Ready-Made Family. Cheryl Wyatt
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from ninety-degree heat or fear.
Closer now, Ben wished for more light from the low-slung southern Illinois sunset and peered through the driver’s side window. A young woman lay slumped over the steering wheel.
Wavy, light brown hair spilled over her cheeks and dusted the dash. Fog misted the inside glass, prohibiting him from assessing her further. At least the haze indicated she had to have been breathing recently. Child still hoisted with one arm, Ben yanked the driver’s side door handle with his free hand.
Locked. And hot.
“Ma’am?” He pressed his face to the front glass. Palm flat against it, he pounded on it, then the side window. Nothing. Hand fisted, he banged harder, called louder. “Ma’am!”
He set the little girl down on the curb and gave her shoulders a comforting squeeze. “Stay put, princess. I’m a paramedic. I’ll help your mom.”
If it’s not already too late.
Ben hustled down the length of the car. Jerked the back door handle. Resistance met his effort. Hands cupped against the glass, he peered, called and pounded.
Other than music wafting like a dirge from within, eerie, dead silence entombed the interior. He imagined ovenworthy temperatures inside the car could fry eggs on the dash.
Was she even still breathing? He squinted.
Patches of deathly pale skin peeked through her mass of curls, identical to the little child’s in color and texture. What part of her arms he could see below her T-shirt hinted at pink. Good. Not mottled or cyanotic. His own breathing slowed.
Rushing to the passenger side, Ben flipped open his phone, dialed 911 with one hand, tried the doors with his other.
All locked.
He reported his name, credentials, findings and location to the dispatcher then remained on the line. Car couldn’t be as old as he’d thought. Otherwise, it wouldn’t have those child safety locks. He’d kick a window out if he had to.
“Jesus, please.” Ben ran moist palms over his shorts and looked around for something besides himself to break in with.
Trunk.
Yes! He dived in, shoved a plastic bag aside and crawled through. Scrambled over the folded-down backseat, entering the car as the child had probably exited. Smart kid. How long had they sat here before she’d gone for help?
Car was definitely DOA but the radio was still running. Weird. He recognized the song as one he’d learned chords to during worship practice at Refuge Community Church this morning.
Ben climbed in and turned the radio down. “Miss?”
No answer.
Hand on her sweat-drenched shoulder, he leaned bare knees to sit and counted her breaths. He pressed two fingers to that spot on her neck and hoped to feel life pulse beneath his fingers. Her shoulders rose and fell with the sweet breath of life. With respirations present, she had to have a heartbeat.
What was the deal?
Ben increased the pressure of his fingers in tiny increments. There. Yes. Thank You. His own heart rate slowed.
Moist hair clung to the victim’s face. Ben brushed it away and updated the dispatcher. “Other than a mask of pallor, she looks peaceful in slumber.” Except a young mother wouldn’t sneak a Sunday afternoon snooze in a scalding parking lot.
“I have an inkling something’s up with her heart.” Translucent gray lips blended into her face. Same starkly pale color. Not a hint of pink. Mauve-blue circles ringed her eyes.
“Caucasian female, early twenties, small build. Pulse weak and erratic. Respiratory rate normal but shallow. She’s over-heated, though not dangerously.” Phone to ear, Ben informed her there was an unattended child with the unconscious driver.
“Sir, we have a unit en route but they have a long detour due to a broken-down train blocking the tracks across Main. It may take longer than normal for them to arrive.”
“Ten-four. If her stats change, I’ll contact you.”
Hands beneath the woman, he lifted her torso off the steering column and leaned her against the seat. Palming a lever on the side, he tilted it back. Careful with her neck in case she’d injured it, he lifted her chin, opening her airway. The movement elicited a weak moan but other than that, no response.
Probably she’d become incapacitated prior to running into the block. Hard to tell since she didn’t have her seat belt on.
Ben dipped his head out the passenger door and gave the child a reassuring smile. “Ambulance is on its way.”
Hopefully it’d get here soon, but the ambulance service sat blocks from Refuge’s lone hospital, located clear across town.
Wrist tilted, he peered at his watch. Needed to meet his younger brother Hutton at the airport in…a short hour.
Hutton’s frequent panic attacks and Mosaic Down Syndrome made it difficult for him to travel by air to begin with, much less fly alone as he’d done today. Ben not being there to pick Hutton up could propel him over the edge and bomb to bits any bridge of progress Ben had made with Hutton’s trust.
The little girl inched from the curb to the door. Big brown eyes grew wider with each shuffling step. “What’s a matter with her?” She chewed the end of her finger and her chin quivered as she peered beneath long eyelashes at her mother.
Heart caught, Ben wanted to scoop her up and hug her, but didn’t suppose he should, being a stranger.
“Not sure. Help’s coming, though.” The faded seat creaked when he pivoted into a better position to face the youngster.
Huge tears bubbled, then dripped from a pair of eyes struggling to be more brave than scared as they glistened at him. When she stepped toward Ben and reached up tiny hands, he couldn’t help it. He opened his arms to her. The waif of a girl moved like a minimissile. He lifted. She scrambled up in his lap then burrowed beneath his chin. Tucked herself into his chest like she belonged there.
Rivulets of sweat trailed down his back. Pink ribbons affixed like fluffy tiaras atop her head tickled his neck as he leaned over the mother and rolled down the driver’s window. The little girl’s hair felt squeaky clean. Groomed and cared for. A warm breeze lifted the strands, bringing hints of strawberry.
He transferred weight from knees to rump in the seat to monitor the mother and hold her trembling child simultaneously.
With featherlike motions, the little girl rubbed her mom’s arm with one hand and clenched her stuffed animal tighter with the other. “Did she die?” Small whimpers puffed out heart-shaped lips resembling the mother’s. “Because my guinea pig died and never came back to life again and I’d miss Mommy so, so bad if she never came back to life again.” Tears spilled over the rims of her eyes and raced down rosy cheeks.
Ben hugged her closer, wishing he’d anticipated the scope of her fear. “No, princess. Your mommy’s not dead.” Being a U.S. Special Operations airman had trained him to notice every intricate detail about everything. His senses took it in automatically no matter the situation. He regretted not picking up on her fright and distortion about her mother’s condition.
“B-but she won’t wake up. L-like my guinea pig. I tried and tried to wake Mommy. But I couldn’t.” She shuddered.
“She only passed out,” Ben explained. “Honest.”
“P-passed out what?”
“No, I mean she fainted. It’s like a deep sleep is all. Can you remember what happened?” He placed a soothing hand on her back, moving his thumb side to side much the same way he strummed his guitar strings during worship. He prayed silent songs for God to comfort her and chase away fear.
She shrugged one shoulder. “We was in the store to buy some, um, um, I can’t tell ya that part.” She dropped her