Page 89 of Light in the Dark
Riley pushes me toward the bus, forcing me to climb up and in. "Shut the fuck up and go, dude, Jesus. I'll see you there."
He slams the doors closed behind me, slapping the glass with his palm. I press mine to his, and then the ambulance pulls away. His palm leaves a clear handprint on the glass.
The medic in back with me is a microscopic woman with jet black hair bound back in a tight braid, the long part of the braid coiled at the back of her head and fixed in place by some sort of girl magic. I recognize her—she's the same medic who patched up Bear after that shitshow with Duane. She's stunningly beautiful, with angular features, big, bright blue eyes contrasting with her dark hair, and a Julia Roberts-esque mouth.
She's injecting something into the IV, and then prodding gently at Ember's ribcage—they've cut her clothes off completely, the scraps laying open to either side. I can see that she's got at least one broken leg, but the medic doesn't seem concerned with that. She's focusing on Ember's ribs, prodding here and there on both sides, listening to her breathing with a stethoscope that she hangs around her neck when done.
The ambulance is howling, racing south toward town. I sit at the back edge on the right side, shaking all over, barely breathing. Ember is covered in blood—the whole left side of her face is a crimson mask, and it's all down her arms, neck, and chest. She's covered in a myriad of tiny cuts.
The medic glances at me. "You can hold her hand, Mr. Crowe."
I slide down the bench until I'm within reach of Ember, and gently, gingerly fit my hand under hers. "Em, honey. I'm here." I look at the medic. "Can—can she hear me?"
Without looking away from what she's doing—swabbing something orange-ish over the side of Ember’s ribcage on her left side—she shrugs. "Dunno for sure, but I've always thought so. Can't hurt to talk to her." She glances over her shoulder at the driver. "Hold it steady, Mike. She's got a punctured lung. Need to aspirate it."
"We're five minutes from the hospital, Chels," Mike says, "better to wait."
"I don't know if shehasfive minutes. She was there for several minutes with an untreated pneumothorax. She can't breathe."
"Fuck. Fine." Mike glances back at me. "Stay cool, man. It's gonna be scary, but Chelsea is the fucking best."
“O-okay. Just—just save her."
"That's the plan, my man," Chelsea says, not looking at me as she readies a giant needle. "Beginning needle aspiration.”
She presses her fingertips along Ember's ribs, finding a specific location and marking it with a gloved fingertip—she slides the needle between Ember's ribs and removes part of the syringe or whatever the hell the thing is. There's an immediate hiss of escaping air, and Ember's chest noticeably deflates—she unconsciously sucks in a desperate, gasping breath, and her breathing normalizes to a degree. Chelsea then secures the needle-thing in place.
"There, done," she says.
"Is she okay now?" I ask.
She glances at me. "She's not out of the woods, no. She’s got a fractured skull, but her pupils are equal and reactive, so I'm hopeful she's avoided major TBI."
I shake my head. "I—I'm sorry, I don't—"
"She hit her head really hard," Chelsea says, rephrasing, "but I'm pretty optimistic that she won't have any lasting brain issues. She's got the collapsed lung and a tibia fracture. Lots of minor cuts and bruises, but the skull fracture and collapsed lungs are the major concerns."
"Just hang on for me, Ember," I whisper. “I’m here."
A few minutes later, we're pulling up to the ER of Three Rivers Medical Center, where a renewed flurry of activity takes over. Hospital nurses yank open the ambulance doors, and Chelsea immediately starts barking out medical jargon that I don't follow—she's covered Ember from the neck down with a white sheet that sticks to her skin where she's bloody. The nurses hurry the stretcher into the hospital while listening to Chelsea's report—I follow them, walking beside the stretcher with Ember's hand in mine. They bring her to the curtained-off section of a room—the ER is bustling and noisy—children are crying, someone is moaning, someone else is shouting, things are beeping and hissing, doors open and close, shoes squeak on tile.
As soon as she's in place, a cluster of nurses and a white-coated doctor surround Ember, pushing me out of the way.
The doctor, examining Chelsea's needle insertion, glances at me. "You're her husband?"
"Um—n-no. I—I'm her…boyfriend, I guess," I answer.
"Then you need to wait in the waiting room. Family only."
"She doesn'thavefamily," I snap. "I'm all she's got."
"No parents, siblings, aunts—no one?"
"No, no one. Just me."
He points to the corner of the curtained room. "Stand there and stay out of the way."
I move to the indicated corner and stay out of the way, watching as they work on her. I don't follow most of what they do, but they work on her for what seems like a long time. They tend to her head, set her leg, replace the needle in her ribs with a large clear tube, and then go over her whole body thoroughly, checking her pupils, listening to her breathing, connecting wires and patches and a heart monitor on her finger.
