty beach. Quickly looking down, I come to the rather uncomfortable realization that I am also slowly sinking into what amounts to an enormous pool of quicksand.

I gaze back to my right and see a sparkling lifeguard tower hovering in the distance. In an effort at seeking refuge from my current predicament, my mind suddenly attempts to make out the numbers on the whitewashed, weather-beaten side as they spin incessantly out of control. They bring to mind a giant roulette wheel that has been turned on its side and then digitized.

While I continue gazing mindlessly at the relentlessly spinning digits, I find myself wondering what has become of my beautiful blue-eyed, flaxen-haired companion. I attempt to approach the tower; but much to my chagrin, or more accurately panic, I can feel the sand beneath my feet beginning to give way. I look down and become acutely aware that the ground beneath my feet has turned suddenly into a swirling, churning morass of dark brown molasses. It is like I am being sucked slowly into a huge bottle of maple syrup. Of course, this would be a really big bottle, and the syrup is far grittier than I ever remember it being when I was a child. I quickly begin wondering, What kind of cosmic quicksand is this, and what kind of predicament have I been tossed into?

While the sticky, gooey substance continues to rise, having already climbed from a point just below my ankles to where it is now, licking contemptuously at the middle of my thighs, I am beginning to feel more than a tad uncomfortable. Within seconds, the molasses is lapping at the bottom of my Skivvies like some wayward rabid dog with a bit too much curiosity, and I find myself flailing helplessly at the inanimate tower. Each epic thrust of my arms brings me agonizingly close to the low-hanging wooden railing that is literally only inches from my grasp. I give one mighty lurch and fall only a microinch shy of my objective.

I feel the ever-advancing swirling mass of goo approach my groin, and all manner of unpleasant thoughts begins to flood my panic-stricken brain. Looking up once more, I see a window suddenly appear next to the constantly spinning numerals.

I watch with the conflicting feelings of morbid fascination, hope, and, finally, a strong sense of longing when the face that appears in the portal belongs to the stunning beauty that I had so recently shared a blanket with. Sadly, her beatific smile has been replaced with a look of abject terror. Her brilliant topaz eyes, which had earlier looked like pristine jewels tossed onto a soft white carpet, were now clearly pleading for a rescue that I was simply unable to give.

As her small porcelain hands continue to relentlessly pound on the thick unyielding glass, my calves are burning and my lungs ache as if I’ve just completed a marathon. But I haven’t moved even an inch as I continue grasping in futility at a constantly shifting rail that is forever just out of reach. One more inch, just one frustrating inch, and I can free her from her glassy prison.

As the messy morass of goo now encircles my waist, I continue reaching for the rail; then I see her bite her nails. Our disconsolate eyes meet at last, and we wallow in each other’s growing frustration and misery—literally inches away from being able to rescue each other, yet not even able to save ourselves! Such is the duality of faith, I guess.

I fall back for a moment and attempt to relax. Are we truly doomed to watch each other perish, each frantically struggling in vain against forces unseen and misunderstood?

When I finally look back, it seems she has relinquished the fight. Without a word or even a blink, she places a slender finger upon perfectly soft rose-tinted lips and then forces a quietly reassuring smile. As the swirling brown morass of nastiness now crests upon my chest, I find myself inexplicably smiling back and then, without closing my eyes or removing them from hers, suddenly relinquish my own fight.

As we continue staring with longing into each other’s rapidly fading eyes, I sense the hope that this act alone will magically save us both. Finally freed from the futile fight, serenity takes me by a willing hand, and the seeming inevitability of our shared demise will forever join us in…

Suddenly, I find myself staring at a hospital door. There are two very beautiful, intricate, yet delicate angels etched into the thick glass. Before I can see what their cherubic little faces look like, I am immediately transported into the center of a large white room. I now find myself looking down upon a bed. In this bed, lying somewhat uncomfortably, is the exquisite woman from the tower. Thank God, I think we have both survived. Before I get carried away, though, I realize that she is also somewhat older and—what’s this?—appears to be suckling a little bundle of newborn innocence. Strangely, she also seems to be suddenly aware of my presence and begins flashing an impossibly beautiful, almost-transcendent smile.

Within seconds, she is removing the blanket from the infant’s head; and when I move down for a closer look, a chubby face covered with a mop of jet-black hair comes quickly into view. I am struck by the thickness of her unruly coif. As the woman sweeps the hair out of the infant’s face, I see staring back at me tiny orbs of brilliant topaz that are little miniatures of her mother’s. Now many newborns’ eyes are blue, but these are truly stunning in their clarity. As the child appears to focus her gaze, I suddenly fall away in a daze when she appears to recognize me. As an imperceptible smile creeps across her tiny lips, I am left grasping in futility at a number of what-ifs.

I look quickly back at her mother in stunned silence as she releases a comforting smile, then says just a few words that suddenly shake me to the core: What shall we name our sweet little daughter? I think Z—might be nice?

