Page 24 of Broken Dream

High-pitched ringing.

Blood. I know the scent. Sharp and metallic. But I’m not in the OR. And the blood I smell is my own.

Blood.

Panic.

I squeeze my eyes shut and then force them open, hoping my sight will clear.

“Lindsay…” My voice sounds strange to me, distant and muffled. “Julia…”

I try to turn my head, and agony explodes through my skull. But it’s not the pain that makes me gasp. It’s the thought of my daughter in the back seat.

She’s strapped in. She’s okay. She’s got to be okay.

But why is there no crying? Why?

“Jul—”

I try to crane my neck to see the back seat, but another jolt of pain stops me. Panic and dread seize me when I can’t see her.

I fumble with the seat belt, my fingers shaking. Every nerve ending in my body screams in protest. But I can’t afford to give in to the pain. Not now.

“Julia…please,” I rasp out, choking on the words as I finally manage to unclip the seat belt. The car tilts as I climb into the back seat.

And the pain.

Fuck, the pain!

But I don’t care. I need to get Julia?—

Julia!

She’s not in her car seat.

She’s…

“Julia!”

Her small body is wedged on the floor, her stuffed frog next to her.

“No! No!”

Tears mix with blood as I reach a trembling hand toward her, praying for any sign of life. Dread pounds in my chest.

“Julia, please! Oh my God, Julia.”

My right hand is numb, so with my left hand I grab her, lay her on the back seat, press my fingers to her carotid to find a pulse.

Blood flows from a cut on her head.

I’m a doctor. I should be able to save her.

I begin CPR. Or try to with only one functioning hand.

The rhythm, so familiar from years of training and practice, becomes a desperate lifeline in the back seat of our totaled car. I press, breathe, press, my heart pounding out a frantic rhythm against my ribs. My body moves mechanically, my mind trying to push away the horror that is unfolding before me.

“Julia…Julia…come on,” I plead between each compression. Tears blur my vision, but I can’t afford to close my eyes. Not even for a second. “Stay with me.”