Nothing to Lose (8 page)

First, check for a pulse.

I pressed a finger to the side of Nick's neck and located a pulse.
Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Next, get help.

I looked up at the people who were crowded around.

“Someone call 9-1-1,” I said.

A man was already on his cell phone. “I'm making the call right now,” he said.

Something caught my eye behind him. The tall blond guy. He was staring down at Nick. When he looked up again, I saw something hard and cold in his eyes. Then—I was sure of it—he smiled. A tight, nasty little smile. He started to turn away.

“Hey!” I shouted. I stood up just as he melted into the crowd. I wanted to go after him. I wanted to grab him and ask him what he was smiling about. But I couldn't leave Nick.

“He just jumped out in front of me,” the driver said again. “I tried to stop, but he jumped out in front of me.” She swayed on her feet.

“Someone help me!” I said, grabbing her around the waist. “I think she's going to faint.”

The man who had called 9-1-1 took the woman by the arm and asked her if she was all right. Then he steered her back to her car. Over his shoulder he said to me, “An ambulance is on its way. So are the police.”

In the distance I heard a siren.

I knelt down beside Nick.

Behind me, someone was ordering the crowd to “Step aside, people. Step aside.” I turned and saw a police officer making his way to where Nick was lying. A police car pulled up, blocking oncoming cars, and another cop got out and started to unsnarl the traffic clogging the intersection.

The first police officer looked around. “Can someone tell me what happened here?” he said.

While the man who had called 9-1-1 was filling him in, an ambulance nosed through the congestion.Two paramedics got out and knelt beside Nick. One of them felt for a pulse. The other one asked me what had happened.

I thought I could stay calm while I told him. I knew it was important for the paramedics to have as much information as possible. But when I opened my mouth to speak, I started to sob.

“I know you're upset,” the paramedic said. He had a soft but firm voice. “But it would be a big help if you could give us as much information as possible.”

I sucked in a deep breath and told him everything while his partner checked Nick's blood pressure.

“Is he a friend of yours?” the paramedic said.

I nodded.

“Do you know if he has any special medical conditions or any allergies?”

I said I didn't think so, but that I didn't know for sure. He asked me a lot more questions about Nick, most of which I couldn't answer.

The paramedics talked among themselves for a moment. Then one of them went to the ambulance and came back with a rolling stretcher and a long board.

“We're going to immobilize him,” said the paramedic who had asked me all the questions. He and his partner slid the board under Nick and strapped him to it. Then they lifted Nick onto the stretcher and wheeled him toward the ambulance. One of the paramedics told the police which hospital they were taking him to. After the ambulance left, an officer said to me, “I understand you know the victim.”

I nodded.

He asked me Nick's full name, age, address, and phone number. “We'll need to contact his parents,” he said.

“He doesn't have any parents.”

“Well, then, whoever is responsible for him.”

“He lives alone,” I said. “But he has an aunt in the city.” He wrote down her name and the address I gave him. I said I didn't know her phone number.

“Did you see what happened?” he said.

I fumbled in my pocket for some tissues. Tears were trickling down my cheeks again and I needed to blow my nose. But—it figured—I couldn't find what I was looking for. I sniffed loudly. The man who called 9-1-1 reached out and pressed a couple of tissues into my hand.

“I have to go to the hospital,” I told the police officer. “I have to see him.”

For a moment, I thought he was going to argue with me. Then he closed his notebook and said, “We'll take you there. We'll see how he is. Then we're going to want to ask you some questions, okay?”

I said okay. I would have agreed to anything so long as I got to the hospital.

 

 

The hospital wasn't far from the scene of the accident. When we got there, the two police officers went inside with me. One of them asked about Nick at the emergency department's information desk. But it was too soon. All they could find out was that Nick had arrived and that he was being examined.

One of the officers led me to a corner of the waiting room while the other one went to contact Nick's aunt. The police officer who stayed with me asked if I wanted anything to drink. When I said I didn't, he sat down next to me and spent the next twenty minutes reviewing the accident with me. After I told him everything I could remember, he asked me more questions. He wanted to know exactly where I had been standing and exactly what I had seen. “Not what you
think
happened, Robyn, but what you saw with your own eyes.” He asked if I had any idea what made Nick leap out into traffic. I said I didn't. Then I said, “I think he might have been pushed.”

The officer regarded me calmly, just like my father always did when I said something unexpected.

“What makes you say that?” he said.

I started to say that I wasn't sure. And it was true, I wasn't. Except: “Nick was waiting for the light to turn,” I said. “He waved to me. He looked happy.” I had a clear picture in my mind of Nick at the edge of the curb, looking across the street at me. “Then, all of a sudden, he sort of stumbled forward. I saw a surprised look on his face. I thought someone must have bumped into him.” I remembered the tall blond guy and the cold look on his face when he saw Nick lying on the road. “But now I'm not so sure that's what happened,” I said. “There was this guy.” I described him as best I could—which turned out to be not much of a description. All I could say for certain was that he had seemed taller than Nick, he had longish blond hair and blue eyes, and he was wearing a dark green leather jacket. In other words, just one more body in the crowd. In a city this size, he would be difficult to find, assuming the police even decided to look.

“Did you recognize him?” the police officer said. “Have you seen him before?”

I shook my head.

“Do you know if your boyfriend knows him?”

I said I didn't.

“Do you have any idea why this person—or anyone else—would push your boyfriend into traffic?”

