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The wreck.
This has to have something to do with the accident.
My fingers are drumming on the steering wheel as I pull into the parking lot of the hospital, and I lay on the horn when some idiot with three kids, they can’t seem to control, take their sweet ass time crossing the crosswalk.
“Get out of my fucking way!” I yell when the mom gives me a snide look, making no effort to move faster.
Finally, with the speed of a sloth, they move, and I’m able to pull up right outside of the ER doors. I don’t bother turning off the car. I just swing my door open and pull Piper back into my arms. Her breathing is different, but I can’t tell if it’s more even or slowed because she’s dying.
Tears streak down my face as I carry her inside.
“Help! Someone, please help!”
It’s nothing like the movies. A swarm of people doesn’t rush to my aid, pulling a gurney.
One nurse stares in shock on the other side of a glass wall for a long moment before she actually moves into action.
I’m near collapsing on the floor with Piper in my arms when the heavy wooden doors swing open, and two people in scrubs rush toward me.
“Carry her inside,” the taller woman advises. I follow her past the doors to a small bay with a curtain pulled back. “On this table, hurry.”
“What happened?” the other medical person asks.
“She passed out.”
“How long ago?” I don’t even see the person who asks, but they pull the robe back, revealing her naked flesh to the entire room, and I seethe with anger. She deserves more modesty and respect than what they’re giving her.
“Twenty minutes, maybe?” I answer when the question is asked again.
The medical staff is rushing around, taking her pulse, blood pressure, and listening to her chest with a stethoscope. One is starting an IV.
“Do you know if she’s taken any drugs?”
I see red. “She doesn’t fucking do drugs!”
“You need to calm down,” someone tells me. “We just need all the information so we can make informed medical decisions.”
“She’s been having bad headaches. We were in a car crash five weeks ago. She had a concussion and a sprained—”
“Piper!”
I swivel on my feet so fast at the approaching voice that I nearly fall over.
Dr. Schofield, Piper’s dad, is rushing in our direction. Mrs. Schofield is right behind him with red splotchy eyes and tears streaming down her face.
“What happened?” he asks. He’s not looking at me but down at his unconscious daughter. “Why is she naked?”
“She passed out,” I somehow manage. “We were—”
Before I can give him the dirty details, I’m certain no father wants to hear, Piper begins to shake on the table. Her body manages to jolt and stiffen at the same time.
“Push four of Ativan,” the guy who seems to be in the lead says.
My whole world narrows to the tip of the needle being inserted into Piper’s IV. Mrs. Schofield is sobbing beside me, and Dr. Schofield is standing stock still and looking as helpless as I feel.
Piper stops shaking, but there’s still a flurry of activity around her body.
“Possible subdural hematoma,” the doctor says as he steps back to let someone on the team lift the bedrails. “Let’s get her to CT.”
They unlock the wheels on the bed and push her away. I’m frozen, watching all of them, including her parents, disappear through another set of double doors that reads MEDICAL PERSONNEL ONLY with the love of my life.
I’m not allowed to stay in the patient part of the emergency room. Before long, a sweet old lady ushers me back out to the waiting room, and she only frowns when I ask her if I’ll get updates.
“If you’re not family, dear, you’re not privileged to that information.”
It’s midday, the sun blazing through the windows when Mrs. Schofield comes back out into the waiting room. I rush to stand as she approaches. Her movements are slow, like it’s taking everything in her power just to cross the room. Her face is unreadable, but her red-rimmed eyes make my chest heave. My knees weaken, threatening to make me crash to the floor.
“Is sh-she okay?” My words come out on a sob.
Mrs. Schofield reaches for me, placing a calming hand on my arm, but it feels like a brick, as if she’s transferring the weight of the world from her shoulders to mine.
“She’s going to be fine.”
She gives me a weak, reassuring smile, but the relief weighs as much as the horrible news I thought she was delivering. Knees first, I crash to the floor at her feet. With my head lowered into my hands, I sob like a child. Elation fills every cell in my body. I’m so happy she’s okay, but it’s the burden of the vow I made myself while sitting here for hours that’s going to kill me.
