The Fragile Things, page 9
Connor and Josh paddled up to the rocky bank and then got out of the boat and waded up to where Emily lay.
“Hey,” Connor called out to her as he approached. “You alright?”
“My head. . .I hit my head.” Her voice croaked.
Connor bent down beside her and examined the back of her head heavily crusted over with blood that coated the back of her neck and T-shirt.
“Okay. . .doesn’t look good. We need to get you out of here.” He gave her a sympathetic smile. “By the way, I’m Connor and this is Josh. What’s your name?”
“Emily.”
“How did you get here?”
Her body tensed at the reminder of the stalker—his raspy smoker’s voice. She flinched at the memory. “I—well, me and my friend—we were trying to get back to our camp. . .and, well, this man had been following us. He was walking closer and closer and then. . .I just got scared and ran from him as fast as I could.”
“Last night?” Connor asked.
“Uh huh. . .we were at the Stacks.”
“What happened to your friend?”
Emily shrugged. “I wish I knew.” Thoughts of the last time she’d seen Hayley came hazily to her mind.
Connor crouched down next to her. “Can you stand at all to make it out to the canoe?” He gestured toward it. “It’s right over there.”
Emily attempted to sit up. As her right hand brushed against her jeans, her face fell. “Wait. Oh, no!” she cried, patting her front pocket. “My cell phone. . .” Her stomach cinched. “It’s gone.”
“You had a phone?” Josh asked.
“Uh huh, but I must have dropped it. Oh, no. . .where is it?”
“When was the last time you had it?”
“Um, I really don’t remember.” Her eyes scanned over the rocks in the water. Panic set in. Did her phone somehow dislodge from her pocket and make its way into the river? She racked her brain thinking of when she last held it in her hand. “No, wait. I remember now. I think it’s up there.” She pointed behind her. “I’m pretty sure I left it up there between two rocks. Over there, I think. Not far. . .somewhere by that first boulder.”
Josh turned and climbed up the side of the embankment along the larger boulders where she indicated. Meanwhile, Connor offered his hand. “Okay, let’s try to sit up.” He attempted to guide her to the canoe, but Emily’s head spun as she started to push herself up out of the mud. “Ohhh,” she groaned. “My head.” She sat back down and held her head in her hands. “I feel dizzy.”
“Uh oh.” Connor frowned. “Okay, better remain still. Lie back down. We’ll just lift you out to the canoe.”
Moments later, Josh came back with a satisfied look on his face. “Is this what you’re looking for?” He held up the phone.
Emily beamed as she took hold of her cell as though it were pure gold. “Oh my gosh, thank you so much!”
“So, you ready to go for a little ride?” Connor asked.
Emily nodded. Though inside she wasn’t sure.
While the young men, each on either side, lifted Emily up, a wave of relief passed through her. She was headed for safety. Last night’s bad dream was over. Josh and Connor together managed to carry Emily while sloshing their way out to the river. They carefully lowered her into the canoe and then hopped in themselves. Midway in buckling up his life jacket, Connor quickly undid the straps and handed the jacket to Emily. “Here, you’ll need this,” he said, and placed it over her head. “Buckle the straps here, okay?”
Grabbing their oars, the young men set off down the river in an effort to get Emily back to safety. The authorities would be able to handle things from there.
The river sparkled in the early morning sun. A few minutes later, Connor looked back at Emily as he and Josh rowed down river. “You doing okay?”
She nodded. “Uh huh.”
“Sure?”
“Uh huh,” she repeated, giving him a weak smile.
Connor gave her a thumbs up. “Great. . .hang in there.”
As the canoe sailed downriver, a warm breeze blew across her face. The azure blue sky contrasted the green topped trees like crayon colors in her childhood coloring book. Although she felt safe with the two men, her thoughts buzzed about her head. Are they worried for me back at the camp? Am I in trouble? With all that happened to her over the past twelve hours, this adventure was like nothing she experienced before—not even in her worst nightmare. She’d never been out past bedtime before except for having to babysit for the neighbor down the hall. She mentally relived the nightmare of her ordeal while floating down the river with two strangers. What would her mother say to all of this? She must be worried sick.
