“I’m fine.”
“That scaredme.”
“Thank you for pulling Aiden out of the way.”
He shrugs. “It was instinct. I didn’t even think about it.” He growls. “I’ve heard more than one person say Mrs. Quincy needs to stop driving, and that’s why.”
Mrs. Quincy is at least eighty years old, but she’s the only living relative Victoria Quincy has, seeing as her parents died in a car accident and left Victoria with no other relatives except her great-aunt, Mrs. Quincy. And Mrs. Quincy has been driving…erratically, shall we say…for at least ten years.
I sigh. “People have tried stopping her from driving on and off for the last decade, and she just refuses to give up her license. Plus, she’s Victoria’s only way to and from school.”
“Well, she could have killed you, or others.” He frowns. “What’s she doing driving that huge truck anyway? She can barely see over the wheel!”
“Her husband bought it with cash about six months before he passed, and she won’t sell it. She’s had offers, but it’s Herb’s truck, and she’s clinging to it.”
Jamie taps his fingers on the steering wheel. “There’s got to be something we can do. That can’t happen again.”
It’s quiet the rest of the way to the hospital. Jamie is deep in thought, and keeps glancing at me as if to make sure I haven’t developed a sudden injury or passed out.
“What?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Nothing. Nothing.”
“I’mfine, Jamie.”
“I know. It was just…” He sighs roughly. “Scary. Watching that happen and being helpless.”
“You weren’t helpless—you were right there, taking care of Aiden.”
We pull into the ER parking lot, and he finds a spot near the back. He puts the truck in park, but glances at me before shutting it off.
“There’s so much I want to say, but…” He shakes his head, scrubbing his hand through his hair. “I won’t open that can of worms right now.”
“Probably best,” I say. “I don’t think I can handle that conversation at the moment.”
Jamie exits the truck and circles around to the passenger side, opening my door and holding my hand to help me down.
I want to hold his hand; I want that comfort. I’m shaky, trembling, more from residual adrenaline and the post-trauma surge of fear and anxiety.
Instead, I walk on my own two feet, fists clenched, refusing to lean on Jamie any more than necessary.
He notices, and his jaw tightens, the corners of his eyes wrinkling, tightening with…irritation? Hurt? Frustration? I don’t know.
We find a pair of seats together near the entrance to the ER, and Jamie brings me a clipboard with paperwork to fill out. Instead of letting me do it, however, he asks the questions and circles the correct answers and writes in the correct information—much of it he remembers from our visit here with Aiden.
After a fairly short wait, a male nurse opens the door to the examining area and calls my name, “Elyse Thomas?”
I rise, slowly, shakily, and Jamie helps me to my feet. “That’s me.”
The nurse glances at Jamie. “You’re the husband?”
Jamie blinks a moment. “Um. No, but—”
“He’s with me,” I cut in, quickly; the thought of sitting back there alone waiting for a doctor…my stomach flips with anxiety just thinking about it. “He’s coming with me.”
“Okay,” the nurse says, not really caring either way. “This way. Room four.”
I follow him, with Jamie at my side.