“No.”

“Has your boyfriend been in any trouble that you know of?”

I hesitated.

“Robyn?” he said. “If you know anything that could be useful. . .”

“He's been in trouble before,” I said. “But that was a long time ago.” I told him a little about Nick's background.

“We'll have to talk to him,” he said. “Would you recognize this person again if you saw him?”

“I'm not sure,” I said. “I think so.”

The police officer closed his notebook and said he was going to check on Nick's condition. He had just returned to tell me that there was no news when I spotted Nick's Aunt Beverly outside the ER entrance with two other officers. One was the police officer who had gone to telephone her. The other was Glen Ross, her boyfriend. They talked together for a few minutes before they came inside. The officer who was with me went to join them.

While they talked, the police officer who had been with me took out his notebook and started writing again. He glanced at me. The look on his face told me that good old Glen was filling them in on Nick's past—and that what he was saying was different from what I had said. That's when Nick's aunt noticed me. She left Glen with the other two officers and came to sit beside me.

“They told me Nick was hit by a car.” Her voice was shaky and her eyes were red. “They say there's no news yet.”

I almost started crying again but forced myself to stay calm.

“They said he might have been pushed,” she said. “Was he in a fight?”

“No,” I said. “It wasn't his fault. He didn't do anything.”

“But you told the police that you saw someone push him. He must have done something. It's always something with Nick.”

“He didn't do anything,” I said again. Then I backtracked a little. “I'm not one hundred percent sure what happened,” I said. “I was on the other side of the street. I just told the police that from where I was standing, it looked like he might have been pushed. Nick will be able to tell them for sure.”

Glen broke away from the other officers and went to the information desk. I held my breath and tried to read the expression on his face, but it was impossible. Finally he came over to where we were waiting. He sat down beside Nick's aunt and took one of her hands into his.

“They're going to tell us the minute they know anything,” he said. His voice sounded almost gentle, which surprised me. The only time I had met Glen, he and Nick had been in a fight and Glen had gotten physical. I had taken an immediate dislike to him. He looked at me now. “It's Robyn, right?”

I nodded.

“I know your father.”

I already knew that. My father had told me that Glen was a good cop. He'd also said that he wasn't surprised that Glen and Nick didn't get along. According to my father, a lot of cops get used to being in charge. But Nick didn't like to be ordered around. Another problem, according to my father, was that Glen had probably seen too many kids like Nick, and Nick had had too many run-ins with cops. They were predisposed to dislike each other.

“I understand you were with Nick when it happened,” Glen said.

“Robyn says it was an accident,” Nick's aunt said.

I stared at her. That wasn't what I had said at all.

“I'd like to hear it from Robyn,” Glen said. He turned back to me. “They said you told them Nick was pushed. Who'd he piss off this time?”

I glanced at Nick's aunt. She was shaking her head.

“Robyn?” Glen said.“You saw the whole thing.What happened? Did someone push him or not?”

“I—I don't know,” I said. But when I replayed the scene in my mind, I couldn't shake the feeling that he had been pushed. “It happened so fast. One minute he was on the curb, the next he was on the street. I thought he must have been pushed, but now I don't know. He didn't do anything. Why would anyone push him when he was just standing there minding his own business?”

“Maybe he mouthed off to someone. You know how that kid can be,” Glen said. He glanced at Nick's aunt.

She nodded unhappily.

“Or maybe he was trying to cross against the light,” Glen said. “You have any idea how many kids I see doing that every day?”

I didn't know what to say. Glen seemed genuinely concerned about Nick's aunt, but he hadn't changed at all where Nick was concerned.

Glen stood up. “I could use a coffee,” he said. “You want one, Bev?” She nodded. “What about you, Robyn?”

I said no thanks.

After he'd gone, a woman came over and asked Nick's aunt about her relationship to Nick. She said there were forms that had to be filled out. She handed Nick's aunt a clipboard and a pen.

Glen was on his way back with coffee when the woman behind the information desk pointed him out to a man in a white lab coat with a stethoscope around his neck. A doctor. When Nick's aunt saw the doctor talking to Glen, she stood up and went over to him. I trailed after her.

“—extremely lucky,” the doctor was saying. “His left ankle is broken. He's got a lot of bumps and bruises. He also got a nasty bang on the head when he hit the pavement. We've x-rayed him, and we want to keep an eye on him to make sure he didn't get a serious concussion. But other than that. . .” He shrugged. “He's lucky that the car wasn't going fast. It could have been much worse.”

“Can I see him?” Nick's aunt said.

“Certainly,” the doctor said.“They're just taking him up to a room.” He told us what the room number was.

Nick's aunt looked at me. “Do you want to come too, Robyn?” she said.

I nodded.

“Ms. Thrasher?” A woman came over to Nick's aunt and introduced herself as the person in charge of admissions. “I have a few more questions that I need you to answer, if you don't mind.”

“You go ahead, Robyn,” Nick's aunt said. “Tell Nick I'll be up to see him in a few minutes.”

Glen stayed with Nick's aunt. I took the elevator up to the third floor and wandered through a maze of corridors until I reached Nick's room. There were two beds in it. An old man, either asleep or unconscious, occupied the one nearest to the door. Nick's bed was next to the window. A half-pulled curtain between the two beds divided the room. Nick's left leg, lying above the covers, was in a cast from his knee to his toes. He had a nasty scrape on one cheek, but he managed a smile when he saw me.