Page 15 of Sparking Sara

I breathe out forcefully a few times to check if I can see my breath. It seriously feels that cold in here.

“I can’t imagine how cold you must be with all the ice packs on you,” I say. “I’m freezing and I’m fully clothed with a blanket on.” I put my hand on her skin and it feels warm despite the frigid temperature in the room. “Can you hear me, Sara? Dr. Stone said you might be able to. I’m working on locating Oliver for you. And I know I’m no substitute, but I’m happy to stay with you until he arrives. Joelle was here last night. She might be able to come back today, but I guess you know how busy she must be with twin toddlers. I know how busy we kept my mom. It must be fun for you, having twins in the family. Then again, Joelle said you two aren’t close. I wonder if that means you aren’t close with her children.”

Krista walks into the room with my coffee. “Thanks,” I say, looking slightly embarrassed about talking to a woman in a coma.

“I talk to my patients all the time,” she admits, trying to ease my discomfort. “Every time I’m in the room, I tell them what I’m doing. Sometimes I just talk about the day I’ve had, or I talk about my kids and my husband.”

“Do you think they can hear you?”

She shrugs. “I really don’t know. If they do, most of them are too out of it when they wake up to remember anything. But if there’s a chance even one of them can hear me, I want to make sure they know someone’s there with them. So keep talking to her. And it’s important to let her know where she is and why she’s here. Maybe then she won’t be as scared when she finally wakes up.”

“Do you think she’ll wake up?”

“I hope so.” She puts her hand on my shoulder and then adjusts one of the ice packs under Sara’s left arm. “Enjoy your coffee.”

I wait until she walks out of the room before talking to Sara again.

“Okay, so you were in a car accident yesterday, Sara. And now you’re in the hospital. The doctor gave you medicine to help you sleep. You’re going to be okay.”

My phone rings. It’s my buddy from NYPD.

“Hi, Jake. Did you find his number?”

“Not yet,” he says. “I checked the incident records and it doesn’t look like her phone was found at the scene. Since the front window was smashed, it very well could have been thrown out of the car and is now at the bottom of the East River.”

“Damn. But then, how did you contact her cousin, Joelle?”

“According to the police report, Sara had her ID in her back pocket. We contacted the manager of her apartment building and got Joelle’s name off her emergency contact list.”

“She didn’t have a wallet or a purse with her? Anything with more information?”

“No.”

“And what about the driver? Can you tell me anything about her? I’m sitting in the hospital with Sara and I’d like to be able to give her information about her friend when she wakes up.” I get up and walk to the other side of the room in case Sara can hear me. “Maybe her belongings could help us find Oliver.”

“The driver’s name was Anna Jorgensen. She wasn’t under the influence if that’s what you’re asking. Looks like a tire blowout. There’s nothing anyone could have done. Bad timing being on the bridge. We do have Anna’s phone even though it’s smashed up. I looked in her contacts and didn’t find any Oliver. I have a number for her next of kin who came in last night to make the ID. I can call that number and see if I get anywhere. And I’ll keep digging on my end, but officially, since the family has been contacted already, it’s not our job to find him, and anything I do to help you is off the books. But the guy’s sure to turn up sooner or later if he can’t find his girlfriend.”

“Yeah, I guess so. Thanks, Jake.”

“Anytime.”

I walk back over and sit down, grabbing my coffee and holding it between both hands to keep me warm.

I sip it slowly as I study Sara’s face. Then I remember something.

“Joelle said you’re an artist,” I muse aloud. “And she said you sell your paintings.”

I put down the coffee and pull out my phone to Google her. As I type her last name into the search engine, I think of my mom. I’m not sure I’ve typed or written the name Francis since the weeks after their death. I look back up at Sara. “This is going to be different,” I tell her. “This isn’t ending the way that did.”

The first hit I get is a picture of a painting. I click on it and expand it to fill up the entire screen. I look at the woman lying lifeless on the bed. “Damn. You did this?”

I wish I had a big computer screen so I could really check it out, but even on my small phone, I can tell she’s got amazing talent. The painting appears to be a father and daughter on a beach. They’re holding hands, looking out into the ocean. The backdrop has a Cape Cod feel to it. Sara’s attention to detail is amazing, right down to the names on the street sign, a dilapidated fence, and cattails swaying in the breeze. It’s almost as if this was painted from a picture. But I don’t know of any picture that has captured as much passion.

I’m no art curator, but I’m damn impressed. I can’t wait to get home and search for more of her paintings on my laptop.

I come across the name of an art gallery that did a showing of her paintings. I write down the address, thinking maybe I’ll drop in and see what information I can get.

I stay with Sara until my stomach complains about being empty.

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