Page 30 of Sparking Sara

I see another twitch of her finger. I decide to play her some more music because the other day when I played the Beach Boys, Sara moved for the first time.

I stand up and place my phone on her pillow. Maybe hearing it louder than before will help.

I remember my grandma as I listen to song after song.

Then, I stop breathing. I stop breathing because Sara opens her eyes and looks at me.

And I swear we’re back in the car on the bridge. Her eyes lock on to mine, and all I can think about is how scared she was in the car. How desperate. And she must still feel like that now, because the way she’s looking at me—it’s exactly the same.

I feel around for her hand, not wanting to avert my eyes from hers. I take her hand in mine. “It’s okay, Sara. You’re going to be okay. You were in an accident. You’re in the hospital now. You’re safe. It’s okay.”

I know I should call the nurse, but I can’t. I’m frozen in time. I can’t tear my eyes away from hers. I’m afraid if I even blink, her eyes will close. I just hold her hand and assure her she’s going to be okay.

And then, before another minute passes, she closes her eyes. But not before I feel her squeeze my hand. Well, it’s not a squeeze, per se, more like a weak attempt at one, but a squeeze no less.

“Sara? Sara?”

Her eyes don’t open again and her hand releases mine.

Finally, I reach down and press the call button for the nurse. Because it’s the only thing I can do. Because I’m overwhelmed by my feelings.

She woke up.

She. Woke. Up.

I back up and fall into the chair. And then I feel a drop of warm water on my cold hand. I bring my hand up to my face and realize I’m crying.

I close my eyes and sigh.Okay, yeah. Maybe it’s time to go talk to someone.

Chapter Eight

“Thank you for meeting with me so quickly, Reverend Feldworth.”

He directs me into a small hospital conference room and closes the door behind us. “Please, call me Marcus,” he says. “And it’s my job. I’m happy to be here.”

We sit at a table, opposite each other. He puts a bottle of water in front of me and keeps one for himself.

“Thank you,” I say, reaching for it.

“I find it helps. It lubricates the vocal chords and makes it easier to talk. For a lot of people, talking about what’s bothering them is stressful and anxiety dries out the mouth.”

I take a drink of water.

“So, what prompted you to call me?” he asks.

“People keep telling me I need to see a counselor. But I really don’t want it on my record that I saw a shrink.”

“You should know that at some point in their career, almost every firefighter uses counseling services. Believe me, it doesn’t get held against you. But I’m here to counsel as well. So why don’t you tell me what’s going on.”

“Do you know anything about me?”

He tries not to laugh. “There are eight FDNY chaplains and over fifteen thousand firefighters and EMTs. We work part time and also have our own church parishioners to deal with, so no, I’m afraid to say I don’t know anything about you. But I’d like to, if you’ll share your story with me.”

I tell him about my parents and about the hard time I have dealing with car crashes. I tell him how I used to be a cop in Kansas City. I even tell him about my arrest and subsequent probation and exoneration. Then I tell him about Sara.

“So you want me to tell you if it’s okay for you sit by Sara’s side?”

“Yes. No.” I sigh. “I don’t know.”

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