A Spark of Light(38)
She was supposed to wheel Bex outside, and then walk back through those doors. But it would be so easy to save herself.
She could lean forward, low and dynamic, and run. She could bring Bex to the ambulance and leap inside and really, what could the shooter do?
Her vision cleared as a man stepped forward. In silhouette he was tall and broad-shouldered, and for just a moment she thought: Parker. But Izzy was not the one being rescued now, and anyway, in her fairy tale, she was still afraid that any moment the prince might realize she was just a poor villager, posing as a princess.
The hostage negotiator held out a hand and beckoned her forward.
She felt like she was suspended between what could be, and what was. Just like always.
It was that way for all people who grew up poor, she imagined. Izzy had vivid memories of her birthday being celebrated two weeks after the fact, because that’s when they could afford a box of cake mix. Of always adding water to the milk to stretch it. Of being giddy when the food stamps came in and you could go to the grocery store; and being ashamed when you had to actually use them to pay.
When Izzy was in first grade, her family couldn’t afford school supplies, so she pretended that she had forgotten them at home. Then one day, when she opened her little flip-top desk, there was a brand-new box of Crayola crayons. They were still pointy at the top and smelled like wax and had a sharpener on the back. Izzy had no idea if it was her teacher who’d given them to her, and she never found out. But she did realize, then, that her family was different from other families. Most kids didn’t go to Sam’s Club for lunch when you weren’t even a member, because you could make the rounds for free samples. Ketchup sandwiches, with packets stolen from McDonald’s, weren’t normal. Her mother rummaged through her brothers’ backpacks and threw out the flyers for the Scholastic Book Club, for field trips, for dances, for anything that was an additional expense. When they ate dinner, Izzy would pretend to be full because she knew her mother wouldn’t have any food if she didn’t leave some behind on her plate.
As she worked through high school, she was determined to have a different life. She couldn’t afford an SAT prep course, so she asked another student for the syllabus, and then got books through interlibrary loans and taught herself. She applied for more than a hundred scholarships that she found online using the library’s free Internet. She didn’t get them all. But she got enough for a free education.
She went to nursing school on student loans and she scrimped and saved.
And then she met Parker—who had taken her on her first vacation.
Who couldn’t believe that she’d never gone to a doctor growing up—only the school nurse, who didn’t require insurance.
Who had found her adding water to the shampoo so it lasted longer.
Who had proposed, in spite of all this.
If she had told Parker about the pregnancy, he would have been thrilled. He would have used it as leverage, to make her say yes, instead of I need more time.
But then she would never stand on her own two feet financially. Or pay off her own nursing school loans. Or buy a house, just because she had the credit to do it. And she could not get him to understand why that was so important.
The man who was beckoning to her was waving his arms, trying to get her to start moving again. If she ran, now, she could save herself.
Izzy felt Bex reach for her hand. She could imagine the effort and pain that cost the woman, and she gently laced her fingers with Bex’s and squeezed. She leaned down. “You’re going to be fine,” she said. She drew a deep breath, and took another long step forward.
Once, when her brothers had been fighting over who got more spaghetti for dinner, her mother had said, You don’t look at another person’s plate to see if they have more than you. You look to see if they have enough.
Izzy thought of Dr. Ward, bleeding on the floor, still inside. She let go of the handles of the wheelchair, turned, and ran back to the gaping mouth of the clinic door.
—
BEX COULD TELL THE MOMENT Hugh realized that she was the woman in the wheelchair. He took a step forward, and as if that had triggered it, Izzy turned and ran.
Bex couldn’t speak. Her eyes filled with tears as Hugh started to run toward her, but before he could reach her side, the paramedics were there, hoisting Bex out of the wheelchair and onto a gurney and loading her into an ambulance. She twisted, trying to see Hugh, trying to reach her hand toward him. But she was surrounded by people who were prodding and poking and shouting at each other.
What if she got taken off to the hospital before she could talk to Hugh?
“What’s your name, ma’am?” an EMT asked.
“Bex.”
“Bex, we’re going to take care of you.”
She grabbed at his arm. “Need to … tell …”
“We’ll contact your family as soon as we get you settled at the hospital—”
Bex shook her head. The double doors started to close, and then suddenly she heard Hugh’s voice. “I have to speak to her,” he said.
“And I have to get her to an OR.”
She, who knew his face better than perhaps anyone, saw the struggle etched in his features—the desire to connect with her warring with the determination to get her treated.
“Hugh,” she managed. “Need …”
He turned, sending her a warning in his gaze. “You need to tell me something, ma’am?” Hugh glanced at the EMT. “I’ll need a moment of privacy,” he said, dismissing the paramedic, and then they were alone.