A rhythmic hissing sound blotted out the ability to decipher the conversation going on around her. Two voices, both women, spoke barely above a whisper. Strangers had spoken to her before, asking her to squeeze their fingers if she was in pain. Her body throbbed, every fiber, yet her muscles refused to move. A strong antiseptic scent filled her senses. A moment later, despite her inability to communicate her level of pain, warmth seeped into her veins. Her mind went numb. The pain was gone. Locked in a drug-induced state, she had no concept of time or place.
Sometime later a soft, unfamiliar voice sounded muffled. “Is she waking up?”
“Yes, I believe so. Will you page Dr. Gleeson and let him know, please?”
Did she know a Dr. Gleeson? It hurt to think, to concentrate. Her mind went blank. More whispers. So distant, unrecognizable. She tried turning her head in the direction of the voice but for some reason couldn’t move.
Footsteps crossed the floor, a door creaked open, a phone was ringing somewhere, then the door closed and the outside noises were gone.
“Good morning,” greeted the woman who had given the orders to the soft-spoken one. “I’m Amy, charge nurse for the surgical step-down unit at . . .” The nurse’s words garbled together, and the name of the hospital was lost to muffled noises that reminded her of trying to hear deep underwater.
Something prevented her from opening her eyes. Just making an attempt to view her surroundings increased the pressure around her eyes. The rhythmic hissing noise coincided with air rushing into her lungs, expanding her chest cavity. Moving her arms was impossible. Something was tied to her wrists, keeping her pinned to the handrails of the bed. Trapped, as if cocooned in cement.
“Try and stay calm.” The voice was closer now. “You’re in the hospital.”
Pressure in the back of her throat kept her from responding. Her airway . . . She couldn’t . . . breathe. Panic infused her veins. She pulled against the wrist restraints, but to no avail. Unable to speak—to see—to swallow. Why wasn’t the person trying to help? Couldn’t she see something was wrong?
Please, someone look at me. Help me! This was a dream, a bad dream.
An alarm blared. The repetitive piercing scream cut through her skull with what felt like shards of glass, crippling her thoughts. To deaden the intensity, she needed to cover her ears, but her hands were strapped down.
Seconds later the blaring stopped. But even after the alarm was silenced, a dull ringing in her ears remained. In the background the rhythmic hissing continued, expanding her lungs every few seconds.
“Just relax, sweetie, and try not to fight the breathing tube.” A warm hand grasped hers. “Dr. Gleeson is on his way.”
Moments later heavier footsteps clacked into the room, then stopped at the side of the bed. The bed railing rattled, and she sensed the male newcomer leaning over her. “I’m Dr. Gleeson, the surgeon who’s been monitoring you these last few days.”
“She’s restless, Doc.”
“Vitals?”
“BP: 120/78. Heart rate: 94. Respirations: 14 with intermittent independent breaths. Electrolytes, hemoglobin/hematocrit, and blood gases within normal limits, and respiratory therapy has initiated the weaning process per your criteria with spontaneous breathing trial success.”
“Good. Let’s remove the ventilator and see how she does on her own.” As if he had redirected his position so he was closer to her, his voice grew louder. “How does that sound to you?”
Did he really expect her to answer with a tube stuck in her throat? Yes, take it out.
“If we need to,” the doctor said, “we can always reinsert it. Your face is bandaged, and I know you’re unable to see me, but Nurse Amy and I will explain things as I go.”
Once again the nurse took her hand, wiggling her fingers against Catherine’s palm. “Squeeze my finger if you need to. Removing the tube will feel a little strange.”
Something tugged at the back of her throat.
“Cough if you can,” the doctor instructed.
She couldn’t. Even so, the breathing apparatus moved through her throat smoothly and was out. She rasped a few sharp breaths, the dry air irritating her already-raw throat.
“I’m going to listen to your lungs,” Dr. Gleeson said as something cold landed on her chest. “Take a deep breath for me.”
Inhaling even a little hurt, but every time he moved his stethoscope, she did her best to comply.
