It was true. She didn’t know. But she knew there had been plenty of time to put her foot on the brake to let Connor Whitby cross the road.
They told her that it was unlikely she would be charged. It seemed that a man in a taxi had seen the little girl ride her bike directly in front of the car. They asked her whom they could call to come and collect her. They insisted on this, even though a second ambulance had been called just for her, and the paramedic had checked her over and said that there was no need for her to go to the hospital. Rachel gave the police Rob’s number, and he arrived far too quickly (he must have been speeding) with Lauren and Jacob in the car. Rob was white-faced. Jacob grinned and waved a chubby hand from the backseat. The paramedic told Rob and Lauren that Rachel was probably suffering from mild shock, and that she should rest and stay warm, and not be left alone. She should see her regular doctor as soon as possible for a checkup.
It was terrible. Rob and Lauren dutifully followed orders, and Rachel couldn’t get rid of them, no matter how hard she tried. She couldn’t get her thoughts straight while they hovered about, bringing her cups of tea and cushions. Next thing, that perky young Father Joe turned up, very upset about members of his flock running each other over. “Shouldn’t you be saying the Good Friday Mass?” said Rachel ungratefully. “All under control, Mrs. Crowley,” he said. Then he’d taken her hand and said, “Now, you know this was an accident, don’t you, Mrs. Crowley? Accidents happen. Every day. You must not blame yourself.”
She thought, Oh, you sweet, innocent young man, you know nothing about blame. You have no idea of what your parishioners are capable. Do you think any of us really confess our real sins to you? Our terrible sins?
At least he was useful for information. He promised her that he would keep her constantly informed about Polly’s progress, and he’d been as good as his word.
She’s still alive, Rachel kept telling herself as each update came. I didn’t kill her. This is not irretrievable.
Lauren and Rob had finally taken Jacob home after dinner, and Rachel had spent the night replaying those few moments over and over.
The fish-shaped kite. Connor Whitby stepping out onto the road, ignoring her. Her foot on the accelerator. Polly’s pink sparkly helmet. Brake. Brake. Brake.
Connor was fine. Not a scratch on him.
Father Joe had called this morning to say that there was no further news, except that Polly was in Intensive Care at Westmead Children’s Hospital and receiving the very best of treatment.
Rachel had thanked him, put down the phone and then immediately picked it up again to call a cab to take her to the hospital. She had no idea if she would be able to see either of Polly’s parents or if they would want to see her—they probably wouldn’t—but she felt that she had to be there. She couldn’t just sit comfortably at home, as if life went on.
The double doors leading into Intensive Care flew open and Cecilia Fitzpatrick barreled through, as if she were a surgeon off to save a life. She walked rapidly down the passageway, past Rachel, then stopped and gazed about her, baffled and blinking, like a sleepwalker waking up.
Rachel stood.
Cecilia?”
An elderly, white-haired woman materialized in front of Cecilia. She seemed wobbly, and Cecilia instinctively put out her hand toward the woman’s elbow.
“Hello, Rachel,” Cecilia said, suddenly recognizing her, and for a moment she saw only Rachel Crowley, the kindly but distant and always efficient school secretary. Then a giant chunk of her memory crashed back into place: John-Paul, Janie, the rosary beads placed in her hands. She hadn’t thought about any of it since the accident.
“I know I’m the last person who you want to see right now,” said Rachel. “But I had to come.”