Note: This story was inspired by Some Kind of Sin; I used her former penname (Blue Kai) when I acknowledged her previously. I just want to clarify in case readers are interested in her stories, which are wonderful!
Nightfall brought a sharp decrease in temperature. We sat close to the fire, soaking up the heat of the red and orange flames. Dinner had consisted of packets of spicy chana masala and hot tea. Now, with full bellies, we relaxed in the circle of warmth. Carlisle had brought a small flask of brandy, and we passed it back and forth a few times.
We were both quiet for a little while, each immersed in thought. I felt certain that Carlisle's musings centered on his wife, while mine flitted between recent and more distant memories. I recalled the brilliance of the sunshine as it broke through the clouds earlier in the day, and then I had a hazy recollection of a similar occurrence many years ago.
I had been with my father; it was one of the few times when he and I had spent a Saturday together. I was very young, perhaps four or five, and he had taken me to a park so that I could ride the merry-go-round. I remembered how much it had meant to me to have my father watch as I sat proudly and fearlessly on the big horse. The day had turned cloudy, though, and a light drizzle had begun. My father had told me that it was time to leave, but I had wanted to ride the carousel one more time. He had shaken his head and lifted me from the brightly painted horse, carrying me back to the car as hot tears ran down my cheeks. He deposited me in the back seat, and we drove toward home in silence. Just as we were pulling into the driveway, the sky brightened, and as he opened my door he smiled, pointing upward. I followed his gesture and saw a rainbow stretching across the sky.
"Edward?" Carlisle questioned.
I blinked in the firelight. "What?"
"You looked as if you were a million miles away. Are you all right?"
I nodded. "I was just thinking about my father."
I did not discuss my parents with others; when asked where they lived, I would provide the concise reply, "They're deceased." I never provided further details. Carlisle probably knew more about them than anyone else with whom I had contact, and even his knowledge was only what he had gleaned from his brief interaction with them in the ER. Yet here, beneath the canopy of stars and surrounded by the comfort of the fire, I felt less reticent.
"Yes?" Carlisle responded, his tone open yet not intrusive.
"He was a lawyer," I said. "He was very successful, and he was always working. I didn't spend much time with him."
Carlisle gave me an understanding nod.
"He wanted me to follow in his professional footsteps," I continued. "Until I was seventeen, I never considered doing anything else."
"Parental expectations can be daunting."
"Yes, they can. If my parents were still here, I have no doubt that I'd be an attorney now."
"Did your mother want that for you, too?" he asked.
A poignant smile tugged at my lips. "She just wanted me to be happy. She encouraged me to pursue my interests… she even bought a piano for me when I told her I wanted to study music."
"Do you play?" he asked with interest.
"I haven't in years, but I did study from the third grade until I began high school."
"I imagine you played quite well." He inclined his head toward my hands. "You have the hands of either a musician or a surgeon."
"Huh." I glanced down, thinking of something else that felt like a very distant memory. "My piano teacher wanted me to audition for Interlochen—that's the fine arts summer program in Michigan."
"Very prestigious," he said. "I had a high school friend who went."
"I never mentioned it to my father," I finished with a shrug.
Carlisle leaned forward, his hair a golden halo in the light from the flames. "Edward, I know that he would be proud of you. You've accomplished so much, and you're going to be an exceptional physician. Never doubt that you chose the right field."
"I know I did," I said softly. "I hope he would approve; I feel certain that my mother would." I rubbed at the bridge of my nose as I recalled that flash of coppery hair in the auditorium.
He offered me the flask again, and I took another sip. As I passed it back to him, I asked, "Are your parents still living?"
He didn't answer until he had swallowed some more brandy. "No. My mother died in childbirth, and my father passed away when I was twenty-three."
I hadn't realized that we shared this circumstance. "I'm sorry. Was he a physician, too?"
Carlisle's short, mirthless laugh surprised me. "No. He was minister."
"Really?"
