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Hawthorn Hope

By Helen Gray

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Chapter 1
The radio came to life as the police cruiser rolled along Kingshighway near the edge of Cape Girardeau, Missouri. When her badge number was quoted, Jenna Michaels responded and listened to the message.
“MVC Highway 74 and Kingshighway.”
She turned on her siren and hit the gas pedal. A motor vehicle crash at a major intersection could be bad.
When she arrived at the crash scene, Jenna braked to a halt at the side of the highway, radioed her arrival and hit the pavement at a run. The mid-January zero temperature hit her in a frigid blast that stole her breath. She tugged the fleece flaps of her uniform cap down over her ears, inhaling the lingering scent of burning rubber and spilled motor oil.
A car and a van sat in a crumpled mess at one side of the highway. The van was nearest, so she went to it first and peeked through the window on the driver’s side. A man sat slumped in the seat, one hand still on the lower part of the steering wheel, his seat belt holding him in place.
Jenna yanked the door open and leaned forward. A sigh of relief escaped her when she heard a low moan, but she checked the man’s wrist for a pulse anyhow. His skin was cold and dry, but he was alive.
“Don’t move,” she cautioned, just in case he could hear her. “I’ll be right back.”
She ran to the other vehicle. The car’s position indicated it had hit the side of the van and bounced back several feet, its hood buckled. Inside was another slumped driver. But this one stirred and raised bleary eyes when she jerked the door open. He gave her a jack-o-lantern grin that told her he was drunk. Blood ran from a gap where his front teeth had been knocked out. The sight and circumstances resurrected the anger and bitterness Jenna fought daily.
In automatic movements she cited her badge number into her shoulder transmitter. “We have two injuries here. Separate vehicles. One is possible DWI. Send medical.” The Driving While Impaired designation covered both alcohol and drugs.
As she spoke, another cruiser pulled up behind hers and stopped. Officer Travis Baker emerged from it and came jogging toward her. Thankfully the noon rush traffic had slowed to a trickle, but having backup so quickly to help with the victims and keep the way clear for the coming emergency vehicles was welcome.
Jenna finished her call and returned to the van. A closer look at the injured man showed her that he was professionally dressed in a suit, tie and top coat. Inky dark hair, neatly trimmed with flecks of white about the temples framed handsome features that were drawn tight in pain, even in his unconscious state. Dark lashes lined closed lids.
She reached a hand inside the man’s open top coat and around to his hip. When she felt a bulge, she slipped her fingers into the back pocket and extracted a wallet, needing to identify him. She flipped it open and found a driver’s license. The picture matched the handsome face. He was Evan Bryant, age thirty. She made a note and looked up as a siren sounded in the distance.
When the first ambulance pulled to a stop, Jenna beckoned the emerging paramedics to the van. “This driver looks to be the most serious. Here’s his wallet to go with his belongings.” She handed it to the medic who arrived first. The one behind him was pushing a gurney.
The two checked Mr. Bryant quickly. When they assisted him from his vehicle, he staggered and had to be lifted onto the gurney.
A hand went to his head, and the eyes opened to slits, bleary and dazed. He thrashed about on the gurney, agitated and muttering. Jenna leaned closer to listen.
“School,” he mumbled. “Hannah … need …call.”
“What school, sir?”
Was his wife at school? His children? Did he work at a school?
“Schoo …” His head lolled to one side, and he lay so still that it scared Jenna. She breathed easier when the medics continued to work with him in a manner that told her he had only lost consciousness.
“Hey, let me go!”
Jenna whirled around. The drunk driver had broken from Baker’s grasp and taken off in a wobbly run. Acting on instinct, she broke into a sprint and cut him off. “Whoa, there, you wackadoodle,” she shouted, grabbing an arm. She jerked it behind him, needing all her strength to restrain the man when he went into a rage, kicking and twisting violently.
At that moment, Travis Baker reached them and grabbed the man’s other arm. “I’ll take him. Thanks.”
Jenna wanted to hit the inebriated man, to teach him a lesson. He represented too much to her, brought back too much pain and heartache. But she stepped aside and let Baker propel him to the second ambulance.
She returned to the man on the gurney. His eyes were open again, but he blinked in confusion. He eyed her steadily for several moments. Then his eyes closed again.