“No rales. No rhonchi. Lungs sounds are equal.” He removed the instrument from her skin. “Your respiratory muscles are going to feel sore, and that’s normal. Think of your lungs as unused muscles. After a long period of immobility, the first few stretches are painful, but like your muscles, your lungs will recover.”
“Okay.” She cleared her throat. Her weak voice came out strained and hoarse sounding, barely above a whisper, and not because she was trying to talk low, but it hurt to talk. She went to feel for a bulge but couldn’t lift her arms more than an inch or two. The bed rail rattled as she pulled against the strap pinning her down.
A large, rougher hand took hers. “Easy,” Dr. Gleeson said comfortingly. “We had to restrain you for your own protection. You were trying to pull out the respirator. But now that the breathing tube has been removed, I don’t see any reason to limit your movements.” Dr. Gleeson gave her hand a gentle reassuring squeeze, then let go. “Okay, Amy. Go ahead and remove the restraints.”
Her muscles relaxed as apprehension faded. The band holding her head in one place came off first, followed by the straps around her wrists. Finally free to move her hands, she touched the bandages on her face, covering her eyes.
“It’s important that you don’t disturb the bandages,” the doctor said, taking her hand and guiding it down to her side. “We need the gauze dressing to stay clean and in place.”
Questions jumbled in her mind, but before she could form any words, the doctor spoke first.
“You’ve been in a serious accident. I’ll explain your injuries and the treatment plan, but first, young lady, can you tell us your name?”
“Can you tell us your name?”
The doctor’s question shouldn’t have required so much thought. But her mind was blank. Except for what she’d been told about being in an accident, and that her face was damaged enough that it required extensive bandages, she couldn’t recall anything, including her name or anything about her past.
“I don’t . . .” Her throat dry and scratchy, she touched her neck. Even with the breathing tube out, her voice box was stubborn.
“Amy, would you get her a cup of water? Her throat is probably sore.”
Raw. Off to her right side, water was poured. A moment later a straw touched her lips.
“Take small sips,” the nurse instructed.
She opened her mouth and took a drink. The room-temperature water helped soothe her throat some. When she finished drinking, she tried to communicate but was unable to push her voice above a strained, hoarse whisper no matter how hard she tried. Growing frustrated, she touched her throat again, and the nurse offered her more water.
“Do you want to try again?” the doctor asked once she had taken a longer drink.
She shook her head. It was no use. Not only did her voice not want to cooperate, but she couldn’t answer his question. Her mind was numb—empty.
“Let’s give your vocal cords some rest and try this again later,” Dr. Gleeson suggested.
She tightened her grip on his hand, not wanting to let him leave before he explained why her eyes were bandaged. Was she blind?
“I made a few phone calls as promised regarding the bus passengers.” Officer Bennett stood with his shoulders squared, his hands clasped in front of him, and his unwavering gaze fixed on Elijah. He offered no indication if the news he’d received was good or bad.
Elijah steeled his nerves. “What were you able to find out about Catherine?”
“Nothing concrete.”
Despair and fatigue merged on Elijah, and his shoulders wilted like a plant with no water. He needed answers. “So no one knows where she is? Not even the police or rescue workers?”
Officer Bennett sighed. “Please understand that in cases of mass casualties, a large number of patients are unconscious. They’re separated from their loved ones, as in your situation, and they don’t always have identification on them. As for Budget Bus, they have no record of her boarding the bus.”
“And I explained how we had lost our tickets.” Elijah shifted his weight to his unhurt leg, the physical demands beginning to take a toll.
“Please, have a seat. You look like you’re in pain.” He waited for Elijah to sit before continuing. “I know you mentioned the bag her ticket was in was stolen, but the ticket that has me puzzled is yours. According to bus records, you boarded a different bus. Your boarding pass was electronically scanned.”
