A Curve in the Road(3)

“What kind of dog is he?”

“A golden retriever. His name is Winston.”

“As in Churchill?”

“Yes.”

Troy directs one of the other first responders to use his walkie-talkie to report my missing dog and search the area.

I hear the wail of more sirens and vehicles arriving—fire trucks and cop cars and ambulances. Colored lights flash up on the highway, but they’re swallowed by the fog.

I shake my head, fearing I might be sick. “I don’t feel so good.”

“No wonder. You just took a nasty tumble, but don’t worry. You have a whole team coming to help you.”

Two other firefighters do a 360 around the vehicle, shining flashlights everywhere. I watch the beams sweep across the dark ravine. One of them speaks on a walkie-talkie to someone above us. I can make out his words that the patient appears to be stable.

It takes me a few seconds to realize that he’s talking about me. I’m the patient.

“If I could just get my legs free,” I say with a grunt, fighting to move them, but it’s hopeless, and any movement makes my head hurt.

Troy pats my forearm. “Don’t strain yourself. Just relax, and leave it to us to get you out. We have all the right tools. It’ll just take a few minutes to get the equipment down here.”

I nod my head. “Can someone please call my husband? I don’t know where my phone is.”

“Sure thing. What’s his name?”

“Alan.”

Troy whistles and waves to the police officer who is skidding down the steep embankment. “Can you call Abbie’s husband?”

The cop arrives and peers in at me. “How are you doing in there, ma’am?”

“I’m okay. Just pretty shaken up, and I can’t move my legs.” I don’t know why I’m telling him I’m okay when I’m nothing of the sort. “Can you please call my husband?”

“Absolutely.” He pulls out a cell phone and dials the number as I recite it. I watch as he waits for a reply, then shakes his head. “There’s no answer. Should I leave a message?”

“Yes,” I say without hesitation, frustrated that Alan isn’t answering his phone when I need him most.

The officer reports that I’ve been in an accident and will be taken to the Fishermen’s Memorial Hospital in Lunenburg, only five minutes away.

“I’ll try again in a few minutes,” the cop reassures me.

I thank him, then realize I’m shivering uncontrollably. I focus hard and try to relax my body, but not even my most determined force of will can stop the shaking.

“Just try and stay calm,” Troy says. “You’re in good hands, and we’ll have you out of there before you know it. Here come the firefighters now.”

I nod and try to be patient, wishing this nightmare would hurry up and end.

A team of five firefighters arrives with heavy equipment, which they set down around my SUV. This includes a noisy generator, a giant steel cutter, and a powerful spreader.

I turn to Troy, who is still at my side. He looks so young—not much older than my son.

“Any sign of my dog yet?” I ask.

Troy turns toward the cluster of flashing lights and emergency vehicles on the road above. “I don’t think so.”

“Can you please find out?” One of the other firefighters is letting the air out of my tires and placing blocks under the wheels to stabilize the car. “I’m worried about him, and I don’t want to leave him behind.”

Still holding my hand, Troy calls out to the cop who stands at the base of the embankment, talking on his phone. “Hey, Bob! Can you check on Abbie’s dog? He’s a golden retriever, and he was thrown from the vehicle. His name is Winston, and he probably hasn’t gone far.”

With every passing second, I grow increasingly worried, because Winston is very attached to me and extremely protective. If he ran off, he must have been terrified or in shock.

The cop trudges up the hill, and I try to be brave while Troy tells me he’s going to cover me with a tarp.

“They’re going to use the Jaws of Life to cut the car apart and lift the dash upward to free your legs,” he explains. “This tarp will shield you from bits of flying glass and metal.”

I agree because I want more than anything to remain calm, but I’m terrified, and he knows it.

“I’ll be right here the whole time,” Troy says as he covers me, then moves out of the team’s way.

The noise of the cutter is deafening. All I hear is the roar of machines, the crunching of metal, the shattering of glass. I’m afraid it’s all going to collapse on top of me, but the feel of Troy’s hand squeezing my shoulder and the sound of his voice in my ear, explaining everything along the way, helps me stay grounded.

“They’re making a series of relief cuts in the frame,” he explains. “I know it’s loud . . .”

My stomach turns over as I recall the horror of the crash and the rapid, tumbling descent.

This was my second brush with death. The first occurred seventeen years ago when I gave birth to Zack and nearly bled out in the delivery room. Since then, I’d always considered myself fortunate to be alive. Now I’m starting to wonder if the grim reaper has a mark out on me.

“Okay . . . ,” Troy says when the cutter shuts off, “you’re doing great, Abbie. Now they’re going to use a spreader to lift the dash, which should ease the pressure on your legs. Just hang in there. We’re almost done.”