Interstate (11 page)

know,” Julie in the same place, “Julie, my love, Julie, how are you? Please be well. We're here, getting help, dear, help,” and gets out of the car, says into the back “Stay put, both of you, I'll fetch them,” and runs in thinking “‘Fetch,' what a dumb word, how could I have used it?” and yells to a man behind a window in Reception “Emergency, emergency, my daughter's been shot, someone, someone, I almost know it's too late but help me, help her,” and a nurse charges through the double doors next to the reception window toward him and just as she's about to say something he grabs her arms and shouts “Where were you? Why wasn't someone outside? Get a doctor, breathing equipment, something to stop the blood, she's in the car outside, dark gray one, charcoal,” and runs back out and into the backseat and sits her up and breathes into her, comes up, breathes into her, lips are cold but that can be just that she's very hurt, the opposite somehow of a temperature from an infection or cold where the body's doing something he doesn't understand because of the hole in her and loss of blood. Breathes into her, listens, nothing, but he might not be hearing, where's Margo? “Margo,” he yells, “Margo.” “I'm in front. I couldn't stay. Is that all right? Did I do wrong?” She's so sticky and limp, back, wrist, forehead, cold all over, she's dead, has to be, the purple coloring and film, there'd be some life sign, eyes, he opens one, it looks dead, he didn't act fast enough to save her, just should've kept breathing into her with Margo waving for help on the shoulder till someone came. Or taken her outside the car and breathed into her there so other cars would see and stop. Didn't do what he should've done on the road to get away from the men which would have been what? Swerved more, tried earlier to dart into the median strip and then gone north on it, got off sooner onto the shoulder and immediately driven in reverse. Moment he knew she was shot, without even going in back, should've raced down the highway till he saw a sign for a hospital—just should've believed one would come. If only they'd stopped at the rest stop twenty miles or so back as Julie had asked him to instead of his insisting on getting home soon as they can, eager to get their things away and dinner prepared so he could read the mail and newspaper over a drink. She didn't have to go to the bathroom—he asked her—she just wanted water, maybe a soda, she said, “No soda,” he said, “and water you can get at home.” Margo wanted something to drink too but also didn't have to make. If only one of them had wanted to go to the bathroom badly, just said that, even lied they did and then got water or asked for soda there, he would have stopped. If only he'd wanted to pee, but really had to, was about to explode or felt it coming, or twenty miles or so back he'd been so tired that he needed a break and cup of coffee, he would have stopped and never have come up against those men or probably not. But don't get sick over it. He can still help, who knows? and breathes into her, listens to her mouth, nose and chest. Stop kidding yourself, there's nothing there and hasn't been for minutes, she's dead, that's all, but you're not a doctor, you don't know, so she might not be, but she's already started what's got to be an impossible-to-change change, he can see and feel it, so she's dead. “Oh God, she's dead,” he thinks, and bursts out crying and cries hysterically and Margo leans over the seat and rubs his back and says “This is very sad, Daddy, I don't know what to do either.” Hospital people are there now, may have been there awhile, all the doors open, nurses, doctors, aides, equipment, with so many people and stuff they'll be certain to help her, each of them has that competent look and this is the country, not the city, where people are eager to help and do their job well and no one's on the run, and someone says, pulling his arm, “Please come out, sir,” and he thinks “That's a good sign,” the relaxed voice and calm look and pleasant manner, just by looking at her they can tell things aren't as bad as he thought and maybe not even an emergency and he says “Wait, I have to put her down first,” but she's not in his arms, not even in the car now, he must have put her down, or