Rainshadow Road (Friday Harbor #2)(39)

What she needed, Lucy decided, was exercise and fresh air. She left the inn, walked to her studio, and retrieved her bike and helmet. It was a beautiful day, sunny and breezy, perfect for visiting a local lavender farm and buying some handmade soap and bath oil.

She rode at a leisurely pace along Roche Harbor Road. Although it was the island’s busiest thoroughfare, it had a good wide shoulder for cyclists, and it offered charming views of orchards, pastures, ponds, and densely wooded forest. The pleasant monotony of the ride helped to settle her thoughts.

She considered how it had felt to see Kevin and Alice yesterday. It had been a welcome discovery to realize that she felt nothing for him anymore. The real problem, the source of continuing grief, was her relationship with Alice. Lucy recognized that some form of forgiveness was necessary for her own sake. Otherwise the pain of betrayal would follow Lucy like the closer-than-they-appear objects in a rearview mirror. But what if Alice never expressed any regret whatsoever? How did you forgive someone who wasn’t at all sorry for what they had done?

Hearing a car approach, Lucy took care to ride on the outmost edge of the shoulder to give the driver the widest possible berth. But in the next few seconds she felt that the car was coming on too fast, the sound of it was directly behind her. She glanced over her shoulder. The car, a boatlike sedan, had drifted out of the traffic lane and was swerving toward her. There was a blinding moment, in which she felt the draft of the car just before its impact against the back of her bike. The scene scattered like an overturned display of greeting cards. She was in the air, suspended and topsy-turvy among pieces of sky, slivers of forest and asphalt and metal, and then the ground zoomed up to her at light speed.

When she opened her eyes, her first thought was that it was morning, time to wake up. But she wasn’t in bed. She was sprawled in a patch of shivering weeds. A pair of strangers crouched over her, a man and a woman.

“Don’t move her,” the woman cautioned, a cell phone up to her ear.

“I’m just going to take off her helmet,” the man said.

“I don’t think you should do that. There might be a spinal cord injury or something.”

The man looked down at Lucy in concern as she began to move. “Wait, take it easy. What’s your name?”

“Lucy,” she gasped, fumbling with the chinstrap of her helmet.

“Here, let me help you take that off.”

“Hal, I told you—” the woman began.

“I think it’s all right. She’s moving her arms and legs.” He unbuckled the helmet and eased it off Lucy’s head. “No, don’t try to sit up yet. You got banged up real good.”

Staying still, Lucy tried to evaluate the catalog of hurts in her body. The right side was scraped and burning, and there was a dull pain in her shoulder, and she had a killer of a headache. The worst by far, however, was her right leg and foot, which felt like they had been set on fire.

The woman leaned over her. “An ambulance is coming. Is there someone I can call for you?”

Her teeth were chattering. The more she tried to make the tremors stop, the worse they became. She was cold, icy trickles of sweat collecting beneath her clothes. Salty metallic smells of dust and blood were thick in her nose.

“Slow down, slow down,” the man said, while Lucy panted for air in shallow breaths. “Eyes are dilated.”

“Shock.” The woman’s voice seemed to be coming from a great distance, followed by a peppering of static.

A name came to Lucy. Justine. The effort to collect syllables was like collecting leaves in a storm. She heard shuddering sounds coming from her lips. Was the name clear enough?

“Okay,” the man said in a soothing tone. “Don’t try to talk.”

There were more sounds, vehicles pulling to the side of the road, the flash of lights, the red gleam of an EMS quick-response vehicle. Voices. Questions. The faltering awareness of unfamiliar hands on her body, an oxygen mask strapped over her mouth and nose, the sting of an IV needle. And then everything slipped away, and she went spinning out into nothingness.

Twelve

Consciousness came back to Lucy in a puzzle that had to be assembled before she could make sense of anything. Smells of latex, tape, isopropyl alchohol. Sounds of voices, the rattling wheels of a cart or gurney, a telephone ringing, the composed blips of a vital signs monitor. She was disconcerted by the discovery that she was talking like an actress whose lines had been badly dubbed in a movie, syllables not quite matching up.

She was dressed in a thin cotton hospital gown that she had no memory of changing into. An IV needle had been inserted at the top of her hand and taped into place. Every time an ER tech or nurse came into the little curtained-off area, the rollers on the ceiling runners made a whisking sound, like eggs being beaten in a metal bowl.

Her right leg and ankle had been immobilized in a splint. Vague recollections of examinations and X-rays came to her. Even though she knew how lucky she was, how much worse the accident could have been, depression rolled over her in a smothering blanket. As she turned her head to the side, the pillow beneath her head gave a plasticky crackle. A tear runneled down her cheek, absorbed by the pillowcase.

“Here.” The nurse handed her a tissue. “That’s normal after an accident,” she said as Lucy blotted her eyes. “You’ll probably be doing that on and off for the next few days.”