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I gently rolled him over and what I saw caused a wave of nausea to roll up my throat.
Frantically, I swallowed it down.
His face was beaten to a bloody pulp. He was barely recognizable. Eyes swollen shut. Lips cracked and ripped. Nose smushed flat. The flesh of his cheeks cut and mangled. Most of his clothes were ripped and cut and blood was flowing freely from the holes.
I bent low, putting my cheek to his and listened for his breathing while my hand went to feel for his pulse.
I heard Bobby issuing orders, “Call nine one one,” and, “Control traffic.”
I felt Dad’s pulse. I didn’t know anything about pulses, but I figured him having one at all meant God had finally come through in a clinch.
I sat up, pulled off my cardigan and bunched it under his head.
“Jet,” Bobby said, hand on my shoulder.
I pulled my shoulder from his hand and carefully ripped Dad’s shirt down his chest, seeing what looked like knife wounds and bullet wounds, old and new, all over. Blood seeping from them, some maroon, some red, too much of it. No one could lose that much blood and survive.
“Jet,” Bobby said again, crouching down beside me.
I heard sirens and sat down pulling Dad’s dead weight up to a sitting position using all my strength, pressing his torso to me, wrapping my arms tight around him and putting my mouth to his ear.
Not knowing what else to do, I started to sing softly Paul McCartney’s “Jet.”
“Get her outta there,” Duke growled from somewhere close.
I skipped a bit of the song and went to the good part about wanting Jet to always love him.
It was then Dad was gently pulled away from my arms by a uniformed officer and I was helped to my feet by another. I was turned and Duke’s arms were there, going round me tight.
We watched as the police worked, then the ambulance was there. Duke helped me into Bobby’s SUV and Bobby took off behind the ambulance, following close.
He was on his cell, listening to someone then he murmured, “It’s bad.”
Yes, he was right. It was bad. It was very, very,verybad.
Bobby angled into an illegal spot outside Denver Health, but I was out of the truck before he came to a full stop. He caught up to me and we entered the emergency room together.
The receptionist stared at me, her eyes rounding with horror and she began to stand.
“She’s unhurt. It’s someone else’s blood.” Bobby took over, talking to reception.
I pulled my cell out of my back pocket and scrolled down to Daisy and hit the button.
Daisy answered on the second ring. “Hey, sugar. We just picked up Ada and we’re headin’—”
I interrupted her, “Fifteen minutes ago, Dad was flung out of a moving car on Broadway. He’s been beaten, stabbed and shot. I’m at Denver Health. Can you find a good way to break it to Mom and Lottie and get over here?”
Silence for a beat, then, quietly, “You betcha, darlin’.”
I flipped the phone shut and saw Bobby take a piece of fabric from the receptionist. He grabbed my arm and pulled me in the direction where she was pointing. We went into the emergency ward. He opened a door and we went into an empty room with an exam table, a bunch of medical stuff and a sink. He took me to the sink.
“Shirt off,” he ordered.
“What?”
His hands went to my T-shirt at my hips and he whipped it over my head. I stood frozen and stared at the T-shirt in his hand. It was covered in blood.
“You don’t want your mother seeing you in that shirt. Let’s get you cleaned up.”
