Chapter Twenty-Six
They were fighting before they even got in the car. Her car. His stupid Maserati was broken.
“I’m not going to my sister’s rehearsal dinner in a Honda,” Lorenzo snapped, sitting in the front seat of his Italian status symbol.
“Then you shouldn’t have bought such a precious and delicate car. Get in. You hate being late.”
She’d worked overnight, managed to catch a few hours of sleep this morning and could’ve sworn she’d just seen a red pickup truck going in the opposite direction as she turned onto Lorenzo’s road in Chatham.
She hadn’t spoken to Dante since she’d seen him in Quincy. She hadn’t spoken to Lorenzo, either…just acknowledged his text ordering her when and where to show up. Izzy and she hadn’t been able to find time for a movie, and it was just as well. The Santinis were not hers to keep. But it was wedding weekend, and this morning, Sofia had sent Lark a text saying she couldn’t wait to see her tonight. So Lark supposed she was still Lorenzo’s girlfriend in the eyes of his family.
Except for Dante, of course.
“Lorenzo! Stop being so classist and get in the damn car,” she said, leaning on the horn.
He tried starting the Maserati one more time, glared at her, then got out and put his suitcase and tuxedo bag in the back before slumping into the passenger seat like a sulky teenager.
The rehearsal was tonight at St. Cecilia’s in Boston, followed by dinner at Venezia, a restaurant overlooking the water. Tomorrow, the wedding started at 4:00 p.m. at the church, followed by a reception at the Boston Public Library. It was sure to be a gorgeous affair, and Lark hoped it would be all Sofia and Henry wanted.
After that…well, Lark wasn’t sure if she’d ever see a Santini again.
“How’s Noni?” she asked, pulling out of his driveway.
“Winding down. A month, tops. She’ll have an aide with her today in case she gets tired. Tomorrow, too.”
She glanced at him, thought about putting a hand on his knee, decided against it. “I’m sorry. That must be hard.”
He shrugged and looked out the window. Message received.
“Was that Dante’s truck I saw on my way here?” she asked, unable to stop herself.
“Yes.”
“More, please.”
“Yes, it was Dante’s truck you saw.”
She sighed. Loudly.
Lorenzo caved. “We had a small family dinner last night. Just the four of us and our parents, and he came to see me today before heading to Boston.”
She waited for more. More didn’t come. “What did he want to talk about?”
“Nothing I’m willing to discuss right now,” he said.
“Really?” She turned onto the on-ramp and waited for a gap in the traffic. Route 6 was only two lanes here—eastbound and westbound—separated by irritating little yellow poles. It took a solid minute before she could sneak into the line of traffic. “It’s going to be a long drive if you’re not speaking to me.”
“I think it’ll be a very pleasant drive, not speaking to you.”
She couldn’t help a smile. He was a rude pain in the ass, but he was very consistent.
“Hey, I love the dresses you picked out for me.”
In her suitcase were two gorgeous dresses, matching shoes, matching handbags. For tonight, a Naeem Khan off-the-shoulder dress with a big bow on the shoulder. For the wedding, a navy blue Jason Wu crisscross gown. Fabulous shoes, and a Judith Leiber handbag shaped like a butterfly. “If this doctor thing doesn’t work out, you could always be a personal shopper.”
“The doctor thing has clearly worked out for me,” he said, no trace of humor in his voice. “You, however…”
“Rude.”
Then she slammed on the brakes, her arm instinctively going out to shield Lorenzo as they swerved off the road and onto the grass, barely missing the bumper of the Miata immediately in front of them.
There was a massive pileup. Two, three…five, seven or more cars askew in front of them with a box truck at the end, preventing her from seeing farther up the highway. She heard the screech of brakes and a car horn. Someone pulled up right behind her. Behind them, traffic was stopping.
Lark put on her hazard lights and looked at Lorenzo. “You okay?”
He looked stunned, eyes wide, mouth open. “That was close.”
She grabbed her phone from the cup holder and dialed 911. “Big accident on Route 6 westbound, in Harwich after the on-ramp from 124. Injuries unknown, but assume mass casualty. I’m an ER physician, and I’m with a surgeon. Yes. Okay. We’re assessing right now.” She looked at Lorenzo and got out of the car. “Go time, Dr.Santini.” Her arms and legs vibrated as adrenaline flowed into her veins.