What? I stammer while stumbling back into a darkened corner of the room. Still attempting to unravel the child’s somewhat quirky name, her mother blinks quickly once again; and I find myself clinging on to a wet, slippery wooden rail. Just beneath my dangling feet, the swirling brown mass of nastiness has returned with a vengeance. Miraculously, I have finally been able to grasp the elusive ever-changing rail; however, if I am unable to find more energy, the ever-advancing stickiness will suck me in with glee. I look back into the window on the tower’s side and can just make out her flashing blue eyes as she begins to float just beyond my reach. She removes the blanket from atop her head, and as she opens her mouth to speak, I listen for the words that will unravel this mystery when…

I feel a gentle yet firm hand upon my shoulder. Cole, Cole. It’s Sally. My god, have you been out here all night?

I open my eyes very slowly and appear to be staring out from behind a rain-soaked window. It’s almost as if I’m still on that beach. I begin to panic before realizing that I’m wearing glasses. The ever-present fog that continually devours this town has obviously wreaked havoc with the lenses. They are soaked, as am I. Apparently, I had fallen asleep last night while in midprayer, still hanging on to this unforgiving strip of iron. I wince in agony as a sudden jolt of pain reminds me that kneeling on concrete for several hours isn’t recommended for guys my age. Monks maybe, but I’ll never be mistaken for a monk.

Let me help you up! she offers kindly, her sweet, melodic voice seeming to sing the phrase. I struggle mightily in an effort just to stand. Upon finally reaching my feet, my back locks up, and I fall hard against her petite but able frame. She steadies me with a surprising amount of strength and ease. As I gaze momentarily into her spectacular crystal clear blue eyes, she gives me an uncomfortable but somehow reassuring smile. I look back out over the top of the rail and notice that the distant streets below are still wearing a cloak of smoke and flame.

Then looking back into her pretty face, I’m immediately filled with confusion and shame. She indicates a bench a few feet away. Wrapping her left arm around my waist while placing her right upon my chest, she guides me slowly toward the bench, and it suddenly seems as if we have been allowed to escape from our individual entanglements in order to affect each other’s rescues. Okay, so I’m now aware that it was all just a painful dream, though a vivid one at that and that she is the one now saving me; but what’s a good story without an occasional rewrite?

When I finally make it to the bench, I lean back, and the floodgates of pain fly wide open. I gaze at my bloody hands and realize that there are deep indentations running literally through the middle of each disfigured palm. My knees feel like they’ve spent the night being sanded by a large piece of very coarse sandpaper. As the blood runs steadily down my pant legs into my sockless shoes, I realize that my back is now in a mode of violent attack.

Oh my god! I shout aloud, suddenly aware of my surroundings. My daughters!

I stammer, How are… ?

Calmly reaching for my wounded hands, she cradles them gently in hers and, while gazing resolutely into my bloodshot eyes, attempts to offer a soothing reply. My shoulders begin sloping forward as I prepare myself for the worst. Who am I kidding? I’m scared senseless while listening for words that have the ability to destroy my life.

They are both going to be just fine, she says finally while squeezing my hands for emphasis. I just left each of their rooms, and they are coming out of the anesthesia a little more slowly than I would like, but they are both going to be just fine!

Genuinely afraid to inquire as to the extent of their injuries, I wait for her to continue. I was pleading with my eyes in the faint hope that they would not be life altering in nature. My mind momentarily makes its way back to a train ride on a dark gray London afternoon and a precious one-armed little girl who had filled me with so much hope. I find myself whispering a silent prayer not only for her but also that that day was not a premonition of things to come for me. Sensing my growing anxiety, she finally continues on in a carefully measured though comforting tone.

Your oldest daughter, Heather, sustained only a broken left ankle. It was a rather simple set, and she is wearing what we call a walking boot. It extends to about midcalf. If she were an athlete, she wouldn’t be able to play for a while, but—

She’s a musician! I blurt out quickly. Will this affect her ability to—

Play? No! she says quickly, finishing my thought. Other than, you know, the whole standing and moving nimbly across the stage stuff!

I detect a quirky little smile creeping slowly from each corner of her pretty lips, which is followed with an almost-impish grin. Then with a seeming twinkle in her eyes, she prepares to continue. A sudden thought strikes me: I’ve seen that very same look recently, though not from Sally. While I ponder this fact, I attempt to wait patiently for the news of my younger daughter. The fact that she’s just made something of a joke leads me to believe that Rhiannon’s condition can’t be that much worse.

As she tenderly takes my hands in hers, I feel a measure of panic simply because of the kind way in which she is holding them. Thinking that this can’t possibly be good, I begin slowly reeling in the years of my daughter’s past when she finally speaks at last.

