Then begin her struggles with her packages. Five minutes later, I’m this close to jumping out and helping her load her car when she finally finishes. Deck the halls, baby! I’m in business. I’ve never seen Christmas lights as beautiful as the ones reflecting off of her tailgate as she slams it closed.
Out of the corner of my eye, something flashes. My jaw falls open as a black sports car jerks out from behind a long line of cars at the end of the aisle, its engine roaring to life. I shake my head at the idiocy of the driver as the car weaves in and out. The car slows to a purr before picking up speed. I snarl possessively, “Hell no, motherfucker. That’s my parking spot,” before my doctor instincts kick in when I quickly realize he’s about to crash into the woman. “Shit,” I mutter, slamming my car in park and bracing.
The sound of a car crash is disgustingly abhorrent and cruel: the squeal of the tires on the pavement, the initial shatter of the flimsy outer body terrifying as pieces of windshield and fiberglass fly in all directions, some of them striking my car.
I couldn’t care less.
I’m out of my car seconds after the impact is over, my lungs seizing as I try to move as fast as they’ll go to get closer. Even as I stumble, I witness the car back away from where it trapped the woman against the back of her car, hesitating briefly, before speeding off, narrowly avoiding sideswiping me in its bid for escape.
Though I’m devastated by what I’d just witnessed, I’m grateful I can hear the wretched sound of the woman’s breathless agony. It means she has a chance. “Ma’am? Ma’am, what’s your name?” I call loudly to be heard over the increasing cacophony of sound as witnesses begin to amass in a protective ring.
“Mary,” she says weakly. “Hurts. Hurts so badly.”
“I’m Dr. Jason Ross. I’m an ER doctor. I was behind you waiting for your parking spot. I want to check on your baby before I assess your injuries, Mary.” My words are as clear and as precise as they can be. “If the baby is safe, do you give me permission to move him to my car?”
“Her,” she murmurs weekly. “Her name is Grace. Eight weeks old.”
“Okay. Let me get Grace to safety first, then we’ll take care of you.” I race around the back of the car, praying I’ll find the car seat undisturbed.
When I reach the door, I find an angel. Grace’s eyes are welled up with tears, and her rosebud lips are a perfect bow even though they’re howling with displeasure. I sigh in relief. Pushing down on the buttons to release the infant car seat, I lift her before spotting her diaper bag. Grabbing both, I hurry to my own vehicle, sliding them inside. I race back to Mary and lean over her. “Grace is safe. Her car seat was installed perfectly. Did you do that?”
Mary shakes her head against the ground. “Her father. He’s a firefighter.”
“He did a good job. You did a good job. She’s safe.”
“Good.” Mary’s eyes flutter closed.
“Mary? Mary. I need you to keep talking to me. Help is going to come soon. I can’t move you until I get a board. Tell me what you were shopping for today,” I demand. Reaching over, I touch one of her hands. Her pulse is thready. I can see the ground around her beginning to tinge with red. She’s bleeding from somewhere.
Fuck.
“I was getting Joe—that’s my fiancé—some new clothes for a family photo.” Her voice is getting weaker. “Just one perfect photo of all of us.” Tears well in her eyes. “Why did this happen, Doctor?”
I stroke my hand over her face, trying to brush the debris away. “I wish I knew, Mary. Take comfort in the fact Grace isn’t hurt, and that we’re going to get you fixed up.”
A tear slips down the side of her cheek. “It was going to be our first Christmas together,” she gasps, right before her head lolls to the side. She’s unconscious, and a trickle of blood is dripping from her mouth.
Fortunately, emergency services arrive and comes over to where I’m waving and yelling madly. “Here! Over here! We have injuries!”
One of the wagon drivers calls to his partner before jogging over. “Get the board!”
When he reaches me, I rattle off everything I know. “Patient is a two-months postpartum Caucasian woman. Her infant is in the front seat of my car.” I point to my vehicle and one of the EMS personnel goes sprinting in its direction. “She was putting away her packages when the other vehicle came at her at an undetermined speed, hitting her head-on. She appears to have internal injuries. Her purse is in the back seat.” The EMS nods as he takes her blood pressure before calling out, frowning, “BP is low.”
He leans over to listen with his stethoscope, something I itch to grab out of his hands. I can have her triaged and ready to go in a matter of seconds—seconds that could determine her life or death on this brittle winter day.
“She’s not breathing. Preparing for intubation,” he calls out to his partner.
I lean over and begin to run my hands over her body. Is that a distention near her lower abdomen? “What the hell are you doing?” he snaps.
“I’m an ER trauma specialist at NYU.” My voice holds every ounce of authority I use when I’m on duty. “Have someone grab my bag from the trunk of my car.”
“Shit. We’d be happy to have you along for the ride, Doctor.”
My smile is grim. “I wasn’t planning on going anywhere.”
As he prepares her for blind intubation, I grope for my bag, digging to find my own set of ears. Pressing it against her tummy, still enlarged from her pregnancy, I hear something of concern. And that’s nothing at all.
There should be some sound, something to let me know there’s blood flowing through her bowels. Hearing nothing is worse than hearing the gurgles.