dropped her, God forbid, or handed her to someone or they took her away from him, even out of his arms, without him even knowing it, so what does that say? A bad sign, but he's not sure. And where is she? He's escorted out, Margo's already out, and he's looking around for Julie, best place he bets is on the ground and he looks down and doesn't see her and up and sees a crowd of hospital people whisking a wheeled stretcher toward the emergency doors, her feet sticking out or rather her shoes and little socks and a bit of her legs, then they're through the doors which fly open, second set of doors which fly open and they're gone, he can't see them and he yells “Julie,” and a man, probably a doctor because he's in white, says “She's in the treatment room, we're trying to revive her, just tell me quick, is she allergic to anything?” “I don't think so, I don't know, my wife knows all that.” “How long ago would you say she was shot?” “Half hour or so, I think, twenty minutes, longer, twenty-five, maybe more.” “Was any other harm or blow done to her, knife, head injury in the car?” “No, it was from another car, guy with a gun on the highway, we didn't crash but I did come to a quick stop and she might have hit her head against the back of the front seat, but minor, minor compared to the gunshot.” “Anything else about her medical history, can't clot, prone to seizures, any severe recurring illnesses, is she on any drug now, anything to do with the heart, congenital, recent operations, like that?” “Not that I know of, healthy, normal, colds, flu and that thing with the throat, strep, operations I know there's been none of, only one time when she was very young there was a scare, pressure behind the eyes they thought could be a brain tumor, but it turned out to be nothing,” and the man says “Stay here, or preferably in the lobby, but somewhere where we can speak to you immediately if we need to, and if we don't then someone will come out to see you after we're done,” and runs to the emergency entrance so fast that the doors don't open when he gets there, has to step back and walk forward and they open and then the next ones open and the man's running someplace and then's gone, and he's looking for Julie again, maybe they didn't take her, on the ground, nothing there, I should go to her, he thinks, but what use could I be, since she has pros taking care of her now and they probably won't let me in. But maybe I could get in, “I'm her father,” I could say, “I've rights and I could be of some help,” to comfort her, from the sides saying “You'll be all right, you'll be all right, dear, do what they say, Daddy's here, your daddy who loves you.” Margo's holding his hand and says “This is so awful, Daddy. What will Mommy say if Julie's really dead? Please hold me,” and he thinks “That I should do and can use a little of too,” and he tries but is too weak to. He knows he should comfort Margo also, say something like “It's going to be okay, you'll see, with so many nice capable people helping and in a treatment room where they can treat her capably, how could it not be?” but he's crying and says “Oh no, I was all wrong and you're right, it really is awful, how could it be worse?” He doesn't want to, more for her sake, but slips his hand out of hers and holds his head, tries to think. There's something I should be thinking of, he thinks, but I don't know what. No, there's something I should be doing—that's it—but what? What is it I should do? I should do something. I should go into the lobby, stay there, waiting to be of help, that's true and I will, but something else. I should wake up. Oh, that's the easiest way out, isn't it? and the least realistic, though wouldn't it be nice. But I should. I should really wake up. This is too terrible a dream, they don't need me in the lobby, everything with her is okay, some would call it a nightmare—it is a nightmare, but why quibble over definitions?—and if I can wake myself up from it I should, for then everything would change, but there I go again, the world's easiest and most desirable cop-out, the dream. But where will I be if I could? Julie will be here, Margo. Lee will be with her folks and I'll call her soon as I can and say “Well, we just got here and everything's fine. How you doing? Kids and I miss you.”
