Natalie Sullivan was sleeping soundly when the cell phone started ringing in her mom and stepfather’s bedroom. She was snuggled deep under her blankets, long brown hair framing one side of her face, the other side by her favorite purple pillowcases.
The floor of the room was at least a foot deep in clothes, clean and dirty, including once used towels. Her mom would complain, but Natalie did not mind wrinkles and knew where every stitch of clothing was. This was not always the case with her textbooks however, but she was careful with her cheerleader uniform, and had it neatly hung over the back of the lone chair.
Downstairs, Rachel turned on the light then snatched the phone to stop the ringing. She cleared her throat before answering. Her husband Brad rolled over to watch through bleary eyes, annoyance written clearly on his slack face.
Rachel was blunt. “Hello.”
“Hello. May I speak with Rachel Carson please?”
“This is Rachel Carson.”
“Ms. Carson, we’re terribly sorry to have to disturb you at this late hour. This is Maureen from St. Luke’s Regional Medical Center. Bill Sullivan was injured in a traffic accident this evening. You are listed as his first emergency contact.”
Rachel was shocked, and her face drained of color. Brad sat up in the bed, now knowing this call involved some sort of emergency.
“Ms. Carson?”
“Yes-yes, I’m here. I’m sorry. Is he okay-I mean will he be okay?”
“Ms. Carson, Mr. Sullivan is in surgery. He is listed in serious but stable condition. We don’t have a lot of information yet but wanted to notify you as soon as possible. I wish I had more to tell you, but right now we don’t.”
“How badly is he hurt? When will Bill be out of surgery? What-” she stopped herself.
“Ms. Carson, if you would like to call back in a few hours Mr. Sullivan should be out of surgery, and we will have updated information shortly thereafter. If you wish to see him after surgery, Mr. Sullivan will be taken to the recovery room on the fourth floor.”
Rachel’s mind was spinning.
“Ms. Carson?”
“Yes, I’m here”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Carson, I hope everything turns out okay,” Maureen finished gently.
“Thank you.”
Rachel clicked off the call; drained, distraught, and at a loss for words, welcoming her husband’s protective arms.
“Bill?” Brad asked.
Rachel nodded. “He was in a car accident. He’s in surgery right now.”
“How bad?” asked Brad.
“I don’t know. The hospital will know more in a few hours.”
Rachel let her husband hold her while she debated on whether to wake Natalie. A few moments later Rachel put on a robe and went upstairs to break the news to her daughter. Natalie Sullivan didn’t take it well.
Randy Jackson, head coach of the Los Angeles Dodgers, dropped the early morning paper on the table and headed for the espresso machine. It was last year’s Christmas gift from his wife, and he enjoyed the ritual of making lattes, getting the foam just right, and trying flavored syrups. An early riser, he liked to enjoy his coffee and paper on the deck while watching the sun come up.
The machine was ready with coffee and water, but the phone rang before he could flip on the power switch.
Who the hell is calling this early on a Saturday morning?
Over the last twenty years Randy learned to hate late night and early morning phone calls. Usually somebody was in trouble with the baseball commission, or a player was in jail, or somebody had been in some sort of accident, or it was a problem with somebody’s family. It was never the lottery commission telling him he had won a million dollars.
The caller was Philip Jensen, the team’s physician.
“Randy, it’s Philip.”
“What is it this time?”
“Randy, I just got a call from Jake Parsons. Bill Sullivan was hit broadside by a drunk driver after midnight and was taken into surgery. Bill’s daughter called Jake, who jumped on the first plane from Denver to Boise and called me after he arrived. Sullivan sustained leg and hip injuries and cracked vertebrae in his spine. He is out of surgery and stable but not yet awake.”
“Oh Christ! I hope he is going to be okay.”
“Me too.”
“Was Sullivan drinking?”
“Early reports were that he had one beer with dinner. It happened right in front of the restaurant and some of the staff called 911. A driver without lights, drunk and at high speed ran the light. Guy died at the scene.”
“Damn it!” exclaimed Randy.
Phillip gave Randy the name of the hospital.
“Get on it, Doc. Call me as soon as you speak with the physicians in Boise,” said Randy, finishing up.
“I’ll catch the first plane out,” Phil said, glancing at his wife. Knowing it was bad news, she had come to the kitchen table to join him instead of staying in bed. After telling her about Bills accident, Philip kissed his wife’s cheek and headed for the shower. As the team physician Phil was paid good money to keep players on the field and handle the press on medical matters.
After his shower Phil called the team’s secretary at home, gave her the news, and asked her to fax the team’s medical information release to the Boise hospital.
“What a wretched way to start a Saturday,” he muttered.