He would suspect such blood loss from a gunshot wound but Penelope showed no signs of injury, her limbs were moving, her pupils—he shined a flashlight into them—reacted normally, constricted as they should. He couldn’t think straight but he was aware that this was his child, half of his DNA in front of him, and everything he did to her he did to himself and never had he been so conscious of that fact and never had he felt so helpless and never ever had he been this aware of his failures as a father. He performed every motion like he did in the emergency room rotation so many years ago, did everything according to the book, had done it before but with his own daughter beneath his hands, it seemed crude. Edward patted his daughter’s skull with his hands, moved on to her neck. Her pulse was racing but steady. Edward, by all accounts, couldn’t find anything physically wrong with Penelope.
But there was a woman in the passenger seat. He couldn’t help but be taken aback by the angle of the woman’s head, the way it was touching her chest. He reached over and searched for the woman’s carotid artery. Placing his index and middle fingers on her neck by the side of her windpipe, he felt for her pulse. Nothing. Not even a faint flutter.
Edward thinks drive-by. Penelope and the woman were driving and someone opened fire. Mistaken identity, maybe a stray bullet. So much blood, there must be a gunshot, if not on Penelope, then the woman had some sort of injury.
He should prepare the resuscitation area. Once the ambulance arrived, there needed to be airway equipment put in place, bag-mask ventilation, and endotracheal intubation. A line needed to be placed, IV fluids given, monitoring equipment hooked up. Guidelines on protection when dealing with body fluid should be followed throughout this and subsequent procedures. Did that even apply? How random his thoughts were, how he focused on insignificant details.
He asked himself why don’t you call 911?
But he made no attempt. Neither did Donna.
Donna, in his peripheral vision, stood a few feet away and for once she didn’t have an opinion to add. She didn’t call 911 and it registered. After so many years they were in tune with each other, one look and they knew, understood the gist of it.
Edward’s hands were sticky. Such an odd and peculiar feeling, he who had never touched blood without gloves, he who wasn’t used to feeling the warmth and the stickiness, he who had always had a layer of protection between him and the blood of his patients.
There was so much of it. It had pooled on the mat by the woman’s feet. On her lap, within a crease where the coat fabric had puckered, a crimson puddle where the plaid trench lining shimmered in the dome light of the car’s interior. On the door, the handle, the window, even the glove compartment. So much blood. Exsanguination was the medical term.
Ex (out of) and sanguis (blood).
Meanwhile, within those spattered leather seats, his daughter was screaming without a sound. Her mouth, the gaping vastness of it, her wide eyes. And not a sound escaped. He’d never seen anything like it. He wanted, if he could have it his way, some sort of X-ray so he could understand her mind much more so than her body because there was not a mark on her, not so much as a scratch.
He was floating in a sea of adrenaline. As if an explosion had gone off and then died down, single auditory components of the world around him returned one by one. It struck him like a horror movie, everything over-the-top and too loud and too much, too much of everything, but this was real.
Penelope was in a state of madness. He needed momentum, needed to be quick about it. He wanted to lay her flat on the ground to do a proper assessment, maybe there was a break or a wound after all, but he couldn’t get ahold of her.
Without warning Edward tipped his daughter’s body to the left, put his arms underneath her from the back, locked his hands, and swiftly pulled her out of the car. Her hands let go of the steering wheel but she kept her fingers hooked like talons. She flapped her arms like a dervish, twisting her body as if she were prey and he was a raptor.
Penelope repeated words as if they were a recitation, as if in some sort of hypnotic state, then she broke free from him and whirled and hit his chest and then her body coiled—he couldn’t think of any other word—and twirled as if she were dancing.
She said words he couldn’t make out and all he wanted was for her to be quiet so he could think.
39
PENELOPE
Penelope didn’t realize the extent of her actions until her mother had washed all the blood off her. She stood in the shower, hair shampooed, skin red from her mother’s hands scrubbing every inch and fold of her body as if she were a child.
Penelope watched her mother as a film of sweat formed on her upper lip, as she struggled to get her daughter’s arms into a shirt. When every last molecule of her recklessness had gone down the drain, as her mother awkwardly put a nightgown on her and her father turned to give them privacy, Penelope had a searing thought: Did Rachel have a child? Was she a mother? Did she have a husband and was he waiting for her, parting a curtain, expecting headlights to appear around the corner? If Rachel had children, who was dressing them? Who would care for them? That thought tumbled into another: Is this how Gabriel’s mother slipped underwear on her son? Is this how she struggled to put pajama pants on him?
Penelope had been cleansed of all blood. Her sins were washed away but there was no righting this—that much she knew. Though her mother had washed the woman’s blood off her, the guilt wasn’t going anywhere. It was going to stick to her for all eternity. Her mind went on and on. This house. Those endless corridors that had frightened her as a child, the tedious staircases and infinite rooms were . . . her. She was a labyrinth with dark corners.
Her father had given her pills, had pushed a glass of water toward her. She chewed them like antacids. Penelope slid under the cover, her wet hair wrapped in a towel, but it leaned and dropped to the ground.
The way her hair stuck to her cheek reminded her of a summer, years ago. A memory she had been holding at bay. She was unable to diffuse it or make it go away:
* * *
• • •
How old was she then, sixteen, maybe seventeen? School was about to start back up, Penelope remembered being anxious, her mother had kept tabs on her all summer, involving her in errands and appointments and before Penelope blinked, summer was over and she was exhausted and just wanted to get away from the hovering. It was barely nine, the sun was about to go down, but the light had been draining away for a while. They pulled into a gas station. During shopping and running errands and dropping off dry-cleaning, it had begun to rain, a heavy downpour that had soaked the bottom of Penelope’s jeans. Her feet were wet and then there was her mother’s voice.
“Honey, fill up the car for me. My hair,” she said and handed Penelope a credit card.
Penelope glared at her but rose from the seat, got out, and flipped the gas panel open like a little door. She unscrewed the fuel cap, swiped the card, inserted the nozzle into the hole, and squeezed the handle.