CHAPTER 26
It was a fourteen-minute drive to the hospital, but I did it in eight.
There would probably be a warrant out for my arrest once I got there, after all the red lights I ran, but I didn’t think about that. All I could think about was Holly not dying.
The neighbor and I had slid her in on her side so her front was facing out, but when I took the speed bumps in her neighborhood at fifty miles per hour, she bounced onto her back. I knew that was dangerous, that she could choke on her own tongue, but I didn’t dare stop, not even to readjust her.
The first two red lights I ran were in residential neighborhoods, so I didn’t bother to slow down. The third one was a little scarier. When the cars in front of me stopped at the intersection, I swerved into the left turn lane, leaned on my horn, and barreled past them. I don’t know if it was a sound strategy, or I was just lucky, but we came out the other side in one piece. So I did it two more times.
When I finally saw the American flag flying high in front of the hospital, I became a horse running for the barn. The earth could have parted in front of me, and even that would not have stopped me.
I screeched to a stop in front of the “Ambulances Only” entrance and jumped out of the car. I didn’t recognize the sound of my own voice when I screamed, “HELP! SOMEBODY HELP ME!”
I tore the car door open and lurched for Holly’s seat belt. She had rolled over onto it, and I had to lift her torso with one hand to free the buckle. I hooked my arms under her armpits, and as I dragged her body across the seat, a security guard shouted at me. “Hold on, I’ll get a gurney!”
I couldn’t wait for a gurney. Holly’s face was white as chalk. I flipped her over and hoisted her fireman-style over my shoulder. The double doors swung open as I approached, and I charged through them like a man possessed.
“Lay her down here,” an orderly commanded as he wheeled a gurney toward us. I eased her down onto her butt, and he guided her shoulders onto the bed. Her lifeless legs were dangling off the side, so I gently swung them up and laid them straight.
“Did she drown?” the man asked, searching her wrist for a pulse. There was so much adrenaline coursing through my body I had forgotten we were both soaking wet.
“Overdose,” I told him. “Found her in the shower.” He pressed a button, and another set of doors opened. I followed him as he pushed her through.
A doctor in scrubs jogged over to us. He looked like a frat boy barely out of college, with his shaggy hair and shiny, pink cheeks. He took the stethoscope from around his neck and pressed it to her chest.
“Vicodin,” I said helplessly. “I don’t know how many.” I could feel a lump forming in my chest. This was my fault. The deal we made was my idea. I did this to her. If she died, it would be because I killed her.
“Pulse is 115, breathing is shallow,” he said to a nurse who had appeared out of nowhere. He shone a pen light in her eyes. “Let’s start with 0.4 milligrams of NARCAN IV push, repeat every ten minutes until she becomes responsive. Get RT to prepare a ventilator in case her respiratory effort doesn’t improve. Place a nasogastric tube for gastric lavage. And send a toxicology screen, acetaminophen level, and liver panel to test for hepatotoxicity.” The nurse nodded and started wheeling her away. I tried to follow. The doctor stopped me with his hand.
“You the husband?” he asked. And for a second I almost said yes.
“No,” I replied, “we’re not married.” I realized my answer implied that we were together. In a way, we were—bound by something much more permanent than marriage.
“The Narcan should stabilize her,” he said matter-of-factly, “but we’ll need to do some tests to know the extent of any organ damage once we remove any remaining tablets from her stomach.”
I repeated the words in my head. Should stabilize her . . . do some tests . . . “What kind of organ damage?” I asked.
“Her pupils were responsive, so brain function looks good,” he said robotically, like he was talking about a science experiment, not a human life. “But toxicity in the liver is a concern. She’s not out of the woods yet.”
I didn’t know I was crying until a tear rolled onto my lip.
It was in that moment that I realized, somehow, and completely unexpectedly, Holly had become my somebody to “only care” about.
And I didn’t know what the hell I would do if I lost her.
ANDY
Three months ago
The blank page is a wondrous thing.
Many writers fear it. They hate starting a new project. They procrastinate for days, weeks, or even forever.