Traffic on the eastbound side was stopped, since a pickup had swerved into that lane. The air smelled like antifreeze and rubber. A horn was blaring up ahead. From the back of her car, Lark grabbed her bag, glad to be neurotically overprepared. Alcohol wipes, gauze, gloves, Steri-Strips. The last time she’d needed anything medical was when the falcon ate the pigeon off Noni’s head. Seemed like a century ago.
“Stay in your cars!” she yelled. “I’m an ER doctor. I’ll come to you!” They’d had a case last month of a guy who’d been hit because he’d been standing on the side of the road, changing his tire.
The car in front of them wasn’t damaged. After that, no such luck. The next car had rear-ended the SUV in front of it. The hood was badly dented, and the airbags had deployed. Lark peered in the passenger window. Female, forties, two wide-eyed kids in booster seats in the back. “I’m an ER doctor. Are you okay?”
“We’re…we’re fine,” said the driver. “Just shaken. Kids, you’re okay, right?”
“We hit that car,” said the older one.
“Does anything hurt?” Lark asked.
“My tooth came out last night,” said the younger kid, showing her. “It was a little sore.”
“I think we’re good,” said the mom.
“Great. Stay in the vehicle. EMS is on their way.” Several people were attempting to get out of their cars. “Stay in your cars,” she shouted again. “If you’re hurt, wave to me. I’m an ER doctor.”
A hand came out of a window, and she ran to that car. Damage to front and back, the bumper hanging.
“Where are you hurt?” she asked.
“My leg,” the driver said. Male, sixties. “I think it’s broken.”
Lark looked down, gripping his wrist without thinking. Pulse steady and strong. Yep, his shin was crooked, and there was a nasty cut halfway up. It wasn’t bleeding heavily, though. “Stay put for now. EMS is en route.”
“What should I do?” Lorenzo asked. She’d almost forgotten he was here.
“Stick with me. EMS can triage everyone.”
“How will they get here?” He had a point, since traffic had stopped in both directions now. She wasn’t sure what the answer was.
“Just see if there’s anyone critical,” she said.
In the next car, everyone seemed fine. Glass from a broken window had cut the driver over the eye, and blood trickled down his face.
“Clean that up,” she told Lorenzo, shoving her bag at him.
The next driver had a broken wrist and was white-faced with pain. “Try not to move it,” Lark told her. “We’ll get you fixed up really soon.”
Then Lark jolted to a stop. Two cars ahead was a red pickup truck with a Boston Fire insignia, turned almost sideways in the single lane. The windshield was shattered.
In a blur, Lorenzo ran past her. “Dante!” he yelled. “Dante!” He yanked open the passenger door. “There’s no one in here. Where is he?” He looked at the eastbound lane. “Dante!” His voice was thick with fear.
Lark forced herself to keep going. She couldn’t start screaming his name—Lorenzo had that covered, and she had a job to do. If Dante was part of that job, she would know that very soon.
“Help us!” said a woman in the next car, a two-seater with more damage to the rear of the car than the front. Two females, twenties, one on her phone.
It was amazing how the human brain could think of so many things at once. Dante’s body might be in the road. He might’ve been thrown from the car. The ambulances and fire trucks should be coming any minute. Thank God for seat belts, or these women would be dead. “You okay?” she asked the women.
“She’s on with 911,” said the passenger. “My stomach hurts.”
Lark reached in and palpated it gently. The woman winced.
“You stay here and don’t move a muscle,” Lark said. “There’s a chance you’ve hurt your spleen or liver. It’s probably just a bruise from the seat belt, but do not move, you understand?” She looked at the driver. “If she loses color or starts to faint, come get me immediately. And tell the dispatcher to alert Hyannis ER for mass casualties.”
The driver repeated Lark’s words, her voice tight with fear.
Lark went to the next car. “I’m fine, keep going,” said the driver. “I’m fine.”
Lorenzo stood next to Dante’s truck, his face was white. “My brother…” he said, and his voice was small and scared.