“Water seems a bit choppy this morning.” Connor looked back from where they’d come and saw the whitecaps in their wake.
Josh frowned. “I know. . .and it’s taking us faster, too.”
Chapter Twenty-six
“Is that what I think it is?” Sam Stout stood overlooking the Schuylkill River while wrapping up his reel.
“What is?” his son, John, asked.
“That canoe.”
“What about it?”
“It’s getting awfully close to the barrier, son. Can you see that?”
“Uh-oh. Yeah, I see it now.”
Sam quickly pulled out his cell phone. “Hey, this is Sam Stout calling from Pawlings Lock, Bethlehem Twp. Listen, there’s a canoe heading toward the falls. Yep, less than a half-mile. Have no idea. . .nope, not right now. . .just lent it out. Okay, sure thing. Got it.” The older man turned to his son. “River rescue is down on Black Rock right now. Said they’ve got an anchor.”
“They’re gonna need something,” John said.
Both father and son jumped onto the cement boat launch and waved their hands wildly.
“Turn around!” they yelled. “Hey, turn the canoe around!” The oarsmen at the helm didn’t seem to notice. The tiny canoe was headed for the falls. “They better see those markers soon,” Sam said under his breath.
Sam’s blood pressure rose as he remembered the boil—the turbulent recirculating stream that lurked directly out of sight, deep down under the surface. It is the most dangerous force in a low-head dam. The water flowing over the dam’s face creates washing-machine-like turbulence that swallows everything and everyone in its course. The tumultuous rolling of the water formed a strong hydraulic force, dragging sailing vessels along the stream bed, then releasing them up to the surface of the water, then sucking them back into the face of the dam. This circulation can keep people, boats, and other objects trapped for an extended amount of time; the forces are brutal and largely inescapable. No matter how hard the struggle, the relentless hydraulic force that draws boaters will always come out stronger as it inevitably drags and batters the sailing vessel mercilessly against the dam’s wall. While this was a serious situation for Sam’s son, the young boy survived miraculously one of the most common and lethal hazards of low-head dams. His thoughts turned to what happened to his youngest son the day he’d been fishing a decade ago. Sam’s knowledge of prevention and safety on the river became a priority after his son nearly died out on the water—a memory that haunted him ever since that day.
Although it wasn’t his own flesh and blood out on the river in the canoe, all the same, Sam Stout’s heart raced. He kept his eyes peeled on the canoe. Unfortunately, the surface of the water didn’t pose a visible problem. No high rippling or anything unusual. No wonder they didn’t notice the danger. Inexperienced kids. Everything seemed calm and peaceful as the water camouflaged the submerged hazard below. Another three hundred feet and they’d be goners. Impossible to make it out alive. The deadly picture pooled in his mind. . .now, he was re-living the nightmare all over again. His heart went out to the canoe sailing blissfully along in the otherwise picture-perfect river. God, please help these folks. . .
Chapter Twenty-seven
Sarah’s heart broke again at the news the doctor announced. “I’m sorry, but it doesn’t look good according to the tests. It’s worse than we originally thought. Looks like your splenic artery is damaged and needs to be repaired. I’d recommend surgery,” Dr. Byron, warned. “As soon as possible,” he emphasized. His face knit with strong concern layered with sympathy.
Sarah’s head spun. All this to deal with and her daughter missing, too. God, how much more can I take? As much as she felt like crying again, she forced herself to put on a brave face. “Whatever you say, doctor,” she said with a sigh. “Do what you must.”
“Sarah, I know what you’re going through. It’s daunting to say the least to not know where your daughter is. There’s nothing I can do about that part of your life except help you to get better.” He lent a professional smile. “And I’ll be sure to do just that.”
