grandmother Lackster has taken a fall but it’s nothing serious. She’ll still be able to attend the wedding. Oh, yes, and also tell him that I told the caterer we decided on the chocolate cake.”
Jessibelle said she’d relay the message and hung up.
“Rodney?”
He glanced at her, holding his cell phone to his ear, and sneaking glances at the television.
“That was your mother. She said to say your grandmother Lackster has taken a fall but it’s nothing serious and she’ll still be able to attend the wedding. She also said she told the caterer you decided on chocolate cake.”
“Thank you, Jessibelle,” he said, as he watched the TV screen. “Now, be a dear, and bring us some coffee.”
Jessibelle felt her jaw drop.
And then Kyle jumped out of his chair, spilling potato chips. “HOLY CRAP!”
“Oh my,” Bea said from beside her. “That’s Eric Madison’s car.”
· · · · ·
The TV cameras followed the ambulance along the race course as a cutaway insert showed the slow motion sequence of the crash, with the TV announcer providing a second by second description of what had happened: with cars slowing to conserve fuel in the final laps of the race, Eric Madison had sped into a tight short chute between turns three and four. Unknown to him, Brad Brennan’s car had run out of gas, blocking the way.
Madison’s car winged the tires of the stalled car, and launched into the air at 200 miles an hour. The car twisted in mid air, smashed backwards into the catch fence, and splintered apart across the racetrack.
In the City Realty reception area, everyone stood, waiting for more information. Bea whispered, “Be safe. Be safe.”
“The cockpit’s intact,” Kyle said. “The cockpit’s intact,” he repeated, like a mantra, or a prayer. “He has a chance.”
As the ambulance reached the site of the forlorn cockpit, the phone in City Realty started to ring. Jessibelle automatically answered.
“Hello,” she said, held mesmerized by the TV screen and the carnage spread along the race track.
“Jessibelle Shay?” the voice on the phone said. “This is Mercy Hospital calling.”
· · · · ·
The world fell out of sync. Jessibelle gripped the phone and dropped down onto her chair again.
“Can you come to the ICU right now?” the nurse said. Background noise in the ICU made it difficult to hear. It sounded like a PA announcement, repeating, Code Blue Intensive Care, Code Blue Intensive Care.
“Did you get permission for me to see him?” Jessibelle asked.
But there was no answer. The line had gone dead.
On the television, the cameras zeroed in on the wreckage strewn across the track while a microphone in the background announced the winner of the Eldorado 500. The cameras snapped back to the desolate cockpit waiting by the edge of the track as the paramedics ran toward it.
Another image filtered over Jessibelle’s mind: the solid doors of the ICU—as close as she’d got to Gabe. She had to get back to the hospital.
She glanced at her watch. Half past twelve. “When do you have to be at school?”
“Two o’clock,” Bea said. “Are you leaving again?”
“I have to go somewhere.”
She couldn’t explain where. It sounded too incredible to admit she was searching for her angel in human form.
We’re getting word now, the TV announcer said, as the cameras focused on the paramedics surrounding the cockpit.
Jessibelle’s attention returned to the TV screen and she held her breath, adding her prayers to all the others being sent to Eric Madison.
We have confirmation. Finally, the announcer was speaking again. Eric Madison is alive!
Relief whooshed out of Jessibelle and she felt her body slump. She’d never met Eric, but Rodney had constantly spoken about his cousin so a little part of her knew him.
We don’t know the extent of his injuries, but we know that Eric Madison has survived his flight into the safety fencing.
The big glass door to City Realty
Jessibelle said she’d relay the message and hung up.
“Rodney?”
He glanced at her, holding his cell phone to his ear, and sneaking glances at the television.
“That was your mother. She said to say your grandmother Lackster has taken a fall but it’s nothing serious and she’ll still be able to attend the wedding. She also said she told the caterer you decided on chocolate cake.”
“Thank you, Jessibelle,” he said, as he watched the TV screen. “Now, be a dear, and bring us some coffee.”
Jessibelle felt her jaw drop.
And then Kyle jumped out of his chair, spilling potato chips. “HOLY CRAP!”
“Oh my,” Bea said from beside her. “That’s Eric Madison’s car.”
· · · · ·
The TV cameras followed the ambulance along the race course as a cutaway insert showed the slow motion sequence of the crash, with the TV announcer providing a second by second description of what had happened: with cars slowing to conserve fuel in the final laps of the race, Eric Madison had sped into a tight short chute between turns three and four. Unknown to him, Brad Brennan’s car had run out of gas, blocking the way.
Madison’s car winged the tires of the stalled car, and launched into the air at 200 miles an hour. The car twisted in mid air, smashed backwards into the catch fence, and splintered apart across the racetrack.
In the City Realty reception area, everyone stood, waiting for more information. Bea whispered, “Be safe. Be safe.”
“The cockpit’s intact,” Kyle said. “The cockpit’s intact,” he repeated, like a mantra, or a prayer. “He has a chance.”
As the ambulance reached the site of the forlorn cockpit, the phone in City Realty started to ring. Jessibelle automatically answered.
“Hello,” she said, held mesmerized by the TV screen and the carnage spread along the race track.
“Jessibelle Shay?” the voice on the phone said. “This is Mercy Hospital calling.”
· · · · ·
The world fell out of sync. Jessibelle gripped the phone and dropped down onto her chair again.
“Can you come to the ICU right now?” the nurse said. Background noise in the ICU made it difficult to hear. It sounded like a PA announcement, repeating, Code Blue Intensive Care, Code Blue Intensive Care.
“Did you get permission for me to see him?” Jessibelle asked.
But there was no answer. The line had gone dead.
On the television, the cameras zeroed in on the wreckage strewn across the track while a microphone in the background announced the winner of the Eldorado 500. The cameras snapped back to the desolate cockpit waiting by the edge of the track as the paramedics ran toward it.
Another image filtered over Jessibelle’s mind: the solid doors of the ICU—as close as she’d got to Gabe. She had to get back to the hospital.
She glanced at her watch. Half past twelve. “When do you have to be at school?”
“Two o’clock,” Bea said. “Are you leaving again?”
“I have to go somewhere.”
She couldn’t explain where. It sounded too incredible to admit she was searching for her angel in human form.
We’re getting word now, the TV announcer said, as the cameras focused on the paramedics surrounding the cockpit.
Jessibelle’s attention returned to the TV screen and she held her breath, adding her prayers to all the others being sent to Eric Madison.
We have confirmation. Finally, the announcer was speaking again. Eric Madison is alive!
Relief whooshed out of Jessibelle and she felt her body slump. She’d never met Eric, but Rodney had constantly spoken about his cousin so a little part of her knew him.
We don’t know the extent of his injuries, but we know that Eric Madison has survived his flight into the safety fencing.
The big glass door to City Realty
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