"Christensen, Jan - Why I Quit Jogging" - читать интересную книгу автора (Christensen Jan)

A woman banged on the window. "Are you all right?" she asked. I could barely hear her through the glass. Fumbling with the electric switch, I lowered the window. "Are you all right?" she asked again.

I started to shake my head and quickly decided against it. "My car wouldn't stop," she said. "The road's slick from the rain, I guess. I'm so sorry."

Screams came from the rear of the car. I managed to open the door and get out. Two women stood beside the back of the Lincoln. The trunk lid was up, popped open from the impact, and they were staring inside, hands over their mouths, eyes wide. As I ran toward them, they backed away. Indeed, the road was slick. I slipped and fell, my left leg under me. I heard a sickening snap. Then I blacked out for the second time that day.

* * * * *

When I awoke a nurse was bent over me, taking my pulse. There was a collar around my neck, and my head throbbed, and my leg hurt so bad, tears formed in my eyes. When she saw I was awake, she wiped my eyes with a tissue and offered me some ice which I accepted eagerly.

"Can you tell me your name?" the nurse asked softly.

"Of course," I croaked. "I'm James T. Weatherby. What happened?"

"You don't remember?"

Suddenly, I did. And wished I hadn't. I closed my eyes.

"Does my wife know I'm here?" I asked, eyes still shut.

"No. You didn't have any identification on you."

"I was jogging."

"Do you remember your phone number?" I opened my eyes and recited it as she wrote it down. She put her hand on my shoulder. "There's a police officer outside the door who wants to see you. But first the doctor will check you out before he'll okay any questioning." She offered more ice, then left, promising to come back as soon as she'd notified the doctor and my wife.

The doctor got there first. He explained that I had a concussion and a broken leg and probably whiplash. I told him I hadn't realized jogging was so dangerous. He didn't crack a smile. He further explained that no treatment had begun because they had no one to give permission. Since my life hadn't been in danger, they'd decided to wait for me to come around after taking a few skull x-rays and determining the concussion was mild. He thought I'd probably passed out more from pain and shock than from the injury to my head.

Papers were produced and explained, and I signed them all, then was wheeled to x-ray, right past a uniformed policeman. I'd been given a shot for pain, so I wasn't feeling much. I waved at the cop and smiled. He seemed taken aback, then made a note on his pad, while asking the doctor when I could be questioned.

"When I'm finished," the doc snapped. "I'll let you know. He's not going anywhere." The doctor stopped at the nurse's station as the orderly continued to push the bed, the policeman walking alongside.

It took a long time for them to get all the pictures they wanted. They did more of my head and lots of the neck and leg.

When I returned to my room, Jill was sitting in the visitor's chair reading a book. My wife is one of those petite women who never look fully grown-up. Sometimes they still carded her when we went to bars. She had long swingy blonde hair, china blue eyes and a bow-like mouth to which she regularly applied pink lipstick. She stood up when they wheeled me in.

"There you are," she said brightly. "How do you feel?"

"Could be worse, I suppose."

"What happened, anyway? Were you hit by a car?"

"Twice." Her perfectly arched eyebrows flew up in surprise. "Once while jogging, once while driving. You know that Burlson woman? The redhead?" Jill nodded. "She drives that big old Lincoln, and she ran into me. Thought she'd killed me. So, she put me in the trunk with her husband, whom she had killed." I shuddered, remembering.

Jill's face went white, and her eyes widened. "Perry's dead? Dead?" Her eyes shifted away from mine, and she groped behind herself for the chair.

"Yes," I said, trying to understand her reaction. We hardly knew the Burlsons. I hadn't even known his first name.

But my wife did. And she seemed to be more upset by Burlson's death than by my injuries. As I stared at her, a tear formed in each of her pretty blue eyes, then fell to her cheeks. She wiped them away with the back of her hand.