Tips for Living(93)

Mac radioed ahead to the hospital while he drove. His voice carried through to the back of the ambulance: “Coming in heavy. Forty-one-year-old Caucasian female. Possible hypothermia.” He gave them my stats as we traveled along the dark roads, snow crunching under the tires, a police car following behind. I had a warm saline drip in my left arm. My right wrist was cuffed to the gurney’s side bar. The tight metal bracelet pinched the skin, and I wriggled in frustration, rattling my chains against the railing.

Al looked up briefly at the sound, but avoided my eyes. He’d perched his bulky body on the end of the bench by the ambulance doors and was filling out a form on his clipboard in silence. He went back to writing, obviously nervous about being alone with me. I decided to break the ice.

“Isn’t Stokes on your team anymore?”

“He’s at the hospital.”

“He’s sick?”

“Their baby was in distress.”

“Oh no,” I groaned.

“It’s okay. The baby is out of danger. Mother and child are fine.”

We drove over a nasty pothole and Al looked up again. This time our eyes met. I knew that look from a man. Guilt. He lowered his gaze swiftly and went on with his paperwork.

“I’m sorry, Al. I didn’t mean for anyone to get hurt.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” he said, still writing. “You didn’t put the arrow in the guy. And you didn’t kill the Walkers. I’d bet money on it.”

“Thanks. But I was talking about you, and my Tips column.”

Al’s hand stopped moving.

“I get why you’re mad as hell. You felt I was making fun of you. Believe me, I wasn’t. I’m really sorry it hurt you.”

Al pulled his cap down and stayed focused on the form.

“Al?”

After a few seconds, he sighed.

“I’ve never worked so hard in my life, and I’m barely making it,” he said, sadly. “The expenses get higher and higher. And with two more kids coming up on college . . . The bills are piling up. I’m always rushing from one lousy job to another to make my nut. I never have any time. I hardly see Sinead and my girls. I just get so frustrated. And angry. Really angry.”

He shook his head and clammed up.

“I didn’t mean any disrespect. You’re a solid guy, and I admire you.”

“Yeah?”

“The way you care about your family, and the community. I mean, besides working so hard, you’re still volunteering. Coaching kids. Saving lives. Please, can you forgive me?”

He was quiet. Then he removed his cap and studied its crown. He finally ran a hand over his buzz cut, put the cap back on and raised his head.

“This is all going to be over soon, and you’ll be back to work at the paper,” he said. “I want you to do something for me then.”

It was heartening to hear that Al was confident of a positive outcome.

“What would that be?”

“If you’re going to keep doing the column, write funnier stuff.”

I smiled, relieved. “I’ll try my best.”

Mac’s voice crackled though Al’s hand radio. “I’ve got Ben Wickstein on the phone. He said to let Nora know he’s on his way to the hospital. Check if there’s anything she wants me to tell him?”

I shook my head no.

I was glad Ben was back. I had a lot to say to him. But I’d say it in person.

“She’s good, Mac,” Al said into his radio. He clicked it off and gazed at me curiously. “So, you and Ben? You’re an item?”





Chapter Twenty

Seventeen miles from Pequod Point, we reached Massamat Hospital—it had the closest ER. We backed into the emergency bay. Sounds of a commotion carried over from the street as soon as Al opened the ambulance doors. He glanced at me.

“Reporters,” he said.

Waiting for a break in the case, the press corps would have been scanning police and ambulance radios 24-7. They must’ve tapped into the 911 call. At least they were far enough away that I didn’t have to pull the sheet over my head. I cringed at the thought that Lizzie might be out there covering my arrest for the Courier.

Al and Mac unloaded my gurney and pushed me up the ramp into the ER. A county police officer accompanied us.

“We can stay with her, right?” Mac asked him.

The officer nodded. “Long as I’m there.”

We rolled into a small examination room and he took up a guard post outside. A male nurse arrived, said “hello” to the three of us and proceeded to place an electronic thermometer in my mouth. While he waited for a reading, Mac started for the door.

“Hold tight, Nora. I’ll see if I can find Ben and get him cleared to come in.”

The nurse finished and left the room. There was only Al standing by. He shuffled over to the gurney and took off his cap.

“I’m sorry about the letters to the editor, Nora. I was letting off steam, that’s all.”

“I know, Al. We’re good. Stop working and go home. There’s nothing more you can do here now. Thanks for everything. And say hey to Sinead for me.”

Al nodded. “I will. And good luck.”

He walked out. While I lay there alone waiting for a doctor, I started thinking about Al’s anger. My anger. Anger’s importance. Anger told you when someone crossed your line. “Don’t tread on me,” anger said. You had to pass through anger, and the hurt underneath it, before you could get to forgiveness. Otherwise, it seemed to me, you skipped a step. But there was also plenty of danger there. How long could you hold on to that dark fire before it scorched all that was good in your life? And what was the best way to let anger out?