He nodded. "Like your father, he wanted me to follow in his footsteps, at least spiritually. He believed in a strict interpretation of the Bible: His sermons were full of fire and brimstone; he preached that sinners were destined for hell, and his list of those who qualified as sinners was as thick as one of his hymnals. I didn't question his faith until I was a teenager. By that point, he had become almost tyrannical in his beliefs. He was completely intolerant, viewing all those he deemed sinners as something close to monsters. He began organizing protests outside of women's clinics, gay bars, anywhere he considered evil, hoping to encourage those so-called sinners to repent."
Carlisle took a breath before continuing. "He took me with him a few times. I'm still deeply ashamed that I held those signs… and those beliefs. Paradoxically, it was my participation in those events that led me to question my father's beliefs. I saw the faces of those people he considered sinners. I looked into their eyes, searching for some sign of the evil he told me was there, but instead I saw fear, hurt, longing, hope, and pride. I saw their humanity and realized that they were no more evil than I was. Indeed, I was the monster, holding those signs that caused them pain.
"By the time I graduated from high school, I had rejected almost the entirety of my father's religion. I still consider myself a deeply spiritual person, but I can never affiliate myself with a specific church again." He took another sip from the flask then continued, "Would you like to know the most ironic part of my father's life?" Without waiting for my response, he finished, "He suffered a fatal myocardial infarction while protesting outside a women's clinic. Two nurses came out and tried to save him, but he was already gone."
"Damn," I exhaled, not sure what else to say.
"Yes." He stared into the fire as he spoke. "That was why I applied to medical school. I had graduated from college with a degree in philosophy- a major I hoped would help me to understand the tenets that underlie religious thought. I'd always had an aptitude for sciences, too, so had minored in biochemistry. After my father died, I wanted to do something to help make up for the pain he had caused others through his beliefs and actions. Those two nurses who came out of the clinic and worked over him—the man who had cursed them as sinners only moments before—touched me deeply. I wanted to be like them, to provide care and comfort and healing to others without judgment or prejudice. I suppose it was my way of trying to atone for some of the things my father did."
His story left me slightly stunned. He had never hinted at his background; I had always assumed he'd had loving, broad-minded parents who had instilled these qualities in him. "My God, Carlisle, I had no idea…"
"There's no reason you should have." His gaze shifted to me, and he offered me a smile tinged with apology. "I haven't told many people about my father; I still carry a great deal of shame."
"His beliefs and actions weren't your fault," I said.
"Perhaps not. But in retrospect I've wondered if I could have done something to help him to be less judgmental and more accepting."
"I think that we have to focus on the present and the future; dwelling on the past doesn't do any good. We can't change it."
"You're right, Edward." He took another sip of brandy then offered the flask to me again.
"I'm good," I replied.
He nodded and tucked the small container away in his pack. We sat without speaking for several minutes. I looked up at the vast canopy of stars, while his eyes returned to the flickering flames. When he spoke again, the conversation returned to a lighter tone, but a faint tightness remained in my chest. I realized that I felt empathy for him, an emotion that I had not permitted myself to experience in a very long time.
The night was cold; a layer of frost covered the meadow when we woke. The sky was steel gray, threatening rain later in the day. After breakfast, we broke camp and packed up our things.
Carlisle wanted to hike north, higher up into the mountains. The scenery was breath-taking, he explained, with rugged ravines and spectacular waterfalls. He knew of an area with several small caves where we could make camp for the night. The shelter would likely be welcome if the weather didn't clear. I was agreeable to his recommendations.
Despite some light drizzle, the hike was quite enjoyable. Carlisle was knowledgeable about both botany and geology, pointing out various plants and different types of rocks. We moved at a steady pace, gradually gaining altitude, but I didn't feel fatigued. Indeed, I found myself more energized than I had been in a long time.
Carlisle seemed to find the hike invigorating, too. When we stopped for lunch, he told me that we had gone almost four miles. The caves were another three miles, further up the mountain. The incline was not terribly steep, and he thought we could reach our destination in three to four hours. He had an excellent sense of direction, but he consulted his compass occasionally just to be certain we were on the right track.
