Page 22 of Sparking Sara

When the first song is over, I swear I see Sara shiver like she did the other day, and again I feel bad that it’s so cold in here. I grab her hand, hoping to offer her comfort.

“They have to keep you cold to bring your fever down,” I explain to her again. “I hope you can’t feel how cold it is in here, because I’ll tell you, it’sdamncold. As in lips-turn-blue cold. Or freeze-your-balls-off cold.”

I play another Beach Boys song and it sparks a memory of when I was a kid. I’m reminded of a time when Aspen and I were with our parents in the car on the way to visit our grandparents. Our mom played some of Grandma’s favorite songs for us in preparation. And by the time we arrived at the house a few hours later, we were all laughing and singing along to “Barbara Ann.”

Out of nowhere, I feel movement in my hand. It surprises me, and I about jump out of my skin. I look at Sara’s face, her expression not having changed. I keep hold of her hand, hoping I wasn’t just imagining things, but she fails to move again.

I sit and talk to her about everything Lydia told me. Then I tell her I lost my parents, too. I tell her we are a lot alike. I was alone, just like she is. I was alone for a long time, unable to leave a place where everyone hated me. I wasn’t technically behind bars, but Kansas City was my prison.

An hour later, when the doctor makes his rounds, I tell him about the movement. He checks her over and tells me to expect more of the same as the sedation meds slowly exit her body. But he also reminds me how serious her injury is and that anything could happen.

After dinner, when they take her for the MRI, I decide to go home and get some sleep before my next shift. But on my way out, I realize all I really want to do is hold her hand and pray to feel her pinky move again.

Chapter Six

“Fran, are you okay?” my father asks after the car comes to rest at the bottom of an embankment. “Fran, can you hear me? Francis!”

My mother’s hand comes up to touch the cut over her eye. “Ouch. What happened, Conrad?”

“I hit a patch of ice. Skidded clear off the road.”

“Are you okay, dear?” Mom asks him.

“Jammed my leg pretty bad. And the airbag hit me hard. My neck feels it. But I’m more concerned about that gash on your head.”

“Oh, it’s nothing,” she says, putting the passenger-side visor down to look in the mirror. “I think my hand was in front of me when the airbag deployed, and my ring cut into my forehead.”

“Let me have a look,” he says, unbuckling his seatbelt and angling himself towards my mother. He takes a tissue from her and dabs the corner of it on his tongue before cleaning the blood running down her face. “There, good as new and pretty as the day I met you.”

My mom smiles. Then she turns and looks out the back window. “Oh, Conrad. We’re pretty far from the road.”

My father studies the landscape behind us. “I figure we slid a few hundred feet down from the road. We’re damn lucky we didn’t roll over. Although, I’m pretty sure we won’t get her started again—just look at the hood, it’s smashed to high heaven.”

“I’m not sure we could drive out of here even if the car would start,” my mom adds.

“I think you might be right,” he says, getting his phone out of his back pocket. “Let’s just call Triple A and let them figure out how to get the damn thing out.”

He taps around on his phone. “I can’t make a call on mine. Can you check yours?”

My mom fishes around on the floor in front of her, searching for her phone. “Got it,” she says. “But I don’t have any bars. I think we’re out of the service area.”

“It must be the gulley we’re in,” he says. “I’ll just head back up to the road. I’m sure I can get a signal there.”

“But your leg,” Mom cries. “Conrad, let me do it.”

“Darling, if you think I’m letting my wife climb up the side of a snowy embankment, then you married the wrong man twenty-three years ago.” He nods to his leg. “It’s probably just a sprain, anyway. I’ll be fine.”

He leans over and kisses my mother. Then he tries to open the door, but it won’t budge. “Damn, looks like a tree is blocking the door. I’m not even sure I could get out the window. How about your side?”

Mom looks out her window in horror. “It’s a steep drop off this side. I’m afraid to open the door.”

“Try the window,” he says.

She fiddles with the controls. “The window won’t work.”

Dad looks more than a little concerned. “Francis, the next time I insist on renting a sporty two-door in the winter, have my head checked, will you?”

My mother starts crying. “We’re trapped, aren’t we?”

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