“Jah, I did board that bus. I hopped on it thinking Catherine had already boarded, but shortly after, I discovered I was wrong. She wasn’t on board. So I convinced the driver to let me off, and he did. Only I forgot to get my ticket back.” Noting skepticism in the officer’s bent brows, Elijah said, “Neither one of us tried to cheat the bus company. We paid for our tickets in Michigan, and we should have already arrived in Florida.”
“No one is accusing you of cheating the system,” Officer Bennett said. “Unless the bus company plans to deny your claim, which you’ll be able to fight in court. I was merely stating the facts. Budget Bus doesn’t have either of you listed as passengers, which means they have no reason to believe Catherine is missing.”
“Are you saying she’s at the bottom of the ravine or”—he gulped—“in the river?” He prayed it wasn’t the latter.
“I would be wrong to say there isn’t a chance. However,” Officer Bennett added sternly, holding his palm up when Elijah opened his mouth. “Before you set your mind on joining the search, you’ll need to check the patients listed as Jane Doe—which I found out is many—and check the morgue, as the number of deaths has increased.”
She’s nett in the morgue. I refuse to believe she’s dead. What was he going to tell George? Elijah had promised to call with an update.
“I jotted down the toll-free number assigned to passenger information.” Officer Bennett handed him a slip of paper. “Someone at this number should be able to assist you in reporting Ms. Glick as a missing person. I have her information in my record, but you’ll still need to fill out the necessary paperwork with the bus officials. Be assured, my men will continue to search even though the official count hasn’t been changed yet. I believe your story, and we’re going to do everything we can to find her.”
“Thank you.”
“Also, I made a list of the hospitals in the immediate area that received patients from the accident. The list of John and Jane Doe patients are too many to match with your description over the phone, but I’ve contacted each facility, and one of their representatives will be available to assist you. You’ll have to check in with security. Unfortunately, I don’t have data on how many patients were treated at one facility and transferred later to another. Again, call the eight-hundred number and file the report. I hope you find her.”
“Thank you. I hope so too.” He scanned the information he’d been given. Community General Hospital, Mercy Regional, St. Luke’s Hospital, Shepard Hill Memorial, and Muskingum County coroner’s office. His gut wrenched reading the latter. Elijah looked up from the list. “I don’t have a phone.”
The officer removed his cell phone from his pocket and handed it to Elijah. “Use mine.”
His fingers trembled as he pressed the number keys. The line rang, then rang again before an automated voice came on the line guiding him to press one if he was searching for a passenger. “Please be advised that we are experiencing a heavy call volume at this time. All of our representatives are currently busy . . .” He covered his hand over the phone. “They want me to leave a message—yes, hi, I’m looking for information on Catherine Glick,” he said after the beep. “She was a passenger on Bus 1248, seated in row five. I don’t have a callback number. I’ll have to try again when you’re nett busy.” As Elijah disconnected the call, one of the rescuers entered the tent.
“We’re all packed up,” the worker said.
“Very well,” Officer Bennett replied. “Tell the crew we’ll regroup at sunrise.”
A sense of despair shrouded Elijah. Was Catherine in the ravine . . . in a hospital . . . in the morgue? If he called the number again, would anyone be able to answer his questions? He pressed redial on the keypad but heard the same automated message. What should he do next?
As he tucked the paper into his pocket for safekeeping, his fingers touched the cab driver’s business card. The man had offered to pick him up. “Do you mind if I make another call?” he asked once the worker had left. “I’d like to call a cab.”
“Yeah, go ahead. Do you know the number?”
“The driver gave me his card earlier.” He placed the call, then handed the officer back his phone. “He’s on his way.”
“I don’t do this for everyone.” Officer Bennett wrote something on a pad of paper. He tore off the page and handed it to Elijah. “This is my cell number. If you want to call me tomorrow afternoon, I’ll be able to tell you if there’ve been any changes. And please, let me know if you find her.”
“Thank you, very much. I’ll be sure to call.”
By the time Elijah lumbered out from the tent, it was dark. Most of the trucks with the dog boxes were gone. Lord, mei body aches and I’m weak. Would You bless me with a double portion of strength? Please.