“There he is,” she said before her brain fully processed the sight. Dante was doing exactly what she was doing, going from car to car, checking. Her heart surged with relief and gratitude.
He did a double take when he saw them and ran over. “Lark! We got a bad one. Everyone else can wait.” He had a cut next to his eye, and there was blood on his left hand.
“You okay?” she said, her voice shaking.
He gave her a crooked smile. “I’m good.”
“Jesus, Dante,” Lorenzo said. “I thought you were…” His voice choked off.
“You’re needed up there, big brother,” he said. “You even more, Lark. I’ll be right there. I’ve got some tools in the back of my truck. Go.”
Lark ran. A few people were standing on the side of the road, most on their phones. An older woman was lying on the grass, her husband fanning her with a magazine. “She’s just hot,” he called. “We’re okay.”
The highway was clear in front of the box truck, which had a completely deflated front tire, apparently the cause of the accident. Rammed into and just under the back of it, though, was an SUV. The entire front of the vehicle was crumpled, the windshield smashed, the engine shoved onto the driver’s lap. He had a face full of blood, and his jaw was clearly broken or dislocated. Legs were probably trapped under all that engine.
Not good. But he was conscious…for the moment, anyway.
“I’m a doctor,” she said. His eyes were wild, hands flailing. She grabbed them. “I need you to stay calm. We’re gonna take good care of you.”
Airway, breathing, circulation. He coughed, and blood and a couple of teeth came out of his mouth. She tried to open his door to get closer to him. It didn’t budge. She reached inside his broken window and tried to open it that way. Nope. Chest contusion, probable broken ribs, probable broken legs, possible internal bleeding, definite facial trauma, possible spinal damage. She felt the pulse in his neck. Strong and steady, if fast.
He made a gurgling sound.
“What have we got?” Lorenzo was standing right behind her.
“We’re gonna lose his airway,” she said, her voice calm. “Find a water bottle with a straw, a razor blade or a box cutter.” She’d have to add those items to her bag, or better yet, just buy one of those paramedic bags.
“I’ve got a box cutter in here.” Dante was back, a heavy canvas tool bag in one hand, a crowbar in the other.
“Good,” she said. Her heart rate was probably over a hundred, and adrenaline was flooding through her. “There are alcohol wipes and latex gloves in my bag. I’ve got rawhide shoelaces in there, too, in case we need to tourniquet his legs.” A person could bleed to death from a broken femur, and his legs had to be badly broken underneath the snarl of wreckage that had once been his vehicle. “Find me that straw, Lorenzo.”
“Got it.”
“Tell me what to do, Doc,” Dante said.
She looked into his dark eyes, suddenly feeling a lot better. “Always good to have a firefighter around,” she said. “Get that door off.”
The man made another choking noise. “Hang in there, buddy,” he said, putting the crowbar against the bent door frame. “She’s a doctor, and so’s my brother. We’re gonna get you out and fix you up.” He glanced at Lark. “We’ll need a helicopter for this guy. Anyone else?”
“Possible spleen or liver damage in the orange Subaru. Nothing else that seems life-threatening.”
“Can I help?” asked a middle-aged woman with short gray hair.
“Yes,” Lark said. “Call 911 and tell them we need a chopper, and then tie some cloth—a shirt or towel—to the orange Subaru and the gray Audi. The blue Tesla, too. That way, EMS will know who needs help first. If you can find some blankets or beach towels, we’ll be using the side of the road for triage.”
“On it.” The woman nodded and went off.
Dante was doing his best, but it was like trying to open a can with a spoon. She wished she could stabilize the driver’s neck, but they’d have to wait for EMS for a brace. She went to the other side of the cab. Not much room, given the damage to the car. Could she squeeze in there and do an emergency tracheotomy if he stopped breathing? She doubted Lorenzo would fit.
She boosted herself up and wriggled through the window, wincing as the bits of glass dug into her stomach. She made it through and knelt on the sliver of seat that wasn’t obscured by the mangled engine.
“Hang in there, sir,” she said. “Breathe with me, okay? Nice and calm, in and out. You’re doing great.”