Here
is home and wouldn't that be grand. But how do I get from this place to that, with Julie still being worked on in the treatment room, or so it seems like. There's nothing wrong, that's how, no treatment room, everything's fine, or she is there but suddenly jumps up fully recovered, or just needs a little bandage here, some other place, and I sign a couple of papers, even write out a check, and we drive home. But it doesn't even have to go that far—all that
was
a dream and you are home, that's where you are. I'll cook dinner for the kids, make sure they get to bed on time. School's tomorrow, how about that? “We have clean clothes for tomorrow? You know your dresser drawers better than I, but if you need help, even if you want me to do a wash for tomorrow, let me know.” I'll read Julie a story while her light's out and they're both in bed, Margo reading in her own room. Lately Julie's been engrossed in Greek myths. Or I'll sit in the hallway between their rooms, lights out for both of them and maybe on in the hallway, or only the hallway bathroom light on but with the door mostly closed, or their night lights which they haven't had on for a week—“I'm too old to still be scared of the dark,” Margo had said, so Julie said she didn't want hers on either but she's been waking up and going into their room almost every night since because of it—and I'll tell them a story. Continuation of the Nancy Drew and Ned Nickerson saga after they got married and had a child whom they lug around in a back or chest carrier while solving crimes, or just a story started by the first thing that pops into my head. Moral or folk tale, fantasy, biblical or chivalric story retold mostly with dialog, but better, with my kind of mind, something made up on the spot and new. One incident leading to the next, usually humorous and where most of the characters have accents, and the ones I've had the best success at and with some great endings that even surprised me. Stories where they both said when I kissed them goodnight “That was a good one, you should write it down so you can tell it to us again.” I usually said “Don't worry, I'll remember,” but I never do. Or I can have one of them choose what kind of story she wants me to tell and even what characters she wants in it. “Who picked the topic last time?” I'll ask, and whoever did it'll be the other's turn tonight. That is if they don't say right away they want the same one. If they want, or Lee says they need a bath before bed, I'll run one and make sure they dry themselves well, especially their poupies and hair, and then that they brush and floss their teeth. In other words, everything they'd do if their mother was here, though maybe not the flossing. If they want their dessert after the bath, then the teeth-brushing after. Maybe they have to brush their hair too before they go to sleep. I'll ask them or Lee when I speak to her, which probably should be after dinner and before the bath but certainly at a time when they can both speak to her. If braids are needed, which I've seen them go to bed with, that I can't do. TV? None, or a half-hour show at the most, preferably a public one. And where would Lee be now? Probably at her parents', maybe helping her mother with supper or having tea with her dad. And the men? Get to where they were going? They think they have to make a detour? Still talking about what happened before, making jokes about it—Fucking great shot, probably got the two snotnoses with one bullet—or they even know how it came out? Maybe the man intentionally shot over their car just to scare them but his aim was bad or the driver made a sharp turn or car went over a bump moment the gun went off and they never saw the bullet or bullets go into the car. It certainly wasn't anything the driver could see in his mirrors, since the windshield was smashed. He should tell the cops about them, give descriptions, but can he even remember what they look like? Clothes, even their hair? One wore a red tie, but who? Color of their car he knows but was it a two-door, four-door, station wagon, even a van? Seemed to be fairly new and the exterior shiny and clean and something seems to stick in his head that says it was a fancy model of some kind, but he's not sure. What good would it do? Well, stop them from doing it to other people on the road or elsewhere, and to get even, of course. He should do that now, or later. Write it down, but who's got a pen? And now, not later. Lots of it should come back, but for now it's a jumble. Margo! and wheels around for her, yells “Margo,” sees she's standing beside him, head against his side, frightened now she did something wrong, squeezing his hand. Gets on one knee and hugs her, starts crying and she cries and says “I love you, Daddy,” and kisses his head. If Julie were here she'd make a face and say “You kissed his hair; you're not supposed to, it's unsafe.” Wants to say “I love you” back, but no way to, not even nod. Doctor approaches. Doctor comes over. Stands in front of them. He's sitting with Margo on the curb where the car was, someone must have moved it away; she sprawled across his thighs, though he doesn't remember sitting down or how she got there and if he stroked her head and back, which is what he's done other times when she was so distressed, till she went to sleep or shut her eyes. Someone in white at least, looking seriously at him and as if preparing a speech. Probably a doctor: whole outfit white, even the shoes. “Dr.,” tag on her jacket says, and after it—strains to read—“Lynette C. Jones.” Millions of Joneses but always a surprise to meet one. “Lynette” to do what: individualize, particularize, set apart or off?—heck, no reason he should be expected to come up with the right word now—like the Harrison Jones he once met, and another: Severen or something, and a Velásquez, that's right. Why's he thinking this? Fool, stupid, and bangs his forehead with his free palm. And who were those people in uniforms before who came over while he was in a stupor, he thinks, or just asleep but feeling drunk, and asked questions? They were told by him or someone else, he thinks, another doctor, male, that he'd see them inside. What color men? they asked, race, they mean. How many in the car? What make, car color, how many doors, did he see the license plate, what color plate then, did he know the men, any distinguishing features other than a red tie on one of them? Then they were gone, as if given strict orders to go, something he'd never do to police.