****
Cindy Holden sat in the waiting room of Lehigh Valley Hospital. She bought a Sudoku puzzle book from the gift shop to keep her mind occupied. She hated waiting, let alone compounding the wait with worry while her oldest and dearest friend was under the knife. It may as well have been her own sister on the operating table. Cindy tried to focus on the task at hand and worked on one of the puzzles. After completing one of the easier ones, she moved onto another on the next level and currently found herself stumped. She loved the challenge and hoped the extra concentration would keep her mind focused, but this time, her concern over Sarah trumped all. She glanced up at the clock for the hundredth time, wishing to stop the compulsion to monitor each minute. The clock seemed fueled by molasses.
As the time approached 2 p.m., there still was no notification that the operation was over. She looked up at the digital information panel. The bright red lights indicated each operation and the status—“in session,” “post-op,” or “in recovery.” Sarah’s status hadn’t changed in over two hours. She got up and addressed the attendant.
“Excuse me, is the operation status accurate?” She pointed above to the digital sign. “I was hoping my friend was out of surgery by now.”
“Yes, it should be accurate. Of course, there might be a short lag time, but. . .”
“Okay, I see,” she replied with a nod and went back to the chair by the window. With an audible sigh, she picked up the puzzle book and tried to engage herself once more.
After another half-hour elapsed, Cindy’s worry escalated. Sarah should have been out of the operation by now. Cindy knew a bit about laparoscopic surgery and all of the different scenarios of the surgery’s protocols. As she understood things, Sarah’s spleen only needed a repair. Didn’t seem like too taxing job for the surgeon. Was something wrong?
****
Dr. Byron and his surgical team stood over the brightly lit operating table. He held onto the scalpel after making an upper midline incision just above the abdomen, deciding which direction to go. His mind spun with possibilities. With her abdominal cavity exposed, he surveyed the situation, perplexed at which direction to turn. He could either repair her spleen or take it out completely.
“Okay, we’ll go laparoscopic,” Dr. Byron announced.
“You sure?” the lead nurse asked.
“Yes, it’s the best route. Judging from what I see here. . .less invasive.”
“Her MRI shows the spleen to be rather large, but—”
“We’re going laparoscopic,” he replied, firmly.
“Okay, you’re the doctor,” she replied, respectfully.
The surgeon prepped and took his place at the table. He soon inserted the video camera tube into Sarah’s abdomen and checked the monitor before proceeding. Minutes later, everything was going according to plan until something unusual happened.
“I’m seeing more blood than usual, doctor,” the lead nurse said.
“So am I,” he replied, sternly. “I don’t like this.” Dr. Byron took a double take at the monitor and then the abdominal cavity. “Is that a blood vessel tear?’
“Can’t tell for sure. . .either severed or just torn,” she said, adjusting her glasses.
Silence fell over the room. Under the heat of the overhanging light, the only sound was the heart monitor and Dr. Byron’s sighs and curses.
“Damn! We may have to switch surgeries,” he said, exasperated.
“To an open one?” the nurse asked.
“Yes, of course. What other is there?” he barked. “I didn’t want to go there but seems like our only choice. She’ll bleed out otherwise. Okay, let’s regroup here—quick.”
Partially into the procedure, changing horses in mid-stream was unsettling, at best, especially to Dr. Byron. With every minute counting, this interruption was a major distraction.
While the surgical team re-assembled, the surgeon went over the new instructions with the staff. Beginning once more, he made another incision into Sarah’s abdomen and began the new procedure. Not long afterward, he shook his head as beads of sweat poured through his mask. Alarm spread over the team when the surgeon announced, “Damn, she’s losing blood again.”
“Losing blood,” the lead nurse repeated while trying to remain calm.
“She needs blood!” the surgeon shouted. “Type and cross match ten units—start with two immediately.”
“She’s not stable,” the technician announced. “Losing blood pressure. . .heartbeat is irregular.”