We had gone about two miles when the downpour began. Quickly we pulled rain ponchos from our packs and sought shelter beneath a massive evergreen. The rain slackened after about half an hour, then the skies began to clear. So when I heard a rumble overhead, I wondered where the thunder had come from.
Carlisle looked up, his eyes scanning the slope ahead of us. He muttered a curse under his breath.
"What is it?" I asked as an odd feeling came over me.
"Rockslide," he replied shortly. "Come on!"
We moved quickly, veering off to what I thought was the west. We heard the boulders crashing down the mountainside and felt the ground shake, our eyes trained above. Thankfully, we had managed to get out of the path of the tumbling rocks. But we were both sobered by the experience.
"We can't risk getting in the path of another one," he said. "We need to change our route and head back to flatter ground."
"Good idea," I agreed.
He looked around then reached for the compass. He patted at the outer pocket on his coat then thrust his hand inside. "It's not here," he said with a frown.
He checked his other pockets and even his pack, but the compass was gone. "Damn it. It must've fallen out."
"Should we go back and look for it?"
"We can backtrack a bit, but it's not safe to go near that unstable area."
We retraced our steps for several hundred yards, our eyes trained on the ground, but we could not find the compass.
"We'd better move on," he finally said.
"Do you know where we are?" I asked.
"More or less. We're heading southeast now. We should be able to see a tributary of the Queets River in a couple of miles. Once we find the river, I'll know exactly where we are."
We walked for an hour before a ravine opened up to the west of our path. Carlisle's brow furrowed at the sight.
"What's the matter?" I asked. "This is the tributary, isn't it?"
"I don't think so," he answered, obviously perplexed. "It should be to the east." He turned to look up at the mountainside then his gaze moved to the sky above. I could tell that he was trying to get his bearings.
I walked toward the edge of the gorge. The sides were steep and rocky; the stream lay about 100 feet below me. My gaze moved down to watch the steady flow of the water. The stream looked dark and cold beneath the cloudy sky.
The side of the ravine upon which I stood was in shadow, so at first my mind didn't register the lighter object on the bank. It was only as I began to turn away that I realized I'd seen something… something that didn't belong.
I peered down again, trying to focus on the small mound. I saw the splash of color first: cornflower blue. With a small gasp, I recognized the outline of a body. The person wore a jacket, but only a narrow strip of fabric appeared blue, as the arms were saturated with water. The body was curled inward, and from where I stood I could only make out the back and the head… and the hair. Dark hair fanned out over the rocks upon which she lay.
"My God, Carlisle!" I exclaimed, "there's someone down there!"
My eyes still focused on the unmoving woman, I leaned over the edge of the ravine. "Hey! Hello?" I called.
I received no response, and I saw no movement. I dropped to my knees, my hands gripping the rock as I yelled again: "Hello! Can you hear me?"
The echo of my voice was the only reply. Carlisle was crouched at my side now, staring at the motionless figure below. "She may be hurt—or worse," he said.
"We have to help her," I replied immediately. I shrugged out of my pack, preparing to climb down.
"Wait, Edward," Carlisle cautioned. "That's a perilous descent."
He was already reaching into his backpack, pulling out a skein of nylon rope. He shot to his feet and looped one end of the rope around the nearest tree, securing it with a tight knot. My eyes moved from him to the woman below, watching for any hint of movement, any sign of life. I squinted through the shadows when I caught a tiny motion, the flutter of fingers from her left hand.
"She moved her hand," I exclaimed. "She's definitely alive. Hurry, Carlise!"
He nodded, continuing to work with the rope. As soon as it was tied, I let the length of it fall down the side of the rock face. I gripped the rope in my left hand then used my right to support my body as I clambered over the edge.
"Careful," Carlisle said. "I'll be right behind you as soon as you reach the ground."