When the medics wheeled the gurney toward the ambulance, Jenna went back to join Baker as the drunk driver was put in the ambulance. “Did you get this one’s name?”
Baker grimaced. “Didn’t have to. I’ve arrested him before. He’s Louis Hobart, the owner of a long rap sheet. You go on to the hospital, and I’ll take pictures and look after things here.”
Jenna gave him a brief finger salute and headed for her cruiser. As she followed the emergency vehicles, the past twenty-two months, three weeks and five days of grief and bitterness welled up in her. Since the morning she had kissed Lee good bye and left for work, never to speak to him, kiss him or smell him again, she had filled her life with work, doing her regular shifts and accepting all the overtime assignments she could squeeze into her days. A drunk driver had cost her everything. Her hands formed a white knuckled grip on the steering wheel as she struggled against tears of hopelessness that she only allowed in the privacy of her empty apartment.
“God, why did You let it happen?” she asked for the thousandth time.
If only there had been children, she wouldn’t be totally alone. But she and Lee had delayed their dream of a family together, working to pay off Lee’s school debts and savoring their time with just the two of them before having children. She had spent too much time at work—and ended up with nothing. Her only goals now were to survive one day at a time—and seize any opportunity to prevent others from having to go through what she had experienced.
The hospital came into view, bringing her focus back to immediate concerns. She had accident victims to check on, a job to do. She turned into the parking lot.
*
Evan’s head hurt. His stomach rolled and lurched with nausea. When he raised a hand to examine the left side of his head, he found a huge knot over his eye. If he looked anything like he felt, it had to be ugly.
He tried to pull the fuzzy disconnects of his brain together. He forced his eyes open—and spied someone standing at the foot of the bed in which he lay. It was a female police officer. She resembled one he vaguely remembered. Not wearing a cap, her dark hair parted at the right and fell softly around her delicate face and curved against her chin.
Suddenly he remembered—or thought he did—her manhandling a guy. He wet his lips and tried to speak. It took a second try. “Wackadoodle?” he croaked.
She moved around to the side of the bed, giving him his first clear look at her—well, as clear as he could see with his blurry vision. Her mouth twitched as wide green eyes studied him.
“Yes, he was a wackadoodle,” she said wryly. “The doctors say you have a concussion, but they gave me permission to see if you can talk to me a little bit. Do you remember what happened?”
He closed his eyes. And a vision began to form behind them—the car coming at him through the intersection, the squeal of his brakes as he slammed his foot on them, and the sickening thud of the crash. His stomach lurched as the horror of it came rushing back.
“My phone,” he nearly shouted, wincing and grabbing his forehead at the pain it caused. Frantic, he plunged a hand under the sheet that covered him and patted at his pocket, only there was no pocket. He wore a hospital gown. He twisted around, looking for his clothes. Not seeing them, he tried to rise up out of the bed.
“Oh, no, you don’t. Just lie still.” Hands on his chest pressed him back onto the mattress.
He gazed up at the officer, noting dimly that her name tag said Michaels.
“Where did you have your phone?” she asked softly.
He closed his eyes and rubbed them, hating that his brain wouldn’t work properly. “In the van. In the seat, I think. I can’t remember,” he blurted in frustration, rubbing his aching head.
A nurse appeared. “You have a concussion, Mr. Bryant. You need to stay calm. I’ve brought you a sedative.”
“No,” he protested as a needle came toward him and pricked his arm. “I need to let the staff know where I am.”
The nurse exchanged a look with the officer.
“What staff?” the officer asked, producing a phone.
“Hawthorn Christian Academy,” he enunciated carefully, clenching his teeth against the throbbing of his head. “I’m the principal, and they’ll be wondering why I’m not there yet.”
“Give me the number, and I’ll call them for you.”
He quoted the number, and tried to listen as she dialed and then spoke to someone, explaining what had happened and where he was. He needed to leave here. But he couldn’t keep his eyes open.
“The secretary said she’ll notify the staff and your family,” Officer Michaels said when she ended the call. “I have to go now, but I’ll check back later and see how you’re doing.”
“Thank you.” He tried to get up, but the nurse pressed him back against the pillow. “Hannah … Jeff …ry,” he mumbled as the world faded away.

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