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"Yes." I grabbed her under her one good arm and slowly pulled her out, moaning in my own pain, and rested her head on my lap. That had taken it all out of me, and I needed to rest. I was out of breath and dizzy. Brandt kneeled down next to me.
"You're hurt badly, Bay. We need to get out of here."
We both looked up, hearing the sirens in the distance. "They'll be here any minute." I was feeling very drowsy, and my words were slurring.
"Bay, stay awake."
He shook me lightly. "I'm here, Brandt. I'm here." But I wasn't really. I was drifting, but I needed to know. "My sister, my parents. Are they…?"
He shook his head solemnly. "Everyone, Bay. It's just us in this car. It's just us," he choked.
I wanted to cry, but all that came out was a wail of pain and sorrow. I had no energy to cry, but I would. If I survived, there would be many tears. I had lost everyone. Everyone except Brandt.
I faded in and out of consciousness. I could hear Brandt talking to me, but I couldn't respond anymore. Lizzy stopped moving, and I couldn't feel her chest moving on my lap anymore. I thought I heard Grady's voice, but I couldn't be sure. And then the weight of Lizzy was gone, and I was floating in the air. It was tranquil, and I hoped it would all be over soon. My body had numbed from the pain, and I was just left with foggy thoughts and flashes of the horrific scene that surrounded me. My thoughts traveled to Lizzy’s arm lying in the aisle among pajamas and hairbrushes, like it was just another luggage item. Then my thoughts became white, and the ringing in my ears amplified, blocking out all other sounds but Brandt's voice.
"Bay, please, open your eyes. Please."
Brandt's voice brought me back. My eyelids were heavy, but I opened them. An oxygen mask had been placed over my face and my breathing became easier.
"Hi," Brandt said as he stared at me, brushing back my hair. I was lying on a gurney under the flashing lights of an ambulance, an IV already in my arm.
"We're going to get you to the hospital, okay? You're going to be okay."
He had convinced himself I would survive, but I knew a part of me had already died, and the other part wasn't sure if it wanted to live.
"Lizzy. Is she okay?" The paramedics looked at me, confused, but Brandt heard.
"They already transported her. We'll find out when we get there. You'll be at the same hospital."
I nodded, and one of the paramedics put the mask back on me as they slammed the rig doors. I dozed off as soon as we started moving.
PHYSICAL PAIN HEALED with time. The other pains, emotional and psychological, weren't so easily healed, and in severe cases, never would. My case was severe, and I had survived the physical when many others hadn't, but the real test was learning how to live in the aftermath of so much destruction and without the ones I loved.
Waking up in the hospital was the hardest moment of my life. Reality forced me against the wall, grabbing my throat and choking me to death. I clawed at it, trying to catch just one breath, but it was relentless and unforgiving. It wanted me to suffer. It wanted me to live with the guilt of surviving the impossible. They called it survivor's guilt and referred me to a counselor to get support, as if writing a prescription would pluck me from hell.
I had broken three ribs and an arm in the crash. With my insistence and Brandt's support and nothing life-threatening, I was discharged the following day with a recommendation for a psychiatrist and very little else.
Brandt and Grady walked away from the crash bruised, but nothing broken. They had ventured to the back of the train to get some drinks where the impact was just barely a bump in the night in comparison to the cars at the front that took the brunt of the head-on collision with the Metrolink train.
I was still in shock. I hadn't had time to process my family was gone. It hadn't hit me yet, and I was terrified for the moment it did.
I sat in a wheelchair outside the hospital, waiting for Brandt to pull the car around. It was a bright and sunny day, which felt wrong. It should have been dark and gloomy. It should have been grieving with the hundreds of others.
When Brandt pulled up to the curb, I didn't move. Not even a twitch. I just stared at the car in a daze, like I had no clue who he was. Post-traumatic stress disorder. Another label the doctor had given me. I had a feeling I would be piling on the labels in the coming weeks.
Brandt got out of the car and came to get me. He had changed. He walked with a slouch that reeked of sadness, and his eyes were hollow, no longer emitting their usual vitality. His world had changed just as quickly as mine. He lost both of his parents in the crash, but he still had his brother.
"I don't have them anymore." I gagged on my tears. My eyes were a broken dam now.
Brandt kneeled down and put his hand on my knee, but I didn’t want it there. I didn’t want to be comforted. I threw it off. "Don't," I said it calmly, but something was building inside me. "Don't do that." I was trying to hold back, but I wasn't the person I used to be. I didn't have the restraint I used to have. I had nothing. Through gritted teeth, I said, "You still have your brother. You still have someone." I was resentful and a million shades of screwed up. I stared at the balls my fists had made, turning my knuckles white from the strain. I tried to focus on them to keep me grounded.
"You still have me," he whispered, defeated.
My heart sank, and I crumbled in his arms. My soul was ripped from me and scattered around the debris field of the train wreck, but he was right.
I still had him.
I only had him.
