She had no way of knowing that a third bomb had exploded at Maelbeek metro station an hour after the attack at the airport. Sixteen people lay dead at the airport, and another sixteen at the metro station. Between the two locations, first responders were dealing with three hundred and forty severely wounded people, with unimaginable injuries from the homemade bombs, made of household chemicals and peroxide and filled with nails and bolts and pieces of metal to intentionally tear bodies apart and cause even greater harm than just from the explosion. There was so much blood on Véronique’s face that no one could have identified her, even her own mother. Their bodies had not been identified yet, but Marie-Helene and Cyril had been killed instantly in the first explosion and their bodies still lay beneath the rubble. It was a miracle that Véronique had survived it. She looked so severely damaged and so lifeless that the paramedics on the scene were sure she was dead when they lifted the piece of the roof off of her. They were certain that she had suffered countless broken bones and massive internal injuries, and her face was unrecognizable under all the encrusted blood, with gashes all over her face and body. She was lying almost naked when they discovered her. She slipped into unconsciousness as soon as she whispered her name in answer to the question.
Like the rest of the wounded, she was taken to a nearby military hospital, which was better equipped to treat injuries of this nature. These were wartime injuries, from massive explosions, normally never experienced by civilians. Véronique was one of the last to arrive at the hospital, and was rushed into surgery immediately. There were people on gurneys crowding the halls, waiting for rooms and operating rooms to open up, as nurses and doctors did triage up and down the halls. Less severe injuries were being treated by paramedics, but there were very few minor injuries. Most were very extreme, with some of the victims burned on their entire bodies, and others who had suffered severed limbs. One woman had lost both arms and both legs. Children were being treated as a priority.
Belgian officials had sprung into action. Three suicide bombers died in the explosions, but they had taken thirty-two souls with them, and injured over three hundred others. It was a massive terrorist attack on Brussels. The police had been following leads on other terrorists concealed in the city, but had not succeeded in rounding them up and stopping them in time.
Véronique spent seven hours in surgery that night, to remove the vast quantities of metal and shrapnel that had entered her body. It would require many operations, but they attempted to remove the most acute pieces, which were the most dangerous and were threatening her arteries. She was categorized at the highest degree of critical, and never regained consciousness again after giving her name. The surgeons worked diligently to save her, and to treat the deep lacerations on her face.
* * *
—
Bernard Aubert was sitting in the office he had shared with Marie-Helene Vincent for thirty years. He had first heard the news of the attack in Brussels on his way to work that morning. He knew that Marie-Helene had been in Brussels for two weeks, but assumed she would be taking the high-speed train back to Paris. She had told him she was taking the rest of the week off, but hadn’t told him she was going to Miami. Unlike Véronique, she hadn’t been carrying a purse, but had a belt with a money purse around her waist, with her passport in it, and since he was listed as the person to notify in case of emergency on her official papers, the Brussels police called him that afternoon.
Bernard was sixty-five years old, and had been divorced for years. He was planning to retire at the end of the year, and had told Marie-Helene his intentions a few months before. They had been practicing law in their shared practice for thirty years. He considered her a close friend, and had a deep affection and respect for her, and he was in shock when they told him that she had died at Zaventem Airport. They questioned him about another victim with the same surname. They said that they had a Véronique Vincent at the hospital, listed as severely critical. She was still in surgery at the time.
“Oh my God, that’s her daughter. I didn’t know she was with her.” They told him that he would be kept closely informed, but if she survived, the doctors’ intention was to put her in a medically induced coma after the surgery, and she was expected to have more surgeries in the next few days. He was shaking when he hung up, and burst into tears. He couldn’t believe what had happened, that Marie-Helene had been killed and Véronique was fighting for her life. Since she wasn’t conscious, he decided to wait before he went to Brussels. He could offer no comfort or help in the circumstances.