Page 2 of Save Me
When I’d heard them screaming, I hadn’t taken the time to get a good look at the mother. Now that I have, I’m fucking speechless. Dark hair, green eyes, sun-kissed skin, a body with enough extra to grab a handful—she has me checking her out. Whether it’s appropriate or not, I’m looking.
“Mostly me.” Her tone is so serious I have to laugh.
It causes me and the mom to lock eyes.
“She sells them at the store in town,” the little girl continues.
“Rosa, I don’t think he wants to know our entire life story,” she laughs slightly, wiping at her own tears.
“Should we call your husband?”
If that’s not an easy way to find out if she’s involved, I don’t know what is. I don’t see a ring on her finger, or a tan line from where she may have been wearing one.
She clears her throat, shaking her head slightly. “No husband. I’ll be letting my sister know as soon as we get to the emergency room.”
Right then, the EMTs from my company arrive. Stepping back to let them do their job is hard. After I’m the one who started treatment, I want to be the one continuing it. But even I know my friends are better at this than I am. I’d rather she have the best care than for my feelings to be hurt.
“Is she going to be okay?”
I don’t miss the fear in the voice of her mother. I deal with that fear every day. Each time we go out in our fire truck, there’s a chance we won’t come back. At the same time, we’re expected to offer assurances to the families who lose their homes, cars—some of them lose friends and members of their families. It’s a rough job, but someone has to do it, and I’ve never been called to do anything else.
My father and his father before him were firefighters. Continuing a family tradition is important to us all, and I’m the man in our family who has continued it.
“She’s with the best people I know right now. She’ll be fine.” I give the mom a smile. “Her wrist, on the other hand, might need surgery. I’m obviously not a doctor, but that looks like a pretty gnarly injury.”
“Thanks for helping us,” the mom says. “I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t shown up.”
“I’m sure you would have figured it out. It takes a strong woman to raise a child on her own.”
She ducks her head slightly, a pink tone rising in her cheeks. “You’re right, I would have figured it out, but with you here I didn’t have to. Thank you for your help.”
As she and her daughter leave, I realize I never got the mom’s name, and that just won’t do.
CHAPTER TWO
AMY
“Do you have your insurance card available, ma’am?”
I’m almost sure this is the fourth time the registration clerk at the emergency room has asked me this question. Each time I’ve meant to take action, to do what he’s asked of me, but I’m in a fog I can’t seem to break. “I’m so sorry, I’m not ignoring you on purpose, I’m just worried about what’s going on back there.” I point to the double doors that separate the waiting area from the treatment area.
The last time I sent someone I love behind treatment doors, they didn’t come back. I’d been kept in the waiting area for hours, until a doctor came out with blood on their scrubs, and as I sat there holding my crying daughter, I was told a piece of my heart was gone. The day my life changed, and it hasn’t been the same since.
He offers a smile. I wonder if he doesn’t care about anyone he registers. Is this just a job for him? Does he have compassion for the people who sit here freaking out as the worst runs through their minds? “Completely understandable. As soon as I get Rosa registered, you can go right back to her.”
That promise prompts me to dig around in my bag for the information he’s requested. My hands shake as I pull the smallercard holder out, flipping through this and that to get to Rosa’s insurance card. It takes three attempts for me to grab it. When I finally wrap my trembling fingers around it, I tell myself to calm the fuck down and act like an adult. I’m her mother, and I need to get it together. Handing it over, I give a tight smile, hoping it will speed up the process. My knee jumps up and down as I can literally hear the clock on the wall in this tiny office tick off the seconds I’ve been stuck here—instead of with my daughter. Answering all the usual questions, there’s one now that always trips me up, even though I’ve been answering it this way for the last three years.
“Rosa’s father’s name?” His eyes shift up to mine, then back down to his poised fingers on the keyboard. He’s tapping, obviously waiting for me to get this part over with.
Swallowing is hard. The lump in my throat grows bigger, even as I do my best to push it down. It threatens to strangle me, the feelings this question brings up in my chest. I’m not sure I’ll ever get over the fact that he’s dead. Rosa barely remembers him, and I can’t seem to forget him.
I whisper, “He’s deceased—I’m a widow.”
Just like it always happens, the registration clerk gives me an embarrassed stare. Then he looks everywhere but at my face. Most of them take a glance at my age, then that’s when they start to pity me. Twenty-six with a seven-year-old and already a widow. The whispers and gossip were why I left the home I’d known with my husband and moved here, to where my sister has made her own place in the world. Here I’m not alone; I’ve got at least one person to be my support system. I turn around, avoiding his gaze, while watching the entrance, praying to God my twin sister, Eve, will walk in. I need her strength right now, even though she’s a force of nature. Usually her overzealousness grates on my nerves; today I want it around me, cushioning the blow of real life.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” his voice is pitched lower, almost so low I can’t hear it. It’s awkward every time I tell people I’m a widow. Some of them immediately have questions. How did it happen? How long were we married? How old am I? Does our daughter remember her father? It’s hard—hard to know what’s being rude and what’s the proper way for me to answer their questions.
In my opinion, it’s rude of them to ask, so I tend to keep my answers short and to the point.