I gave him a quick nod then began to climb down. The rock was damp in spots, slick in others. My descent seemed to take hours, yet I knew it was only a matter of minutes. My feet slipped, and several times I scrabbled to keep my grip on the rope. I was perhaps 30 feet from the bottom when I hit a particularly slippery rock. I kicked out, automatically trying to find purchase.
"Watch out, Edward," Carlisle cried from above, "the rocks are loose!"
Even as he spoke, I could feel the rocks giving way. I shifted, moving sideways as a shower of stone plummeted toward the stream.
"Damn it!" I cursed in both fear and vexation.
Heart pounding, I half fell, half scrabbled toward the ground, craning my neck to watch the tumbling rocks. The bulk of the debris landed some distance from the woman, but a few smaller stones pelted her still body. My skin was suddenly clammy with the realization that in my haste to reach her I could have killed her.
When I was less than six feet from the ground, I dropped to my feet. My landing was not as smooth as I had anticipated, however, and I ended up on my knees. I cursed again then scrambled to my feet. My right knee gave a throb of protest, but I ignored it as I shambled toward the woman.
She was small, slender and little more than five feet tall. She lay partially in the water, most of her clothing saturated and dark. I couldn't see her face; it was turned toward the ground and partially obscured by the thick, sable hair that cascaded over her shoulders. I dropped to my knees at her side, immediately reaching for her wrist.
Her skin was very cold, but I felt a pulse. It thrummed against my fingers, fast and light, and for a moment my eyes were fixed upon her delicate hand. Her skin looked like porcelain. Gently I set her hand upon the ground, then I moved the hair away from her face, careful not to shift her body in case she had a spinal injury.
Her eyes were closed, her lashes long and dark against her pale cheeks. She was a young woman—I estimated early twenties—and struck me as very pretty. For a moment I wondered what the hell she was doing out here. I glanced around quickly. Until now, it hadn't occurred to me to check if there was anyone with her. I saw no one, nor any evidence of other hikers: There we no packs, no signs of camping.
I returned my attention to the woman's face. Her cheek was bruised, and her lower lip was swollen. There was a deep abrasion on her forehead, just below her hairline; a contusion was forming at the injury site, too. Was this the reason she was unconscious? I placed my hand against her back and counted her respirations, frowning at what I found.
Now my eyes moved over her more critically. I would not move her until Carlisle arrived, but I could look for evidence of serious injury while I waited. Clearly she was suffering from at least mild hypothermia, and I wanted desperately to pull her from the icy stream. Knowing I could not, at least not yet, made my chest ache.
"We'll get you warm soon," I said, barely aware that I was speaking to her.
I ran a hand over her hair as my gaze took in her shoulders and arms. I studied the position of her limbs, seeing no evidence of displacement. I continued my visual inspection, noting that her right leg was drawn in toward her body while the left remained straight. Both legs were in the shallow water. The streambed was dark, covered with some sort of black stone. It took me several seconds to notice the blood in the water. When I did, I blinked, moving down to look at her legs. Now I could see that her left leg was bleeding.
I felt slightly nauseated when I realized that the near-freezing water would slow the blood flow from a superficial wound. This was something much more serious.
"Hang on," I told her. "We're going to help you. Carlisle will know what to do."
A few moments later he was at my side. He had left his pack at the top of the ravine but had slung the emergency kit over his shoulder. He dropped to his knees, reaching for her wrist as I reported the little that I knew.
"Pulse is 120," I told him, "respiration 24. She has a contusion on her forehead, and there's a wound on her left leg that's still bleeding. She hasn't regained consciousness."
He gave a quick nod of acknowledgement, already beginning his assessment. He examined her head and neck with precise yet careful motions, determining that there were no indications of spinal injury.
"Let's get her out of the water so I can see the leg wound," he said.
As quickly yet gently as possible, we lifted her body and carried her away from the stream. In the few seconds this required, blood began to drip from her leg, pooling on the ground beneath her.
"Get the kit," Carlisle instructed as he began to examine her leg.