He wasn’t. His breath was thick with blood and teeth, and there was possible soft tissue damage in his throat. His face was swollen, the lower part of it misaligned. She gently felt his neck for an obvious deformity, tenderness or swelling. Negative. No apparent head trauma, no bleeding from the scalp.
“You’re gonna be fine. Not what you had planned for today, but we’ve got this.” Her voice was calm and friendly, same as Howard Unger’s always was no matter what the situation.
The man gave another gurgle. It sounded thicker this time. The metal of the door screeched and gave a little, but not enough.
Lorenzo was back. “Got the water bottle.”
“Cut off four inches of the straw and sterilize it,” she said. “Dante, no pressure, but we’re losing his airway here.”
With a massive tug, he bent the door frame back, all the muscles in his arms straining. There was the bottom of his tattoo, the prayer. They’d need it today. The sun was hot. She was thirsty. Words from the other drivers and passengers floated to her—unfuckingbelievable, man, it’s okay, we’re safe, be brave, my dad is gonna be so mad.
The driver’s eyes were rolling, a sign that he was losing consciousness. “Stay with me, sir,” she said. “Hey! Look at me, okay? I’m Lark, did I tell you that? Like the little bird.” The memory of Justin calling her that flashed through her mind. Help us out here, Justin. We need everything we can get. “You’re gonna have a great story about this.” His eyes rolled again. “Sir! Sir? Stay awake, buddy. Look at me.”
He was unconscious. Make friends with death, Dr.Hanks had said.
Fuck that. She was an emergency room doctor. She was fighting back.
“He’s not breathing,” Lark said. “Lorenzo, hand me the box cutter.”
Then there was an unholy screech, and the door popped open.
“Is he stuck?” she asked. “Can we get him out?”
“I think so.” Dante bent and, somewhat miraculously, freed the guy’s legs. Lark held on to his head, Lorenzo slid his arms under the man’s back, and they eased him out of the car and onto the pavement. Both his lower legs were definitely broken, lying crookedly on the pavement.
“Want me to rig up a splint?” Dante asked.
“What’s the ETA on EMS?” she asked.
“Four minutes.”
“His legs can wait, then.”
“Got it,” said Dante. “I’ll go check on the others.”
The man’s face was a gory mess. His nose was smashed almost flat, and she could see his knocked-out teeth and blood in the back of his throat.
“Jesus Christ,” said someone. He was filming.
“Back the fuck off,” Lorenzo barked. Lark didn’t bother to check whether the idiot obeyed.
The man was choking to death. “Sweeping his mouth,” she said. It didn’t help. “Alcohol wipe,” she said, sticking out her hand. Lorenzo handed the little packet to her, and she tore it open with her teeth, then swabbed the man’s neck. She felt his Adam’s apple, then massaged just below it with her forefinger. “Right here,” she said, pulling the skin back.
Lorenzo double-checked the location, took the box cutter and made a half-inch slice in the man’s throat. “Holy crap!” someone yelped. Lark pulled the skin apart, revealing the cricothyroid cartilage, a yellowish, rubbery membrane. Lorenzo sliced that as well—the box cutter was doing a great job—then took the section of straw from his shirt pocket and worked it into the man’s trachea.
“Now what?” he asked.
“Switch with me,” she said.
He obeyed without protest, and she leaned over the man, hand on his chest, and blew into the straw. His chest rose. She did it again, then pulled back and waited.
His chest rose again. “He’s breathing,” she said. Yes. Another breath. His eyes fluttered, and Lark glanced at Lorenzo. “Great job.”
He let out a breath. “You too, Dr.Smith. You too.”
Then the paramedics were there with their backboards and radios, and Lark was talking in the code of emergency services, briefing them, sending them to the other cars, checking the woman with the possible spleen injury, the older lady lying on the side of the road who was not just hot but possibly having a heart attack, the man with the broken leg. She heard the reassuring sound of a helicopter and helped pack up the broken-faced man. He grabbed her hand as they loaded him in.
“You’re gonna be okay,” she said, and she believed it.
Nine people were taken to the ER. Lark caught a ride with the second ambulance, and the instant it stopped, she ran straight to Howard. “Can I help?” she asked.