Using layman’s terms to describe her injuries, Rhiannon suffered fractures to both her ring and pinkie fingers. As she says these words, she is simultaneously exploring the contours of my own left hand, showing me which fingers are broken and precisely where. Then an almost-imperceptible smile creases her lips as she rubs her hand across the finger where a wedding band might have been. Or maybe that is just my wishful thinking. She looks deeply into my bloodshot eyes and continues on with her explanation, The fractures are what is known as impacted. This happens when broken bone ends are forced into each other. In your daughter’s case, they occurred on the metacarpals and distal phalanges. As she explains this fact, she is simultaneously palpating my own phalanges. I suddenly find myself listening less to what she is saying and concentrating more on what her hands are doing to mine.

She then slides them down onto my left side and, while tenderly touching my ribs, explains further, The injuries that we are most concerned with involve the fracture of two ribs, namely the third and fourth at the costochondral joints. This is where the bony rib articulates with the costal cartilage. As she says this, she is gently placing her hands to the left of my own sternum in order to show me precisely where the breaks occurred.

I must admit that even under these far-less-than-ideal circumstances, the soft touch of her hands upon my chest immediately makes me wish I had injuries elsewhere. I’m guessing that it is so wrong to even consider this right now, but at the very least, the probing of her delicate hands has made me completely forget about my own injuries. I finally regain a modicum of common sense and blurt out effusively, Why did you call in a specialist?

She looks up at me, apparently surprised either by the question or my exuberance in asking it, and replies firmly, We were a little concerned that the ribs may have punctured a lung. Fortunately, that is not the case, however, and she is going to be just fine.

We did have to call in a hand specialist, however. I’m guessing that as one of the Crusaders’ star players, she will want to regain complete and perfect function in those two fingers, so we felt that it was necessary.

Will she? I ask hesitantly. Regain perfect use of her hand, I mean.

Absolutely, she replies with a smile. Rhiannon should be completely recovered in time for next season.

Though I have to admit to a certain amount of relief at the news she has imparted so far, I can’t help but feel a minor depression coming on. Why should my heart still be sinking when the news is basically good, considering all the horrible alternatives? It’s just that I know how much Rhiannon and Amie Jo were looking forward to playing Nevada on Sunday. I guess that at the end of the day, softball games and recording contracts can wait. At least they will still be able to pursue those options.

When can I see them? I blurt out, suddenly without thinking.

They should be clear of the effects of the anesthesia in about an hour or so. That gives us just enough time to take care of your wounds. As she says this, she lifts my hands in front of my eyes so that I am able, for the first time, to take stock of my own injuries, which include two deep gashes running the length of each palm.

Apparently, I was gripping that railing a little bit tighter than I thought, I announce sheepishly.

Apparently, she says softly while examining my hands for any further damage. After finishing her cursory exam, she looks into my eyes and says almost absentmindedly, What were you doing out there anyway?

Meeting her confused gaze with one of my own, I respond finally and somewhat painfully, Basically, I think that I was pretty much praying my ass off while attempting to hang on for dear life. There was a time there when it literally felt like I was sinking in quicksand!

Apparently, God pulled you out! she replies with not even a hint of sarcasm.

Then while deftly slipping one arm around my waist and the other beneath my arm, she helps me onto my unsteady feet; and slowly, step by painful step and arm in grateful arm, we make our way out of the misty morning air and finally leave the flames and fog behind.

Now safely inside the hospital’s walls, she leads me into an examination room and, before the door even closes, asks me kindly to drop my drawers. Well, not in those words so much. She actually asks me to remove everything but my drawers and, with a quirky little parting smile, announces that she will return in just a few minutes. As the door closes softly behind her, I momentarily consider a dash into the parking lot in order to escape what will surely be a very embarrassing few minutes but decide, for the sake of my daughters, to just grin and bear it.

Not surprisingly, it takes me the better part of fifteen minutes to remove only four articles of clothing. My shoes are literally filled with blood, and my pants have two ragged holes, where my knees and the concrete had apparently decided to become intimate friends. My sweatshirt, on the other hand, has apparently decided to take on a life all its own. I dump the offensive articles into the corner and then look down at my shattered toe, the one that I’d bumped in the hotel room during my initial flight of panic. That seems more like days rather than just a few hours ago.

I climb carefully onto the exam table and gaze in wonder at my now-shredded hands. Rather than having been clutching on to an iron railing, it almost looks like I’d been grasping a double-edged sword in an attempt at freeing my daughters from the evil clutches of demons and dragons. Okay, so that’s way over-the-top! Where are the really good drugs when you need them?

As the pain from my assorted injuries begins attacking me in waves, I find myself lamenting the fact that I’d stumbled out of my hotel room without grabbing my bottle of Oxy. I look expectantly around the room in the hopes that a morphine drip may have been mistakenly left behind by the previous tenant. I was desperate for anything with which to blunt the now-excruciating pain. Why hadn’t I felt any of this while I was in Sally’s presence?

Almost as if on cue, she calmly saunters back into the room. As she floats by my seated position on the corner of the exam table, I catch a faint scent of jasmine and immediately felt a sense of déjà vu. It quickly passes, however, and I watch with increasing fascination as she glides gracefully about the room collecting what she needs. She stops momentarily to wash