I hurried to retrieve the bag, vaguely aware that my knee resisted each step. As soon as I was back beside Carlisle, he told me to cut away the woman's pant leg. I opened the kit and found the EMT shears then hastily clipped off the fabric over her thigh. Carlisle pulled away the material to expose the lower half of her leg.
"Gauze," he requested, using several of the squares that I provided to wipe away some of the blood. He pressed several more squares over the injury, but the hemorrhaging did not cease. "Damn it," he muttered. "I need a tourniquet. Your belt, Edward."
I removed the item immediately and handed it to him, watching as he wrapped and tightened it above her knee. Quickly I reviewed my knowledge of types of bleeding. The blood was dark; if it were an arterial bleed, it would be lighter in color.
"How bad, Carlisle?" I asked with considerable trepidation.
"She's got a deep laceration—looks like it nicked the saphenous vein. She's lost a lot of blood… and I don't know what other injuries she has." He gestured for me to pass him the kit, and he rummaged through it to remove a blood pressure cuff and stethoscope. He handed them to me. "Check her pressure. I'm going to assess for other injuries."
I slid up the sleeve of her jacket and wrapped the cuff around her arm. I found that my hands were shaking as I performed the simple procedure. Carlisle lifted her hand and checked her capillary refill. By the time I had gotten the reading, he had found a penlight and was checking her eyes.
"BP's 100 over 75," I reported.
He gave a nod; he'd expected this. "She's hypovolemic. We need to control the bleeding—I'll have to try to close the wound." He had opened her jacket and was now checking her ribs. He frowned as he pressed gently over left side, and a small sigh escaped him. "I think the sixth and seventh ribs are fractured."
He continued his examination, his hands moving systematically over her abdomen, shoulders, and hips. He reached for the stethoscope and spent a few moments listening to her lungs. Finally, he reported, "Looks like the ribs and laceration are the most serious issues. She may have a mild concussion, too."
"How's her breathing?"
"Her lungs sound okay for now. We need to be very careful moving her, though."
I knew he was concerned about the rib fractures; with an injury to the chest wall, there was a possibility for a pneumothorax to occur.
"Right," I agreed.
He was rummaging through the pack again. He removed a suture kit and bandages.
"What can I do?" I asked, feeling almost desperate to provide some sort of useful assistance.
"Clean the area around the wound," he replied, passing me a small bottle of Betadine.
He prepared the supplies while I carefully wiped away the blood. I could see the laceration now. It was about four centimeters long with ragged, gaping edges. I wondered what had caused it.
After Carlisle irrigated the wound, we both donned gloves. I held the young woman's leg with one hand as he improvised a retractor using the small set of forceps from the kit. It was the best option available. Once he had positioned the instrument, he placed my fingers around it.
"Keep it steady," he cautioned.
"I will," I said, willing my hand not to tremble. In my final year of med school, I had assisted with similar procedures and had felt curious and intrigued, but now I was apprehensive.
Carlisle worked quickly, his motions deft, and after few minutes he proclaimed, "Got it," relief evident in his tone. I released my grip on the forceps, and he began suturing the dermal layer.
Now I held her leg with both hands. Suddenly I felt my hands twitch but not of my own volition. The woman moaned, a soft and distressed sound, and she tried to pull back her leg.
"Edward," Carlisle admonished, "keep her still."
I turned my head to look at her. She had opened her eyes, but her gaze seemed unfocused.
"It's all right," I said as calmly as I was able. "Don't try to move. You've been hurt, but we're taking care of you."
"Hurt," she whispered, but I couldn't tell if she was asking a question or making a statement. Her brown eyes blinked at me, confusion and fear clear even in her hazy gaze.
"I know," I tried to assuage, "but you'll be okay." I glanced at Carlisle; he was still suturing the leg lac. Hoping to distract her, I said, "My name is Edward. Can you tell me your name?"
Her pretty brow furrowed, and her eyelids fluttered. She sighed softly, then her lips moved. I leaned down and heard an almost ethereal whisper: "Bella."
To be continued…