know, but Passcoe Memorial is just a little old podunk hospital with, what, fifty beds? Maybe she should see a pediatric specialist…”
The siren was getting closer now.
“Mason, Passcoe Memorial is a fine facility,” Annajane said. “It’s small, but they have a state-of-the-art surgical wing, thanks to your father’s Rotary Club, and Mama always said Dr. Kaufman was the best surgeon, the best diagnostician, she’d ever seen. If it really is her appendix, there’s probably no time to take Sophie to Raleigh. If it’s something else, something more serious, Dr. Kaufman can refer us to a specialist, but in the meantime, let’s just take one thing at a time, please?”
Pokey rushed into the room, pink-faced and breathless.
“Okay, the cars are moved, and the ambulance is pulling around front,” she said. She put one hand to Sophie’s cheek. “Oh wow, she really does have a fever,” she said. “How long has she been asleep?”
“Just a few minutes,” Mason said.
“Where’s the bride?” Pokey asked, looking around the room. “Checking her makeup?”
“Not funny,” Mason snapped. “Mama persuaded her to go on over to the country club. Maybe you should join them.”
“Not a chance,” Pokey said. “Pete’s taking the boys over there, but I’m going to the hospital.”
6
Geographically, the distance from the church to the hospital, which was located on the bypass just outside the Passcoe city limits, was only seventeen miles.
To Annajane and Mason, the ride seemed to take a lifetime. Jammed into the back of the ambulance, perched on either side, with Sophie’s tiny form on a gurney between them, they could only watch helplessly as she writhed in pain.
“She’s hurting! Can’t you give her something?” Mason growled at the emergency medical technician riding in the passenger seat.
“Sorry, Mr. Bayless, but with kids this young, we just make sure their pulse and breathing are stable,” the EMT said. “We’ll be at the hospital in fifteen minutes, and they’ll probably give her something then.”
“Daddy,” Sophie whimpered. “Annajane. It hurts.”
She was awake again, and she looked terrified. Annajane squeezed the child’s hot, clammy hand and brushed back a strand of hair from her forehead.
“We’re taking a ride to the hospital, sweetpea,” Annajane said. “Can you tell how fast we’re going? This old ambulance goes even faster than your daddy’s fun car.”
Mason laughed despite himself. The “fun car” was what Sophie called his restored candy-apple red 1972 Chevelle convertible. It had been Glenn Bayless’s favorite big boy toy, handed down to Mason as a twenty-first-birthday gift.
The convertible was currently garaged in a truck bay at the bottling plant, brought out only occasionally, for Sunday drives to the coast, or as a special treat for Sophie, because there wasn’t room for it in the two-car garage at the house, what with his own Yukon and Celia’s Saab. And also because Celia had taken an instant disliking to—and distrust of—what she called his “middle-aged crazy car,” or, worse, “your pimp-mobile.”
“Why can’t you buy a nice Porsche, like your brother’s?” Celia had asked. “Or something with say, air-conditioning? Or satellite radio?”
The Chevelle’s air probably hadn’t worked all that well when it was new, and as for a radio, Mason preferred its tape deck, on which he listened to his stash of ’80s hair bands.
He’d had some times in that Chevelle, for sure. In his youth, he’d ripped up and down the East Coast in it, ridden the length of the Outer Banks, the one summer of his youth when he hadn’t worked at Quixie, his summer of rebellion, when he’d gotten a job working at a convenience store at Nags Head. He’d even driven to California and back, following the old Route 66, the summer he’d graduated from Penn.
Sophie’s tear-swollen eyes widened. “Can you make the top of the amb’lance go
The siren was getting closer now.
“Mason, Passcoe Memorial is a fine facility,” Annajane said. “It’s small, but they have a state-of-the-art surgical wing, thanks to your father’s Rotary Club, and Mama always said Dr. Kaufman was the best surgeon, the best diagnostician, she’d ever seen. If it really is her appendix, there’s probably no time to take Sophie to Raleigh. If it’s something else, something more serious, Dr. Kaufman can refer us to a specialist, but in the meantime, let’s just take one thing at a time, please?”
Pokey rushed into the room, pink-faced and breathless.
“Okay, the cars are moved, and the ambulance is pulling around front,” she said. She put one hand to Sophie’s cheek. “Oh wow, she really does have a fever,” she said. “How long has she been asleep?”
“Just a few minutes,” Mason said.
“Where’s the bride?” Pokey asked, looking around the room. “Checking her makeup?”
“Not funny,” Mason snapped. “Mama persuaded her to go on over to the country club. Maybe you should join them.”
“Not a chance,” Pokey said. “Pete’s taking the boys over there, but I’m going to the hospital.”
6
Geographically, the distance from the church to the hospital, which was located on the bypass just outside the Passcoe city limits, was only seventeen miles.
To Annajane and Mason, the ride seemed to take a lifetime. Jammed into the back of the ambulance, perched on either side, with Sophie’s tiny form on a gurney between them, they could only watch helplessly as she writhed in pain.
“She’s hurting! Can’t you give her something?” Mason growled at the emergency medical technician riding in the passenger seat.
“Sorry, Mr. Bayless, but with kids this young, we just make sure their pulse and breathing are stable,” the EMT said. “We’ll be at the hospital in fifteen minutes, and they’ll probably give her something then.”
“Daddy,” Sophie whimpered. “Annajane. It hurts.”
She was awake again, and she looked terrified. Annajane squeezed the child’s hot, clammy hand and brushed back a strand of hair from her forehead.
“We’re taking a ride to the hospital, sweetpea,” Annajane said. “Can you tell how fast we’re going? This old ambulance goes even faster than your daddy’s fun car.”
Mason laughed despite himself. The “fun car” was what Sophie called his restored candy-apple red 1972 Chevelle convertible. It had been Glenn Bayless’s favorite big boy toy, handed down to Mason as a twenty-first-birthday gift.
The convertible was currently garaged in a truck bay at the bottling plant, brought out only occasionally, for Sunday drives to the coast, or as a special treat for Sophie, because there wasn’t room for it in the two-car garage at the house, what with his own Yukon and Celia’s Saab. And also because Celia had taken an instant disliking to—and distrust of—what she called his “middle-aged crazy car,” or, worse, “your pimp-mobile.”
“Why can’t you buy a nice Porsche, like your brother’s?” Celia had asked. “Or something with say, air-conditioning? Or satellite radio?”
The Chevelle’s air probably hadn’t worked all that well when it was new, and as for a radio, Mason preferred its tape deck, on which he listened to his stash of ’80s hair bands.
He’d had some times in that Chevelle, for sure. In his youth, he’d ripped up and down the East Coast in it, ridden the length of the Outer Banks, the one summer of his youth when he hadn’t worked at Quixie, his summer of rebellion, when he’d gotten a job working at a convenience store at Nags Head. He’d even driven to California and back, following the old Route 66, the summer he’d graduated from Penn.
Sophie’s tear-swollen eyes widened. “Can you make the top of the amb’lance go
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