“The newly born legend arrives,” he said. “Absolutely. Get some scrubs on and join us.”
The other injured people were brought in and triaged. Broken bones, back pain, bruises, panic attack, sore shoulder, mild concussion. The woman with the bruised spleen and the man with the broken leg were admitted, as was the lady who’d been lying on the side of the road.
Lark didn’t know what time it was when Howard finally came over to her.
“Helluva job, Lark. I heard you were quite a boss out there.”
She blew out a breath. “I was terrified.”
“Of course you were. Did you have your moment?”
She knew exactly what he meant, and abruptly, she felt the sting of tears in her eyes. Tears of pride this time. “I did. I was a real doctor out there.”
“Hell, yes, you were.” He smiled. “We’ll be sorry to lose you. Dr.Hanks emailed me. You’re back in Oncology.”
“Really?” she said. “Oh. Wow. Um…”
“Go on,” he said fondly. “Make my day.”
“Can I stay here instead?”
“Ha!” Howard fist pumped. “I knew it! I knew I’d lure you over to the dark side. Attagirl. Sure, call him Monday. Now get out of here. Go have fun. Don’t you have a wedding this weekend? I think your guy is out there in the waiting room.”
She looked at her phone. Holy guacamole, it was only five o’clock. She had nineteen messages. She didn’t read them all, but…
Addie: You! Are! Amazing!
Harlow: Honey! I’m so proud of you!
Winnie: Great job, Lark. Grace under pressure.
Robbie: Fucking badass.
Grandpop: WE HEARD EVERYYTHING AND AREE VERY PROUD OF YU DEAR LARK!
Mom: Are you okay? We’re so proud of you, but you must be drained! Call when you get a chance. Love you so much!!!
Heather: Theo and I are so proud.
Joy: You’re famous, Lark! It’s all over the news!
And it was. As she went into the waiting room, she could hear the story on NECN, the singsong voice of newscasters. “Tonight, motorists in a devastating crash on Route 6 in Harwich today were luckier than most. Two brothers, one a Boston firefighter, the other a world-renowned surgeon, just happened to be on the scene. Lorenzo Santini, MD, his brother Dante of Boston Fire, as well as an emergency room physician were heading to a family wedding in Boston. The following footage might be disturbing to some viewers…”
“Hey.”
It wasn’t Lorenzo.
Dante stood up from the chair he’d been sitting in, all brawn and Boston Fire T-shirt. He had a darkening bruise under the eye that had sustained a cut, and it did not hurt his appeal one bit.
“Dante! You okay?”
“Yeah. Are you? That was pretty impressive today.”
“I don’t think I’ll sleep for a week.” She glanced around. “Is Lorenzo doing a press conference or something?”
Dante’s smile deepened. “Nah. He did one at the scene, then took a car to Boston. Didn’t want to miss the rehearsal. Or the adulation.”
“Shouldn’t you be there, too?”
He smiled. “Someone had to wait for you. I drove your car, since my truck is totaled.”
“Are you hurt, Dante? Did you get checked out?”
“Yeah, a nurse looked me over. I’ve got this shiner, and I’ll be a little stiff tomorrow.”
She swallowed. He was okay. The delayed terror at the sight of his truck and the reality of him standing right in front of her made her throat tighten and her knees grow weak.
“So listen, Lark,” he said, a smile in his voice. “I had a little talk with Lorenzo this morning. Told him I had a thing for his girl. Figured I’d let him keep his pride and not tell him that I knew this was all fake.”
“Oh.” Her heart was thudding and her cheeks were on fire. “What did he say?”
“He said you weren’t his type.”
She laughed. “He’s not mine, either.”
“Excellent news. So.” He took her hands, and his were big and calloused and warm. “Will you be my date for my sister’s wedding?”
She nodded.
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“Absolutely sure? I don’t want you to feel like you have to say—”
She kissed him. Oh, she kissed him right there in the waiting room, and he pulled her against his solid frame, and she didn’t care if people were watching or filming. There was only him, his mouth smiling as he kissed her back.
It was good to be alive. Alive, and with a future that shimmered with hope.