“On it,” Chief perfusionist Paul Louden replied as he set up the cell-saver machine.
“Doesn’t look good,” the technician yelled. “Hurry with the blood already or she’ll code.”
“Increasing her fluids now,” the assistant nurse shouted while two others worked quickly to set up for the new blood.
Feverishly, the surgeon stared down into Sarah’s abdomen. Blood gushed into the region. . .exactly what he tried to avoid by converting the procedure from what began as laparoscopic. Seconds ticked by as the surgery spiraled out of control and she was hemorrhaging more and more blood. Panicked, he realized his error. The hemodynamic situation resulted in an unstable condition for Sarah. Her life was now on the line. Dear God, don’t let her code.
“He should have discontinued the surgery,” the lead nurse whispered to the second nurse, who shrugged. “I tried to tell him.”
“These surgeons think they’re God or something,” the other nurse whispered.
“Got that right.” The lead nurse turned to the surgeon. “Repair or ligate?”
“Repair. . .it’s only nicked.”
As the new blood entered Sarah’s body, Dr. Byron grabbed the sutures and both ends of the severed vein to suture it back together where the blood had been gushing. The operating team collectively held their breath as Dr. Byron performed the repair. Tensely, he worked under the hot lights as sweat drops dotted his forehead. Minutes later, he stood up, threw the sutures on the side table, and reached for a sterile towel.
“That should do it,” he announced, wiping himself down.
The attendants all sighed with relief and smiles spread over everyone.
“She’s a lucky woman,” the technician said. “Good work, Dr. B.”
At 4:00 p.m., Sarah was admitted to the ICU. Outside in the waiting room, Cindy glanced up again at the information panel.
“Finally!” she exclaimed.
The receptionist lent a hint of a smile.
“It reads that she’s in ICU now. Is that standard procedure?”
“Sometimes,” the receptionist replied. “It’s sometimes a holding station for precautionary reasons until they can find her a room.”
“Oh, okay.” The knot in Cindy’s stomach began to loosen a bit. At least, the operation was over.
Chapter Twenty-eight
“You’re doing great, Emily.” Connor gave her the thumbs up sign again as they canoed down the river. “We’re almost where we need to be, honey.”
“Hey,” Josh said. “Those two guys. . .Connor, do you see them?”
“Where?”
“On that cement thing.”
“The boat launch?”
“Looks like they’re calling out to us.”
Connor panned his gaze up and down the river. “Well, guess so, we’re the only ones on the river.”
“What?” Josh called out over the water. “Can’t hear them. . .say, what?” he repeated.
“Hold up, Josh,” Connor commanded his brother. He stopped rowing and turned a keen ear.
As Sam and John yelled out for them to turn around, they both pointed ahead toward the dam.
“Looks like they’re pointing to something, Connor.”
Connor froze. The buoy markers. They must have missed them. In his quest to bring Emily to safety, his only concern was for the girl. He hadn’t even noticed what he knew better to avoid.
“Oh, great. I’m an idiot,” Connor yelled. “They’re warning us to turn around. The dam ahead—it’s not good, Josh. . .we’re getting too close. Oh, Lord, please. The canoe was drifting at a good pace even without the rowing. “Quick, turn this thing around,” he yelled.
Josh did as he was told, and together they shifted direction. They paddled as fast as they could to avoid drifting. At one point, Josh had so much momentum going, he accidentally thrust too hard and lost his grip on the oar.
“Damn,” he shouted.
“Yes, the damn—it’s almost on top of us! How could I be so-so stupid. Keep paddling. Just paddle.”
“No, the oar, Connor. I lost my oar!”
“What? Oh, man. . .for Pete’s sake. How’d you do that?”
“I don’t know, but I did is all. . .just slipped.” He moved to the back of the boat and began to undress.
“No, Josh. It’s too late. Don’t even think about going in for it,” warned Connor. “It’s too far back, and there’s no time.” Connor pulled one of his oars out of the water. “Here, take one of mine.”
