Viral (8 page)
“No!” I shout. I give Lindsay a hard shake, enough to flop her head off the pillow, but she's unresponsive. I stare wildly around for the phone before remembering I have my cell with me. I snatch it out of my pocket and dial 9-1-1.
The dispatcher listens as I fluster through explaining the situation. He takes the address and tells me that an ambulance will arrive within six minutes. His voice is flat. Calm. Maybe he figures that's reassuring to people who are losing it.
Like me.
“Is there a suicide note?” Flat-Voice Man asks me. “Any message you can see?”
I stare around. The word
suicide
ricochets around inside my head. Suicide? Are we really talking about suicide? What the
hell
?
I look on the bedside table. Under the covers. Under the pillow. On the floor.
The dresser. The bathroom. The kitchen.
Nothing.
“No, nothing,” I gasp. I feel the tears threatening to overtake me. “There's no note.”
She meant every bit of this.
The ambulance comes. Damned if I'm not going to ride along with Lindsay. The paramedics are fine with it.
I sit as close as I can to her, holding her hand. As I watch her chest rise and fall, I start making bargains.
Please,
God, if you're out there, don't take her
away from me. Please. I'll do whatever
it takes. Just make sure she's okay.
I'll work hard in school. I'll help Mom
more. I'll be so good to Lindsay.
I hate that this has happened. I hate that I didn't leave school right away to go to Lindsay's place. But then, I had to take care of Josh. And I was so ready to tell Lindsay all about it. I had no idea what she was thinking. How bad things had gotten.
What if I had arrived ten minutes later? I shudder and look out the rear windows.
It's started to rain.
Like my heart, the streets are cold and empty as we fly toward the hospital, siren screaming.
As soon as we roll to a stop, the doors open and Lindsay is wheeled out by two waiting attendants. The paramedics hop down and help. They whisk her off through the sliding doors and down a corridor, out of sight.
A nurse tells me she'll need to have her stomach pumped.
She's little, this nurse. Mom's age. Tight-lipped, but warm. Her nametag says
Joanne
. She holds her clipboard precisely and asks me a million questions about Lindsay. Has she tried to commit suicide before? Whose drugs were they? Did her mother use drugs often? What happened to make Lindsay want to harm herself?
I answer most of the nurse's questions honestly. But I lie and tell her I don't know any reason why she would take the pills. That's for Lindsay to talk about. If she makes it.
When
she makes it. I'm not going to believe that she's not going to make it.
I wonder how she's going to be feeling when she comes around. Will she be pissed to find herself still here? Will she be mad at me for pulling her back from the Big Sleep?
Will she want to see me?
Joanne's voice jerks me back to earth. She's all business. “A social worker is on his way,” she tells me.
I nod.
“Do you have phone numbers for Lindsay's parents? The social worker will want to speak with them,” she says.
Of course. I have to call Lorraine and Darius. They'll be arriving home anytime now, wondering where their daughter is. They need to know what's happening.
“Uh, yeah,” I say. “I'll give them a call.”
“Good.” The nurse tucks her pen back into the little metal clasp on her clipboard. Her face softens. She touches my arm. “She'll be okay, Michael. She came in early enough.”
Tears sting my eyes and I nod again. “Good,” I say. A huge weight edges itself off my chest. “Thanks.”
She smiles.
Part of me desperately wants to believe what the nurse said. That Lindsay's going to make it.
But another part is terrified she's never coming back.
I realize I don't know Darius's number at work. I don't know Lorraine's cell number either. Suddenly I panic.
I force myself to take a deep breath.
Well, duh, Mike.
I can call my mom and have her get ahold of Lindsay's parents.
“Mom?” I say when she picks up. I'm careful to control my voice.
“Hey, sweetie. Where are you? You're usually home by now.”
“Yeah. Well, I'm at the hospital,”
I say.
Mom's voice sharpens. “What's wrong? Michael? Honey? Are you all right?”
“Yes. Yeah. I'm okay, Mom,” I reassure her. “I'm okay. But Lindsay's sick. I, uhâ¦I brought her here.” With a bit of help.
“Oh,” she says. I can hear the relief in her voice. “Well, is she going to be all right? What's she sick with?”
And then I explain. All of it. Every bit.
“Oh, honey,” Mom says when I finish. “I'm sure she's getting the best care possible.” She's probably right. And it's what I need to hear. “Lindsay's been through a lot this year. You've been a good friend to her, Michael.”
Have I? I'm not so sure.
I shake my head. “Not good enough,” I say. “But I'm here for her now.” As I put the words out there, I realize they're totally correct. I
am
here now.
Fully. Fearlessly. Finally.
“Hey, listen, Mom. Can you call Lindsay's folks? I don't have their numbers. They need to know what happened.”
“You bet, baby,” she says. “I'll let them know she's stable. They'll want to come down right away.”
“Kay. Thanks.”
“Mike?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you want me to come down there too?”
I think about this. But there's nothing my mother can do. Soon enough I'll have Lindsay's parents to talk to. And the social worker. And the nurses. Maybe doctors.
But first I want to see Lindsay.
“Nah,” I say. “I think I'm okay. I won't be home until later though.”
“Fine, baby,” says Mom. “Take care of you.”
“Take care of you,” I say back. I send the same words to Lindsay.
I close my phone and sit on the curb for a few minutes to pull myself together.
When I head back through the sliding doors, the nurse informs me that Lindsay's been admitted. Room 262. I head for the stairs.
As I get there, a doctor is leaving the room. She's short, and her glasses sit far down on her nose. “Are you the one who brought this young lady in?” she asks. She peers at me over the top of her glasses. Everything about her says
smart
. And a lot says
tired.
I nod.
“You're her boyfriend?”
I shrug. “Something like that.” When I say the words, a little tribe of butterflies suddenly breaks loose in my stomach. I could get used to that feeling.
I nod toward the closed door. “How is she?”
She sighs. “She'll be fine,” she says. “She's a very lucky young woman. There were a lot of drugs in her system.”
I shudder. I'm not going to let myself think about what might have happened.
“She needs to rest,” the doctor continues. “I'll let you have a few moments with her, and then I'd like to talk with you about what happened.”
I nod. “Okay. Thanks.”
She swishes away, soft-soled shoes squeaking on the waxed floors. I'm left standing in front of the wide blue door. It's the only thing standing between me and the future.
I stare down at my hand on the doorknob.
And turn.
Alex Van Tol makes her living as a word ninja in Victoria, British Columbia. She writes for businesses and magazines, and spends way too much time online.
Viral
is Alex's third novel with Orca Book Publishers. Get to know her better at alexvantol.com.